Prompt 42: Coffin
It was skilled and beautiful work if nothing else, the outward beauty of the coffin attempting to detract from the horror of a mangled excuse for a man inside. Sleek edges and smooth faces of dark wood, etched with a careful hand to read prayers and verses, it was the work of a master. A pity then, that the only coffin master in their town was inside the thing, and therefore couldn't have made this one.
Sherlock smirked gleefully for a moment before a pointed elbow to the ribs from Mycroft shut him down. When they had to be seen together, he was supposed to behave, for Mummy rather than his brother he generally complied, but that wooden box - being lifted up and out of the church now - was a clue in a murder case that was rapidly becoming interesting.
To say he was impatient to be gone was an understatement, but when one's brother is Queen's man of the county ( and quite a sizable collection of other territories as well, not that any of these simpletons knew that) obligation dictated much of the odious niceties he must show to the masses. That, and the tidy little sum he would be given in exchange for holding his tongue about the less savoury activities of their neighbours.
"Yes quite a loss to the community, I suspect we shall have to ask the guild to procure another coffin maker for us" Sherlock listened in silence, gossiping housewives in the aftermath of a funeral were a veritable font of information.
"Have you not heard? Not two weeks ago a journeyman came to study under old Master Harrison, he's taken the residence on the back of the Staunton's place as far as I know. Keeps to himself, very quiet but a wonderful guest, keeps everything neat and tidy, unlike the horrid man who..." Sherlock lost their voices in the crowd as they moved out of the church and into the street, and with the crowd merely milling about he took that as his chance to escape Mycroft's obligations and begin the investigation afresh. He had told the inspector that there was more to the death than an accidental fall beneath the wheels of a pony and trap. Now he was going to prove it.
The first and most obvious place to look was the workshop this stranger had infiltrated, which would perhaps have been an issue for another man as common folk were not just allowed in like the breeze, but Sherlock had a contact within, an unorthodox undertaker he had helped get the job in the first place. Not many women were interested in the art of autopsy, but when one had shown up he'd prodded a few people to make room for her. Miss Hooper was an irregularity, and that made her interesting.
He was unsurprised to find the workshop busy, with the master gone the bulk of the work would be thrust upon shoulders that were not quite ready for it yet, and mistakes would be made, therefore getting ahead of the work was the best and only solution if their shop was to remain open. They would need a master, but from the look of that coffin, there was one in their midst, he just had yet to be found.
Waiting at the front of the shop a small boy of maybe ten blinked up at him and Sherlock suppressed a grin, what Billy was doing working within the wood trade he had no idea, but it was definitely some part of a scheme. That boy was always scheming. "Billy, Miss Hooper if you wouldn't mind, and don't go thinking we won't be having words about the little game you're playing in here because I am not helping you out of the inspector's grasp for a third time this month, not without good reason, now off you pop, I shan't wait all day." The urchin scurried off with a cheeky grin and Sherlock was reminded why he had recruited Billy to his network in the first place when moments later he reappeared with Molly in tow.
"Thank you Billy, that will be all. Tell Wiggins to come by Baker street later and I'll see what I can do for you." Billy nodded enthusiastically and rushed away from them, leaving Sherlock quite alone with Molly. It was a pity, he knew, that women held little interest for him, for Molly would have been a most suitable wife had she been given the opportunity. As it stood she was rather infatuated with him even though she was well aware of his inclinations. Perhaps he could find someone for her who would allow her, if she so chose, to continue doing the work she loved once they were married. Now that he thought on it, Lestrade was a widower, he could do-
"Mr Holmes? When I heard the call was urgent I had expected a bit more... urgency. Then again, with Billy as your messenger you never quite know what you're walking into!" Molly smiled patiently up at him and Sherlock resolved to induce a meeting between herself and the good inspector.
"Right you are Miss Hooper, right you are. I've come to inquire about a journeyman who just recently-" Molly brightened considerably as she interrupted him.
"Oh, Mr Watson? Amazing work, truly something. He's working right through there if you'd like to meet him, of course Mr Stamford would have to accompany you until you're with him, regulations and all that." Sherlock nodded and stood in wait, listening to the rhythmic chopping and sanding of wood until she returned with Mike at her side.
"Thank you Miss Hooper, if anything interesting comes in, well you know where to find me." She scurried off down the corridor and Mike lead the way through to the workshop.
All around, men worked religiously in the heat, lit orange by the glowing fire and shining with a layer of sweat, and young boys hurried to and fro with simple pieces in their hand and complex instructions in their heads. Tables, chairs, doors, barrels, toys and fences, all came to life beneath their hands. Stamford stopped abruptly outside a door that was open only enough for a sliver of light to spill out and smiled slightly to himself. "There you are Mr Holmes, one John Watson as requested. I'd best be off, fair amount to do, try not to embarrass him, he's quite good at what he does." Sherlock furrowed his brow "Embarrass him, I don't-?" but Stamford merely put a finger to his lips and pointed at the door. Hesitating only a moment, Sherlock slipped inside in silence.
He understood immediately what Mike had meant about not embarrassing the man, for there were several examples of behaviour that would be generally regarded as improper on display in the small room. The first, the various finished and unfinished sketches of nude forms that adorned his workspace and the second, that Mr Watson did not appear to be clothed in any way from the waist up, would have been distracting enough, the star burst scar on his shoulder certainly was not helping, but it was the singing that left Sherlock truly mesmerised. Watson's voice was like the sea, lilting and deep enough to drown in, the soft caress of the shore or a wave breaking the hull of a ship in a storm, Sherlock would happily have simply listened. After all, it was obvious he wasn't the killer.
"There shall I gaze on the mountains again, on the fields and the woods and the burns and the glens, away 'mong the corries beyond human ken, in the haunts of the deer shall I roam. Oh ro soon shall I see them, oh he ro see them oh see them, oh ro soon shall I see them, the mist covered mountains of home. Hail to the mountains with summits of- My God have you been standing there the whole time!?" In hindsight, he should probably have interrupted sooner.
"Not quite the whole time no, besides, you have a gift for singing that's rather extraordinary, I should hope you wouldn't begrudge a man one of his great pleasures, would you Mr Watson?" Sherlock asked warmly as the now shy fellow pulled an undershirt over his head. A cheeky grin slid across his features as he mopped his brow.
"I never begrudge a man his pleasure Mr..?" Watson smiled as he gazed at him from head to toe and glanced pointedly at the sketches on the wall. Sherlock coughed at the overt acknowledgement.
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Watson tossed his rag on the desk in the corner and threw himself down onto a chair, gesturing for his guest to do the same.
"Well Holmes Sherlock Holmes, what brings you to the workplace of Watson John Watson? Or rather, just John?"
What was he meant to say now, 'I briefly suspected you were a murderer but its fine because you clearly aren't?' Not exactly conducive to getting to know this odd creature a bit better. "I make this town and anything interesting that happens in it my business. Something happens I must know about it, that's the nature of my work."
John hummed and then raised a brow. "Does that make me interesting Sherlock Holmes, or you a stalker, that is the true question."
Sherlock could not believe he was engaging in such flirtatious repartee with this strange man who drew his lovers in the throes of passion and then displayed them on his walls for all to see."Why not both John? Although I usually go by the term consulting detective."
John laughed and shook his head, rooting through the piles of paper and wood on the desk and pulling out a small chisel, stood up, knocked a small corner off the lid he'd been carving when Sherlock interrupted and set the thing back down before leaning back against his desk with a wry grin.
"I thought London was supposed to be very interesting indeed?" He quipped, hands once again moving, this time through sandy blonde hair.
"It just became exponentially more interesting to me." Sherlock savoured the fiery look John threw his way at that, blue eyes smouldering at him like he'd like nothing more than to devour the detective right there and then.
Their banter continued in much the same fashion for how long Sherlock could not say, but he did not miss the way John's eyes tracked every movement and gesture he made.
"Would you stand for a moment Holmes, there is something I'd like to see." He stood with little hesitation and waited as John circled around him, humming softly and occasionally muttering under his breath. "You cut quite a figure Holmes, did you know?" Sherlock shrugged, complimentary speech was not freely given in society, one could only compliment oneself or use compliments as part of a business strategy. It was quite nice.
"Sherlock, just, thank you John." He murmured softly, keenly aware of their proximity.
"Well then, Sherlock, I should make my intentions clear. You are much too handsome to adorn my walls, but I would quite like you between my sheets, that is, if you're not too busy?" John's breath warmed his neck, lips just barely brushing the skin exposed by his collar. The case could wait a few hours, he already had a second suspect in mind, and the manner in which John Watson had ensnared him was worth further study. Between his sheets indeed.