A/N: Hi. -csf
1.
Doctor John Watson slumbers fitfully in the 4x4 rover. At the wheel, Sherlock Holmes keeps a tight control over the illegally speeding vehicle through winding country roads.
The driver hypothesises that the former army doctor riding shotgun settles, as the motor wrangles the dangerous high speeds and tyres skid over loose gravel at the curb. It's only a working hypothesis, however, as Sherlock is keen to reach destination and indignantly rouse the overworked sidekick.
Sherlock blames the surgery, where John works part-time in a bid to remain relevant as a doctor among hundreds of unfamiliar patients and a handful of frequent clients made out of old age pensioners and chronic ailments. The fact that this is the third decent case in a week, that Sherlock's bed has only been disturbed three times at night and twice was by a sleep deprived sidekick that took offence to his bed being transformed by a re-enactment of case two's crime scene (John's protests were perfunctory at best; these days it's harder and harder to surprise John; Sherlock tries) all that – is neither here nor there, to Sherlock. He sees the cloak of exhaustion that settles over John's movements and slows his blink rate, just as he sees that light in John's eyes, that shine that eclipses any concern Sherlock might have out of guilt or worry. Because that shine alone, that light is pure John. Tired as his stocky body can get, John is now more alive, more himself than any so-called holidays abroad or weekend staying-in can give him when only his vocation as a doctor is called for. John is an intriguing enigma that Sherlock can never fully solve. As the detective discovers new layers to John, deeper layers open up and tantalise him with their promise of mystery, danger and loyalty.
Sherlock swerves briskly to avoid the slow moving tractor taking up most of the rural road. The tyres tracking over the grassy bank at roadside leave a trail of dust and shredded greenery behind them. And John sleeps on. Sherlock swerves the car back onto the road just in time to avoid another car coming right at them, that soon is left behind in a blur of car horn. Sherlock follows the other car's safe return to the road through the rearview mirror while lightly cursing in Dari. (John taught him that, unwittingly; John's scarce knowledge of foreign languages, when compared to his genius flatmate, is handsomely compensated by a penchant for obscure profanities.) Sherlock learned those like a sponge soaks up water on contact. No, more like an hygroscopic anhydrous copper sulphate powder sample colours blue. It won't do to use everyday similes in front of illustrious clients. Sherlock wants this case. This week's finished cases have been done with ages ago. And only John's overwork by the surgery is keeping the ink on his faithful reporting for the public at large from hitting the blank page and drying out.
Sherlock glances again at the sleeping blogger and sighs. It's insufferable, and Sherlock has found himself the driver again.
Of course, Sherlock doesn't let John drive. John's driving abilities were tainted by his roadside IED army training. John drives like the road is a war theatre. Sherlock prefers a more civilised take on road transportation, in fact. And to keep John aptly riding shotgun. More than once, literally with a shotgun.
The driver's long mental rant is rudely interrupted by choked sounds from the motor. The vehicle starts to lose speed. Sherlock quickly finds a little retreat in the shrubs roadside to park the treacherous car. It doesn't take a genius to see what has happened. Only a quick can glance at the dashboard.
John starts awake at the sound of a fluent imprecation in Dari. Just like the doctor, Sherlock notices, to immediately spring to action as soon as something is up.
'Sherlock, we've run out of petrol,' John says tonelessly, all fight leaving him.
'Just drop it, John. Gloating over your ability to remember trivial road advice to check petrol levels is beneath you.'
John sighs, rubbing his tired eyes with calloused fingers. Sherlock feels an appropriate strop coming on.
'Petrol, Sherlock. Petrol.'
'John,' Sherlock warns. John's hand, hiding his cobalt blue eyes, shakes minutely. Sherlock's heart drops at that. John's left hand tremor's back. This is why John needs the cases, needs the Work.
Before Sherlock can say something - anything - he notices the corners of John's eyes crinkling in amusement. John is amused.
'Good to see I'm still needed,' John says with a smirk. Sherlock wants to defend his all-across-the-board-genius, not the cinematic distracted-genius variety, but he finds himself smirking back before he can help it.
.
The arrival at Howell Manor was perhaps lacklustre if John were ever to blog about the lift at the back of a slow marching tractor, sitting atop hay bales. But, as the two friends arrived, straw tangling in Sherlock's luxurious dark hair and infiltrating John's underwear (or so he swears), the two friends were happy as kids. John recounted some lesser known aspects of their cases to the farmer who, it turned out, had read both John's and The Science of Deduction's blogs.
'Lord Chandlerforth, tallyho!' Sherlock waved, enthusiastically, as the tractor stopped in front of the symmetric, immaculate Georgian manor with its frontal rotunda of immaculate topiary Buxus sempervirens, and jumped to the ground right in front of a stuffy gentleman in a three piece suit to rival Mycroft's specimens. Trusting his grand arrival was impactful, Sherlock adjusts his jacket sleeves over his shirt cuffs.
Behind him, John has a higher distance to climb down, and does so far less gracefully, and a lot more self-consciously.
'Your Lordship,' John states, with a reflexive reverence to rank, that many years of army training have ingrained in him.
'Want a cuppa, Bob?' Sherlock asks loudly to the farmer, who seems to have absorbed some of John's sudden reference to aristocracy and looks a bit embarrassed by his tractor being pinned by a gelid gaze from the Lord of the Manor.
The farmer waves away the offer and restarts the tractor's loud engine to go. He takes off, the bails of hay lazily trailing behind.
'Mr Holmes,' the client offers his hand as soon as the noisy tractor receding allows for conversation. 'And Mr Watson, of course.'
'Doctor Watson,' Sherlock hisses at once, causing John to glance at his friend in surprise.
'Yes, of course, of course. Do come on in. We were waiting on your arrival. Mycroft has sent his excuses. Some new politician's scandal at his hands, I believe.'
Sherlock rolls his eyes as soon as his host turns his back, for only John to see. John gets the impression that the Holmes brothers orchestrated this one-Holmes-only act beforehand.
What machinations are at hand? flashes across his trustworthy face and big eyes, causing Sherlock's quick glance to soften. Good, that John-light still shines in those deep blue eyes. Now for the case...
.
TBC
