Under the Downs Chapter 13

A/N: I am utterly thrilled that UoD has reached over 100 reviews, thank you sooo much! Today's morsel is fondly offered with WitchRavenfox and Witch_Nova in mind because they are off to Speedy's - the lucky things!

I have to sit on the bonnet of the car and wait outside the public conveniences for Sherlock, who seems notably compromised in the bladder department this morning. He's been three times since we got into town. The sun is getting high and it will be lunchtime soon. Luckily I'm not hungry, because if we are proposing to hike up the river, lunchtime will be a distant memory before we get near a café again. Presently Sherlock ambles out and crosses the road, stopping the traffic as usual. He never goes anywhere without parting the Red Sea. I find myself smiling at him fondly as we climb back into the car and set off for the ring road.

The route to Amberley takes us around the north of the town, with an epic view back across the Arun river valley and out towards the High Downs, the same view as from Tipsy copse, where we found the altar and the book. The sea glitters navy blue in the farthest distance. We wend out way down the hill and park behind the little café by the bridge. It is just as the woman in the Castle Magic shop described.

It is hot. Baking, in fact. I've yomped miles in worse heat, in Iraq for instance, but today I'm older and my knees aren't up to it anymore. Sex takes it out of your knees – an under acknowledged fact. And right now, Sherlock has managed to fuck my knees up good and proper. Not that I wouldn't do the same again given the chance (and I sincerely hope I will be given the chance), but right now, it doesn't seem a sensible pre-hike strategy.

I buy a couple of bottles of mineral water at the café and we set off up the river, along a path that runs atop the flood prevention bank on its edge. The water squirms backwards and forwards across the valley, in loops dotted with clumps of willow and silver birch. The sun is scorching on my shoulders. Sherlock walks ahead of me. I can see the skin on the back of his neck starting to burn and curse myself for not insisting on buying some sunblock while we were in town. I labour on, sweating dark patches into my shirt, whilst he has merely rolled up his sleeves to expose his sinuous forearms, and looks as cool and stylish as ever. My eyes keep sliding down his back to his magnificent backside, watching it flex hypnotically inside his impeccably cut trousers.

'Stop it,' he calls back to me, a knowing tone in his voice.

'I can't help it,' I reply. 'It's like one of those executive toys. You know, the sort with the balls that clack together.'

'No clacking balls, John,' he smirks, glancing over his shoulder. 'At least, not until we find the boy.'

It's very hard to walk a long distance along a public footpath with fucked knees and a raging erection.

Eventually, thank whatever Gods watch over this pagan valley, we find a leafy glade where some tents and a tepee have been set up. A string of rather shabby washing hangs between the trees. Several small children run around naked and muddy at the water's edge. A young woman in a sarong is crouching in the water, pointing out minnows to them.

'Excuse me,' I call to her. She stands up. Her bleached hair is knotted crudely atop her skull. Her skin is tanned, her belly striped with the stretch-marks of pregnancy, but she seems delightfully un-self-conscious. It is not till she stands up, of course, that I realise she is naked from the waist up, but by then it is too late. And it really doesn't help my poor genitals.

'Can I help you?' She has a slight west-country burr. I try not to look at her lovely breasts.

'We're looking for Jonny,' Sherlock smiles. 'Rhiannon sent us.'

She points out a ragged tent on the margins of the camp. 'Mind where you step.'

A woolly dog, one of several hanging around, comes up and sniffs our trouser legs as we pick our way across the encampment. Nobody else seems to be around.

'Who's Rhiannon?' I hiss at Sherlock as we walk.

'The witch in the shop,' he hisses back out of the side of his mouth.

'How did you find that out?'

'Magic.' He wiggles his eyebrows at me.

Outside the tent, a boy is sitting on an old blanket. He has a drum in his hands, the shallow kind they play in Ireland. He taps it half-heartedly. He looks up as we approach and rolls his eyes.

'I knew you'd find me in the end,' he says.

'Jonny?' Sherlock asks. 'Can we sit down?'

Jonny looks sulky but allows us to join him.

'You the filth?'

'No. Just freelance detectives,' I tell him, ignoring Sherlock's scowl.

'I'm not going back,' he tells us, defiantly.

'We're not asking you to,' I say.

'Oh, come off it!'

'Your parents merely wanted us to make sure you were alive and well,' Sherlock explains, sounding surprisingly sympathetic, so that I wonder if he is remembering having run away from home himself.

'They're worried about you.'

He has the grace to look sorry. 'I didn't want to hurt them,' he says. 'I just wanted to get some space.'

'To find things out,' Sherlock agrees. 'Everybody needs that.'

John-Matthew looks at him shrewdly. It's the same clever look that Josh Bennett had.

We sit back on our palms in the sun. The leaves rustle softly. It really is very lovely here. If you wanted to find yourself, I can't think of a better place to do it.

Then I remember my promise. 'Josh said to say hi.'

John-Matthew examines me closely with a knowing look a thousand years old. I've seen that look so many times before, across the breakfast table.

Presently the woman comes over, still partially naked, like an English amazon, carrying a tray on which are three enamel mugs of tea.

'Thought you might like something,' she says and, leaving the tray with us, she sways away on her swinging hips.

John-Matthew clearly feels he must act the host. He passes out the tea. It is strong, but not bad and certainly very refreshing after that long walk. We sit for a little longer in silence.

'They want me to go to bible college,' he says.

'What do you want to do?' I ask him.

He shrugs. 'Maybe Uni. Maybe travel a bit. Not sure yet. There's so much to choose from, in't there?'

We nod. Frankly I wouldn't be a teenager now if you paid me. 'Too many choices,' I agree.

'Yeah,' he says, and sips his tea. 'Anyway, I don't want to go back there. At least not if they're going to go on about bible college and serving the Lord through mission and all that. I thought about it, and I don't think that's me, y'know?'

'Did you tell them that? Did you argue with them?'

'No point. Not even worth discussing. Thing is, right, my parents know the answers, and they're all in the bible. And you can't argue against the bible, can you? It's the word of God, right? Can't argue with that.'

'Sometimes,' Sherlock observes, 'I find that the people who appear to be the most sure about things are actually the least confident in their conclusions.'

We both stare at him, though for different reasons. I mean, where the hell did that come from, love? Sherlock's never been unsure about anything in his whole life!

'You think so?' John-Matthew asks him.

'I'm a scientist,' he says. 'Which means I collect data and try to eradicate uncertainty. But the nature of the Universe is chaos and uncertainty.'

I'm really not sure quite what relevance this has to his earlier statement, but I think he is trying to engage the lad's interest in physics and philosophy. But then he continues:

'Your parents are apparently sure of God, just as you are equally sure that they will not understand your desire to explore the world. However, both conclusions are spurious until you have collected and tested the data.'

He fixes John-Matthew with a quizzical stare.

'You mean, I should just go and ask them?'

'Knowledge elicitation,' Sherlock agrees. 'The foundation of all enquiry into the nature of things.'

'I wonder if maybe God made me curious deliberately,' the boy conjectures.

'Exactly,' Sherlock says, sipping at his tin mug. 'How can anybody assume any course of action is the sole one, in the face of the Ineffable?'

'God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform,' I point out, digging up the only remotely religious quote I can muster.

'Whatever. I really don't reckon I'm meant for being a missionary,' John-Matthew says.

We finish our tea, mulling over the unexpectedly theological turn in the conversation. The Sherlock surprises me by pulling something out of his pocket, which he hands to the boy. John-Matthew takes it and looks confused.

'Keep it,' Sherlock tells him. 'It's got about fifty quid on it. Just give them a ring sometimes, let them know you're alright, okay?'

I have to look away.

Tomorrow, Sherlock finally confesses his motives…