John awoke the next morning to sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the shutter blinds and causing the interiors of his eyelids to glow red. For a moment, the red transformed into the blaze of fire and streaks of scarlet blood across Afghan dust, and he jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes darted frantically about the room, and he was for a moment at a loss as to where he was, but as his eyes were drawn to the window, the typewriter beneath it reminded him of the purpose of his visit, and he lay back on the mattress with a sigh. Pull yourself together, Watson. He rolled onto his side, his joints clicking, and checked the time on his phone, which he'd set beside his bed. Just gone 9AM. For a man so recently returned from military service, that was an almost indecent lie-in. Still, he was in Sussex for R&R, and a 9AM start was hardly worthy of vilification. In fact, it marked significant progress – the brief nightmare that had woken him had been the only one of its kind that night. He threw off his duvet, stood up and stretched, his unclicked joints now taking their turns at relief. He yawned widely, then crossed the room and threw up the shutters.
A few hundred feet away, at the edge of one of the fields that skirted the woodland in which he'd walked the day before, a dark horse was galloping at a rather impressive speed. From this distance, it was impossible to distinguish the facial features of its rider, but it was undoubtedly a man of just above average height, and so John rightly presumed that it was the man he'd seen fall the day before – the excitement of which perhaps provided an explanation for his comparatively excellent sleep. What was his name? Something Holmes – Sherlock! It was impossible to forget so unusual a name for long. Sherlock Holmes' dramatic appearance and subsequent disappearance had caused a buzz of conversation after he'd left the evening before, but John had been unable to garner much information on him. Molly Hooper had gushed over his Renaissance looks and apparently brilliant mind, Mrs Hudson had spoken in the fond way that a mother might speak of a son, and nobody else had an awful lot to contribute to the discussion. Sherlock Holmes was, to all appearances, an enigma.
As always, John planned to start the day with some breakfast and a cup of tea. He pulled on a dressing gown and slowly descended the stairs while rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. Thankfully for him, Mrs Hudson was a woman with a great sympathy for the British need for tea, and a permanent supply of teabags was included in the cost of staying at The Gables. He filled the kettle and flicked it on, then found a mug, dropped in a teabag and leaned back against the counter while he waited for the water to boil. He didn't have to wait long, and having filled his mug, he returned to the fridge for milk. At first he didn't notice the dish on the bottom shelf, but as he was about to shut the fridge door, a smudge of red in his peripheral vision piqued his curiosity, and he leaned down to take a closer look. It took him less than two seconds to regret that decision, and he immediately jumped up and slammed the door shut. For the first time since his arrival, he began to understand the warning that woman had given him. Who on earth keeps ears – and human ears, at that – in a shared and rented fridge? No, forget that. Who on earth keeps any kind of ears in any kind of fridge? Was he sharing the cottage with a madman?
Unsure of whether to be concerned or repulsed or a combination of the two, he picked up his tea and carried it into the shared sitting room. He sat down on the plusher of the armchairs, and idly sipped his tea for a minute or two, his mind focussing on nothing in particular while he curled and uncurled his free hand, until he realised what he'd been staring at without seeing. On the mantelpiece, beside stacks of letters, was an impressively realistic replica of a human skull. One might say a worryingly realistic replica of a human skull.
"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio."
John jumped at the unexpected voice, and spilt scalding tea over his hand and onto his thigh. "Shit," he muttered, transferring his mug to his free hand to wipe the other on his dressing gown.
"Here."
John looked up, and hesitated for a moment before taking the tea towel proffered by Sherlock Holmes.
"Do you always do that?" he asked, turning back to tend to his burns.
"Do what?"
"That. What's so wrong with 'hello'?"
Sherlock smirked, and dropped into the armchair opposite John's – a black leather seat, with more elegance and less comfort than the other. He stared at John without a word, which quickly made John uncomfortable.
"What?" he said, a tone of uncertainty in his voice.
"Aren't you going to ask?"
"About what?"
"The skull. The ears. Take your pick."
"I'm kind of worried you're going to tell me you're a part-time murderer." There was no fear in John's voice.
Sherlock chuckled. "Not quite. I write papers on developments in forensic science and analytical deduction. The ears are my research. The skull's real, in case you were wondering. A friend. Well, I say friend…"
John laughed at that, and he thought he detected the hint of a smile cross Sherlock's face, but if it did, it disappeared very quickly. He leapt up a moment later.
"I'm going to change. I presume Mrs Hudson told you that the writers convene at eleven?" he said.
"She did, yeah," John replied, having been thus informed the evening before.
Sherlock nodded. "In that case, I'll see you then," he said.
John returned his nod, and Sherlock disappeared into a room behind the kitchen.
Dazed, not for the first time, by his interaction with the eccentricity that was Sherlock Holmes, John finished his tea, then returned to his room to shower and dress in preparation for breakfast in the main building.
When he returned to the main building at eleven, John looked around for Mike, but he was nowhere to be seen. He spotted Molly Hooper sitting on the other side of the room, and began to approach her, but before he reached her another man took the seat opposite her, and engaged her in a conversation. Not wishing to intrude, he stopped, and looked about awkwardly for a free table. Finding none, he decided to head back to the cottage, but as he turned to walk towards the door, the now familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes brushed past him without the slightest acknowledgment. He turned to say something, but Sherlock had already approached another table, at which sat a pale, lanky man with ferrety features and dark, somewhat greasy hair.
"Out," Sherlock said, his tone simultaneously bored and authoritative.
The other man sneered. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realise this was your table."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and vaguely elevated the corner of his mouth in an almost-smile. "You're planning to have lunch with your wife," he said.
The other man rolled his eyes. "Yes."
"I presume you'd rather I didn't tell her about your little encounter with Ms Donovan in the printer room."
The other man's skin grew a few shades paler. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Sherlock smiled deviously, and said "Oh, I think you do, so out."
The other man glared for a moment, then stood up, shoving his chair back rather violently, and stormed out of the room, muttering 'freak' under his breath. John thought he saw Sherlock's smug demeanour falter momentarily.
The essayist took the newly vacated chair, and said: "Sit."
John looked around, brow furrowing in confusion.
Sherlock sighed. "You."
John looked around again. "Sorry, me?"
"No, I was addressing the Queen. Of course I meant you," Sherlock replied, his baritone dripping with sarcasm.
John approached the table with an air of uncertainty, and sat down opposite Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up and removed a small reading tablet from his coat pocket. He slid it across the table to John, then formed a steeple with his hands on which he rested his chin, eyeing John expectantly.
"What's this?" John asked.
"The manuscript for the monograph I'm currently working on," Sherlock replied. "You're supposed to read it and provide feedback – not that I need it, or that you'll have anything to contribute. All the same, that's what we're here for."
John raised his eyebrows slightly at Sherlock's recurring arrogance, but took the tablet and held it at an angle from which he could read from it with ease. "The Science of Deduction," he read from the top of the page.
"In your head, if you please," Sherlock muttered, in that same mix of authority and boredom as before.
"Right, yeah," John said, and proceeded to read through the monograph.
When he had finished, he looked up, setting the tablet down on the table. Sherlock glanced up from his phone.
"Finished?"
John nodded.
"What did you think?"
John's features adopted a quizzical expression, in response to which Sherlock's brow formed a steeple similar to the position of his hands.
"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," John said sceptically.
"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your personality in your hand."
John almost jumped with surprise. "How?"
Sherlock merely smiled enigmatically, then reclined in his seat. "Proceed."
"With… what, exactly?" John asked, his brow contracted further.
"Dear God, do you really have no idea of how anything works around here? Your work. Show me your work"
"Oh," John said. "I, er, haven't brought anything. Sorry."
"Nothing?"
"Only my notebook, but-"
"That will suffice."
"No, it's not- It's just ideas. Notes and things."
"Good. Fine."
John sighed. "Look, Mr Holmes-"
"Sherlock, please."
"Right, Sherlock. I don't mean to sound rude, but it's kind of private."
Sherlock smirked, and glanced over John. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
It took John a moment to process what Sherlock had said. "I'm… sorry?"
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated.
"Afghanistan – how did-?"
"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. You told me yesterday that you're a doctor – so, army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but yesterday you dropped your cane when I fell, like you'd forgotten about it, hence why I said psychosomatic – quite correctly, evidently: no cane today. That told me that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq. You're here on your therapist's recommendation, I presume? She thinks you're haunted by the war. She's wrong. When I saw you this morning, your hand was shaking, yet when you felt my wrist for fractures it was perfectly steady. It's not danger that haunts you. It's normality. No, you're not haunted by the war. You miss it. Am I wrong?"
John stared at Sherlock, shaking his head in disbelief. This man understood him far better than his therapist ever had. In fact, he understood him better than John understood himself. "No," he said. "No, you're absolutely spot on. How on earth did you know about all of that – my therapist?"
Sherlock scoffed. "You've got a psychosomatic limp – or you had one. Of course you've got a therapist."
"Fantastic!"
Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he lifted his chin slightly, the corner of his mouth briefly turning up again. "Do you think so?"
"Yes, it was extraordinary, it was… quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
"'Piss off.'"
John laughed, and Sherlock smiled – the first genuinely human expression John had seen him make since they had met. The taller man extended a hand to John. John hesitated, then pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and placed it in Sherlock's hand. It was hardly as if he had anything to hide from the man.
Sherlock opened the notebook, which contained rather more than 'notes and things'. It was the first chapter of the as yet unnamed novel he was working on. Sherlock read it quickly, those reptilian eyes darting over the page and his spindly fingers sifting through the pages. John watched in nervous anticipation of a reaction.
The one he received was not exactly what he'd been hoping for. Sherlock abruptly threw the notebook down on the table with a cry of "No!"
"No?" John repeated.
"No," Sherlock said. "Start again."
"What? Why?" John asked, rather more hurt than he'd care to let on.
"Because it's awful," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.
John's offence was rather less subtle now. "Excuse me?"
"It's awful," Sherlock repeated. "It's forced. I presume it's intended to be a detective novel?"
"Yes," John replied stiffly.
"Always is. For heaven's sake, at least scrap this insufferable Mary character."
"Why?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because she clearly exists solely for the purpose of becoming an eventual love interest for this Arthur fellow. Her only characterisation takes the form of his lamentations of her being out of his league, and no detective with any efficiency – which Arthur clearly isn't – would spend his time pining over a woman whose sole distinguishing feature is 'sweetness'. Do you want to know what I think?"
"No," John replied petulantly, folding his arms across his chest, but Sherlock ignored him.
"I think that Arthur is you, and Mary is the solace you would like to distract you from the boredom of civilian life. Scrap it all. Or send it to an agony aunt – that's the only interested audience this poor excuse for literature is going to receive."
"Right, that's it!" John snatched up the notebook and replaced it in his jacket pocket, shoving his chair back with rather more force than was necessary as he stood up.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, his tone surprisingly innocent for a man who had just insulted a near-stranger.
"I'm not going to sit there and be insulted by you," John snapped, zipping his jacket up to the collar. Without another word, he turned and marched out of the building, leaving all eyes divided between him and Sherlock Holmes.
Cover credits:
Bird brush is by falln-brushes on Deviantart
Feather brush is by lelu on Deviantart