A/N: I played chapter ping-pong looking for an idea I might have left behind, and came up with this thought of returning to John's past, and the marks left on places he left behind. Seemed good work for rainy days. I'm hoping to ship shape this into something interesting, but hasn't got onto the quickest start. Just laying some ground. -csf
1.
"You look exhausted. You could use a day outing, a short break."
That's what my friend told me in that impossibly alluring voice that drips of mysteries and possibilities beyond my wildest imagination.
"We'd be back before nightfall, John", he added, sealing the deal. In fact, whilst a very real, very troublesome virus is out there preying on us, only limited, cautious, thought through ideas will meet my approval.
We all know the conspiracy theorists, the hedonistic fatalists, and the self-appointed exceptions out there who dismiss the virus and carry on regardless, in merry enjoyment of their freedom principle to underline breaking all rules, and every piece of pandemic advice. I happen to meet loads of those, in my line of work, when I'm working the hospital wards with the most layers of personal protective equipment. Both armies in battle, when confronted, make for sharp contrast.
To my friends I admit no gratuitous foolishness. I very much want to keep them around, instead of meeting them in the hospital wards. That has caused some friction with a few, made others unreasonably hide their actions from me (lest I be the nagging voice of reason), and exposed everyone's personal ability to limit their freedoms for the collective good.
In essence, it's the ones of us that have been witnesses to this virus' handiwork that less can abstract themselves of its ruthless efficiency and its consequences, so it's understandable that to some others the virus is a mere inconvenience, long past its shelf date.
Hey, I've had enough of it myself too.
But I can't quite tell the virus to bugger off, now can I?
I can be cautious, though, and try to keep it at bay, so I don't get infected, and I don't pass it on. Having a flatmate keeps me on high alert. I wouldn't want Sherlock to catch it from me, brought from the hospital or contracted in some ill conceived outing. All I can do is keep going, press on, and wait for better times, in the certainty that I will have learnt to appreciate them in their absence.
Going to a pub night will be an event short of releasing fireworks, going to visit grandma will once again be a valid excuse to turn down an unwanted romantic proponent, and an old familiar restaurant will feel virtually unbeknown (while Sherlock is showered by lavish attention from the owner, the head chef, or the twin old ladies sat at the next table).
Even boredom will not quite ever be the same again. Nor the living room wall that Sherlock still shots at – now lined with thick lead just under the wallpaper; it absorbs the shocks, much to Sherlock's disappointment and earlier hopes of sparks and ricochet.
Sometimes we feel that future is close, other times it mocks us with its impossible distance. As if string theory and quantum physics alone could describe its dual distance from us. Both near and distant at the same time.
Another sort of distance is in hand right now. The merciful escape from London that Sherlock has sprung on me, and I most graciously accepted.
I'm not sure if there's an actual case. Maybe right now it doesn't matter. The lullaby of familiar routines, as we once again crisscross the country just like when we always had a case on hand, is a welcomed comeback to a freer grasp of our promised futures.
.
'John, have you packed?' the detective asks casually, early in the morning.
'No need to pack. You said we'd be back tonight, remember?' I retort, pouring him a cup of coffee from the pot. 'No overnight stays allowed just yet? Hotels and B&Bs closed. Big bad virus, does that ring a bell?'
'If you say so', he says, sipping the coffee. 'In which case you should hurry up. We've got a few hours on the road ahead of us.'
'Where are we going?'
He smirks, full of amusement. He won't tell me. Making a big secret out of it. If pressed, he'd probably say that he likes to keep me on my toes, keep me guessing. I would say that's part of his DNA, the illusionist taking a live bunny off his top hat, making a show of it.
'Alright, Sherlock. Just tell me I don't need a frock coat like that other time we ended up "undercover" at the Opera House.'
He chuckles maliciously.
'John, you are perfectly acceptable the way you are, you always are to me.'
We need to get on the road, asap. He's getting all mushy on me now.
Lockdown Sherlock is openly needy and freely mushy. It probably comes down to him enjoying making me discomfited. Well, if it helps him pass the time... it keeps the living room's lead lined wall together.
.
The view from the car's passenger seat denotes no real change from those times when face masks outside medical settings belonged to those sci-fi movies with sticky endings. Nice open gardens rimmed by rose bushes and hedges, clusters of architecturally cloned houses, fast lanes, agricultural fields, power lines, reservoirs mirroring the quiet skies in vast expanses of water, endless miles of road.
It's easy to pass the time with Sherlock if we engage in a little healthy competition. Everything from Make a Book Title Silly by adding a word (which Sherlock started himself unwitting and innocently, a particularly useful art for any crime blogger with a nonstarter of The Curious Case—, The Adventure of—, The Extraordinary Enigma—, or The Mysterious Affair—) to Speaking in Mycroft's Pedantic Way to describe house chores (a game in which I'm getting quite good, with all the exposure; just remember to lather the flat-surfaced crockery with a warm, surface-active detergent solution in firm circular motions of clockwise motion to, well, wash a plate).
Soon Sherlock is diverting to a small town ahead, that he will have chosen over many intricate and enigmatic thought processes.
.
'It's a town. A bit empty and shut down, tentatively restarting like so many others. Why this place, Sherlock?'
The detective and I are walking about on the open streets, keeping away from passers-by, noticing the slow traffic, going past boarded up shops. A bit like experimental ghosts patrolling the town. No wonder there are so few people about. Most commerce has been left abandoned as it was the day it locked up.
I notice Sherlock hasn't answered me. One glance tells me he's scrutinizing me attentively. It won't even phase me anymore, his disproportionate attention laser focused on me. In fact, I like it. It feels like a constant presence, a omnipresent company I can rely on.
Finally Sherlock looks away to the slowly awakening high street.
'Because of you, John.'
'You chose this place because of me?' I repeat. I'm surprised.
'You once lived here, John. Your family had some itinerant habits, having moved around the country more than other families would have done. London is where you really feel at home. But there are pieces of you, John, all over the land, and I'm curious enough to retrieve my blogger's memories as I find tiny hints of regionalisms, in your wordings, in the way you button your shirt bottom up, or in the delectable choice of custard over a blueberry muffin.'
'Taught you something new there? You really have a sweet tooth, mate.'
'Do not attempt to diverge my attention, John. I have chosen this town because John Watson has walked these streets in short trousers, as a big blue eyed and sunshine blond haired boy. You don't—' he chooses his next words carefully '—you don't have close relations that you rely on or connect with on a regular basis.'
'Except for Harry', I mutter. My self-sabotaging, recovering alcoholic sister.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. 'We should save her for our car journey back', he suggests with a smirk. I scoff and giggle at the same time. Sherlock settles on a genuine smile he forgets to hold back. 'How I understand you, John. I've got Mycroft.'
'Yeah, but—' I collect my thoughts.
'How could I possibly find out your childhood years from the places you've lived in, you mean?' he helps me. I nod. He shrugs. 'Works sometimes with murder suspects.'
'In a book, perhaps. Or by phone interviews. We don't actually drive over.'
'You're my assistant. I thought it advisable to make a bigger effort.'
I squint. There's something he isn't telling me. Not yet. But he will.
I'll find what he's up to yet.
.
'Your primary school, John.'
Funny, I remember the playground as being a lot bigger, and the tall windows in the old traditional building as never ending. Back then the classrooms had chalk boards. Gosh, I feel old.
'Look, I don't know what you got into your head, mate, but I'm not dying. What's up with the life review?'
Sherlock literally shudders and glares my way.
'You are clearly a healthy male specimen, John. You keep yourself fed, sleep enough hours on a regular basis, and don't suffer from chronic illnesses. Besides, I keep you fit and occupied. Idleness is the devil's playground, they say... No, John, I came to find out more about you.'
'Oh.' Easily I ignore all the childish jibes and focus on the relevant piece of deduction. 'You're that bored that you want to see how I became me, find out my formative years, what tickles my inner fancy, hoping to find a hidden skeleton or two?'
Sherlock answers only too seriously. 'Absolutely, John. I'm glad you are so understanding. Shall we start then? We need to get you home by midnight, lest your carriage turns back into an aubergine, or something alike', he lastly rests, as he heads forward with conviction.
.
I enumerate, going through the fingers in my hand.
'Where did I sit in class? What was my favourite subject? Who was my best mate? What sort of games I played? Sherlock, are you planning on writing my biography?'
He shrugs, nonplussed. 'Simple questions, John. Unless you have something to hide, of course.'
I dramatically sigh, rolling my eyes. Having jumped the fence to infiltrate the school's premises, we are now sitting on the playground seesaw – I'll let you guess which one's feet are no longer touching the ground – so I just choose that last finger.
'There was one question you didn't ask me.'
'Just one?' he mocks. He's been holding back, you see.
'This is kind of an important one.'
'Elucidate me, John, by all means.'
'When did you see your first corpse, John?'
Sherlock's face transforms at that, he leans forward – the seesaw levelling a bit – and demands, hungrily:
'Tell me all about it, John. Leave no gory detail out.'
'Yeah, but not even you can solve this cold case, it's been decades!'
His grey eyes sparkle like fireworks.
Uh-oh. I just set him a challenge, haven't I?
.
TBC
