Under the Downs Chapter 4

Thanks to everyone who comments, and to everyone who is joining me on LJ. Vote with your feet, people! (I'm thinking of doing a competition to win a bonus smut chapter at the end, what do you think?)

We are woken by the hotel phone.

'Dr Watson, your hire car has just been delivered. Could you come down to reception to complete the forms?'

I sit up in bed and grumble, rub my eyes. Sherlock moans and turns over. He's invariably useless first thing in the morning. He's an owl, I'm a lark. Not that I vault out of bed, either. I pull on some clothes, pick up my wallet from the bedside table and plod downstairs to meet the young man in the crisp navy blazer who has come to hand over my hire car.

When I get back to our room, the sashes have been flung open to let the morning air in, and I can hear the shower running. I flop onto my back on the bed and close my eyes to doze until Sherlock has finished in the bathroom. I must have dropped into a really deep sleep because the next thing I know I am waking with a shock at something dripping on my face.

'What the-'

It is Sherlock. Or rather Sherlock's wet hair, dripping on my cheek. He is bending over me with a worried expression.

'I thought you'd passed out,' he says.

'Need…. bacon…'I mug theatrically, and he laughs off his concern.

'So long as its not sausage you need,' he giggles.

I get up, flick my towel at his arse, making him yelp, and shut the bathroom door behind me.

As I stand under the shower, I can see out through the big sash window. I gaze up at the Down, at its curve. It is so soothing to me. It makes me think of the back of a whale as it breaks the surface, graceful and fluid. It connects to me in a very emotional way. And when I say it connects to me, I mean it. It's not the other way around. I feel like this landscape cups me in its palm, enfolding me in its loving peace. There is something almost Zen about it. I look up at that hill and think: I could grow old here.

Wrapped in my bathrobe, I plod out again to find some clothes. Sherlock is lying on the bed, fingers peaked under his chin, staring at the ceiling. Thinking mode. I know better than to inquire what progress he is making. I potter about, getting my things together, putting on my watch. I dress in the bathroom, and when I come out, he is sitting up, waiting for me. I think he is going to say something about the case, but instead he says:

'You like it here, don't you?'

'It's a nice place.'

'More than that.'

'How much can you like a place, Sherlock?'

'Enough to retire here?'

'You want to retire?'

'We can't chase villains over rooftops all our lives. Sooner or later, they'll start being faster than we are.'

'Good point,' I nod. 'But didn't Doctor Johnson say: "when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life."'

'Did you go to Barts with this man? He sounds rather facile.'

I try not to groan. After all this time, I'm still not used to the things Sherlock has deleted from his hard drive.

'Breakfast,' I tell him.

It's a hot drive out to Chichester to see the detective in charge of John-Matthew Allen's case, and we sit in traffic on the A27 for most of it. Sherlock isn't very good at heat. Cold is his natural element. I'm not sure his body is capable of regulating temperature very well. The more he sweats, the crabbier he gets. By the time we arrive at the broken-down 1970s office block that forms the home of Sussex Constabulary's detection corps, he is the foulest mood possible.

'Try to be nice,' I warn him as we slam the car doors.

'I'm always nice.'

'You know what I mean.'

He rolls his eyes. 'You do all the talking then.'

Detective Sergeant Stubbs is obviously sitting out the last few months of his service behind a desk, and is not particularly interested in John-Matthew Allen's case.

'I looked into it, but I get about a dozen or so of these a month. Teenage kids. Runaways. That's what they do. Especially a family like that. Religion. When was the last time you saw a boy of 16 into all that?' He shakes his shiny head. 'He's probably buggered off to Brighton to sell his bum and discover himself. Most of 'em do.'

'Still, he's below the age of consent,' I point out.

'You walk round one of them clubs down there and tell me who isn't?' He flips through the file in front of him. 'I can make you copies of the salient points if you really want?'

'Thanks, that would be most helpful.'

'You're wasting your time, though,' he says.

'His parents just want to know he's okay,' Sherlock says, breaking his silence. I look at him, shocked. Unexpected empathy. Rare, but he shows it more these days. I'm not ashamed to say I feel a prickle of pride. That's my influence, you see. I'm doing this to him. Making him more human.

''Course they do. I'm just saying kids run away for a reason, and if you ask me, it's usually to get away from something.' He slouches off to the photocopier.

Stomping back across the baking car park, Sherlock growls, 'Ape!'

'He must get so many of these cases, Sherlock,' I say, unwilling to give the man a break, but understanding his attitude.

'The kid could be dead in a ditch, and he'd never know! Just because he's 16 doesn't mean he doesn't have a right to justice.'

I look at him over the roof of the car as I unlock it. 'What is it with you and this case?'

He huffs. 'You drive, I'll read.'

'Where are we going?'

'Back to Arundel.'

Tomorrow, John has a slight nervous breakdown in a cafe...