Eight hours of chill, of peace, of introspections.
Eight hours later, and John was in America.
The JFK airport was, as expected, packed- John could see nothing of the city from the windows, feel nothing of the heat that had supposedly washed over the continent during the summer. Close as he was, he wasn't yet in the real world- he was suspended in a nationless network of airports, waiting in line with a fake passport to (hopefully) grant him passage to his next flight.
Slinging his carry on over his shoulder, he followed the throng of people through the arrows marked US CITIZENS carefully- he avoided eye contact and played over the conversation he'd have to have with the officer in the accent that he'd have to give.
The queues- no, lines- to get in this country were absurd. It was half an hour before he met face to face with a smartly-dressed young man (really young- how did he get such an official job?) who took his passport and ran it into the machine.
John gave him an attempt of a smile, hoping that he looked just as uneasy as anyone else who was being questioned.
"How long were you out of the country, Mr. Sigerson?"
Thirty eight years?
"About two weeks."
"What was the nature of your trip?"
"I attended a wedding in London. I spent the rest of the time traveling."
Shit.
His accent had slipped.
Just once- a single vowel a little longer, a little lower than he'd meant. It was terribly obvious to his ear.
The man looked at him, then down to his passport. Shit. Shit shit shit.
"Do you have anything to declare? Fruits or vegetables?"
"… No."
It was obvious, wasn't it? John was not American. You could tell by the side the zipper was on his coat.
"Welcome home, Mr. Sigerson."
Well, not everyone was Sherlock, he supposed.
And with that, John found himself in the country, with one more plane to catch and a duffle bag full of things that were now his. He looted through it while he waited to board- all of the normal things someone would bring in a carry on, should the rest of their things be in a checked bag.
One change of clothes: socks, trousers- pants, that was going to be weird to have to say. Actual pants. A short-sleeved shirt, a zip-up hooded sweater. All in his size but not his style. Even the clothes he was wearing at the moment- they felt like a costume, it made him feel insecure, always pulling at the strings on his sweater.
There sat his laptop and charger at the bottom- the one that he'd used for the past month and a half to study up on his new life and objective.
And an old, overstuffed brown leather wallet with two hundred American dollars, a leftover twenty pound note, two orange credit cards, about a dozen gift cards to various stores and fast food chains, a Wisconsin driver's license with his picture on it.
Necessary toiletries in American brands- all mostly empty for the sake of accuracy.
An unread paperback mystery novel.
And under that- a touch screen cell phone. It was a newer version than his old phone (unfortunately) but the same model, he assumed; it looked about the same, with the same buttons, just with fewer scratches. He flipped it in his hands, staring at the clean, inscriptionless back. Turned it upside down to observe the charging port- scratchless.
You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.
He tried to turn the phone on, holding down each button, one at a time, for multiple seconds until the loading screen of an unfamiliar service provider showed up. And in the upper left hand corner, a little message symbol- he scrolled around until he could find the messages button, and opened the single text he had waiting for him- an unknown number.
As if he couldn't guess.
Welcome to America, Mr. Sigerson.
He assumed- rightly- that he wasn't expected to reply, and so tucked the phone into his pocket and bought a cola and a newspaper for the next flight.
Compared to the flight from London to New York, the one from New York to Atlanta was trifling in its duration- but restlessness made it feel much longer. John felt in himself an uncharacteristic sort of impatience when they landed- he wanted, needed, had to get out of his seat right this second and get working. It may have something to do with the two months he had spent in a nineteenth century vacuum, and the blacked out windows of the limo that took him from the Manor to the airport. The glass building that housed him for his three hour layover from New York to Atlanta.
It didn't really matter what it was- John could hardly keep himself in his seat.
It took hours, days, forever for the plane to drive from the landing strip to the terminal, and for it to allow its passengers to spill out. But they finally did, John mixed in and nodding to the pilot as he was wished safe travels.
The airport was huge, crowded but spacious. People from his flight flocked to the same conveyor, picking up and lugging over suitcases- John had absolutely no idea if he'd even have one.
Of course they did- If they provided him with half-used toothpaste for accuracy, they sure as hell would have got him a suitcase. John turned his mobile back on, waiting for the screen to load to be greeted by the little message icon that he knew would be there-
Blue suitcase. There is a white shoestring tied to the handle.
Not long later, John was out of customs and wheeling himself past newspaper stands and McDonalds to the front doors-
To fresh air-
To freedom, finally.
It felt oddly exhilarating, to step out from the sliding doors, wedged in between twenty or so other fliers, and to finally step out onto the sidewalk. A score of taxis were waiting for clients- the fact that John had no idea where he was going hardly bothered him. As he slipped into the first taxi that would have him, he felt a small vibration in his pocket-
89 Luckie St. Reservations for Sigerson through the week.
He reiterated the address to the driver, who took his time getting to the hotel, looping around main roads and taking circular paths until he stopped at the entrance. Paid him for his services and directed himself to the check in desk.
The woman who sat behind the desk looked, at the very best, informal- she looked as though she'd been running just moments before.
"Yeah?"
"I- I have a reservation. For Sigerson."
"Last name?"
He pursed his lips.
"That is my last name. William Sigerson. I believe I have a reservation."
"William Sigerson, William Sigerson… Ah, yeah, right here. 352."
She handed him a keycard, tapping once more away at the computer in front of her.
The elevator was out of order, so he took the stairs, heaving his suitcase up one more step after him with his good arm. He walked down the rest of the
Damn Americans.
The actual room was nothing special, either- an off-white square with a door on one side, some dark drapes on the other, and a bathroom somewhere in between there.
A flat double bed, a nightstand with lamp, a desk in the corner, a dresser.
There wasn't even a television.
John flopped onto the bed, staring at the crack in the wall where the TV should have been. Out of a whim, he pulled out his laptop.
The breath of an internet connection- shaky, at best.
Now what? Wait for instructions?
When were these instructions supposed to come? Today? Tomorrow? At all?
Not for the first time, John felt positive that this entire thing was Mycroft's scheme to get John out of the country for good. He felt stupid- as if there was anything I could do. Let alone in America, under a new name stripped of all of the things that would actually make me useful.
How long was he supposed to wait?
The man swore, easing himself off of his bed and grabbing his wallet. Damned if he was going to sit in this room all day.
It may have been a nice area to walk around had it not been blisteringly hot outside- it wasn't downtown, but there was still a distinctive big-city feel to the neighbourhood. As it was, he found the nearest place with free wifi- a small, grungy-looking twenty-four hour café and bought himself a coffee and newspaper.
Coffee was of the watery, international-chain variety, but the atmosphere was exactly what he had been lacking for the past two months- lively.
There were people everywhere. Ordering coffee and leaving, sitting down for a few minutes, keying away at some project on their laptops. And a few old folks like him, sticking to the static paper route. Music played loudly over the speakers and signs promised live bands every Friday.
He, by luck or fate, found an empty table in a comfortable corner- most of the action was happening near the front, and from this vantage point John could watch without immediate risk of being involved. A woman with dark red hair sat at the table closest to him- He smiled to her as he passed, hoping for at least something of an invitation, but she rolled her eyes and looked back down to her book.
There really wasn't much in the newspaper. A bit of global news, baseball matches and Fourth of July events. Fireworks, picnics, apple pie- whatever it was that Americans really did for their great holiday.
He realised, all too late, that he had no real reason to be searching in the newspaper- he knew what he'd been looking for, and it was news that would not be in an Atlanta newspaper a month after the event. He supposed he was reading to pass the time, at least become aquainted with the area- he was supposed to be waiting for instructions that he felt were more than likely never coming.
He turned to back pages, a mass of black text in columns about the minor details of the week passed.
Corrupt politicians.
Drunken encounters with a lamp post.
A mugging on Trinity Avenue, circa 2am on Wednesday.
Well, it certainly wasn't London, but at least Mycroft hadn't dropped him off in a one-stoplight town in the middle of the country to rot. He had at least that to be thankful for.
Animal abuse.
A case of domestic violence.
A terminal patient at the local hospital, missing for the past week, found dead on the other side of the city at a strip joint.
- Wait, what?
John read the article out of a humoured interest- but absurd as it was, there was something off about it. The man was suffering from lung cancer, could not breathe unless he was hooked up to the extensive machines at the hospital. He couldn't get anywhere unless he was in a wheelchair, and he couldn't have gotten into the wheelchair without help, let alone in a taxi.
It just didn't make sense.
That's not the point of the story- he's dead. No traces of suspicious behaviour. Guy probably just took the back door.
He frowned, turning the pages as he tried to read the other stories. Took a sip of his coffee, focusing on an article detailing changes to the secondary school- scowled and flipped back to the page.
Carefully tore the article out of the paper.
He didn't know what he was going to do with it- what could a single suspicious newspaper article, an old man at a strip club in Atlanta, have to do with Moriarty?
A trend is nothing but a collection of incidents.
Well, he had to do something with his time.
He scoured the newspaper once more but found nothing out of the ordinary- he kept it anyways, and picked up a map of the immediate city and some tacks on the way back to the hotel. He pinned the map where the television should have been, slightly crooked and corners curling over at the ends, and, after a short moment of thought, tacked the article on the location of the strip club, ten miles from the hospital the man had been living in for the past eighteen months.
What was John doing? What was he going for? It was something Sherlock did, pin all of the evidence up during a difficult crime so it was easier to visualise. But John didn't have a crime, much less evidence. He had a map of Atlanta and an inch-long article. There was nothing he could do with this.
This was less something Sherlock did and more something straight from the movies. Throwing news at the wall to see what stuck.
But hadn't everything Sherlock done been rather fantastical? John remembered his first date with Sarah, the Chinese circus and the kidnapping shortly afterward. How Sherlock had come to save the day at the last possible second, just in time to make the punch line.
How miraculous it was, really. How everything fell into place. How everything always did around Sherlock. For someone so supposedly uninterested in narrative and romance, he thrived on last-second saves and starlit chases through the underbelly of London.
John sat himself on the edge of his bed, propping his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers under his nose.
He scowled at himself at the gesture and rubbed his hands over his face.