Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You don’t remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened. — John Green                                              

It's been 2 years.

2 years since he left without a word. 

2 years since Sherlock’s heard of him.

John Watson. 

Sherlock Holmes has been alone for 2 years. 2 painstakingly long and insufferable years. Being alone by his own accord is up for debate. It wasn’t ever supposed to be like that…Mary was fine, healthy, every irregularity checked and prodded. Every concern was vanquished. But variables didn’t account for internal bleeding and a seizure. It didn’t account for the screaming and then radio silence. 

Mary’s death was always a variable on the scale of probabilities, but it was never questioned. He should’ve. 

Watching John fade away, was the thing Sherlock truly didn’t account for.

John couldn't take it, as expected. He did try to fix it, although seeing John drown his feelings in long nights of whiskey and shattering tea cups left Sherlock with little questions. He couldn’t cope. John left signs, and Sherlock, with the outstanding shrewdness he has, couldn’t pick up on enough of them to stop him from leaving. 

His…former flatmate said it’d be best to leave, because somehow it was his responsibility to fix everything. It was his responsibility to care for his infant child while purposely straying from beneficial resources and people who wanted to be crutches for him to lean on. 

It was his decision to grieve over his wife and do it in secret and in a random solemn glance when perhaps he realised he was feeling too much of a good emotion and would rather self-sacrifice than just break into pieces.

Painless death for a soldier.  

Sherlock can’t blame him for how he feels. He only regrets John’s decisions for him. The doctor has probably formed a new life, his capability to run and start fresh is up there with Sherlock’s inability to be comfortable. 

He’s changed and moved on without Sherlock before, why couldn’t he do it again? 

Not that he was ever really a requirement in John’s life, that much is clearer now than it’s ever been. 

And Sherlock hasn’t heard of him since. 

Sherlock woke up one morning, it had been about a month since Mary passed, and John wasn’t there. Rosie was gone and everything of John’s had vanished.

Out of literal thin air. 

Sherlock panicked and immediately called John’s mobile, but he never responded. All he found was a note. An apology. Written in a ridiculously long letter. John was never good at those. 

Apologies.

Conversation—-specifically with Sherlock. John had said it’d be safer and that he needed to just get away from London. 

He never specifically said where he’d go off to. Sherlock used his homeless network, tried to track John, travelled for weeks, almost sold his soul—-and nothing. No John Watson. 

At first it seemed all too surreal and it was like that for too long. Sherlock forced himself to not plunge into a rabbit hole of self destruction, though he couldn’t quite wrap his head around how John could just…leave. Sherlock had known John for nearly 6 years. And those years were (Sherlock has a list that could wrap around the Earth probably more than once for why) the best years of his life. 

Of course, they were never perfect. 

Sometimes they made him want to claw his brains out and slowly die, but other times, it made his heart feel lighter. 

He had tried to keep up his job as a consulting detective–which really didn’t go well. He eventually had to be dragged out of his flat—which he was about to lose because paying bills wasn’t particularly of interest and John was the one who handled such matters. Of course he would have participated in the communal, expected matters society has shaped into routine. He’s just too stuck up for that.  

He was dragged by Mycroft, with the help of Lestrade and for some reason that only God knows why, Anderson. And when he meant dragged, he was dragged. Not kicking and screaming, but he was basically kidnapped by his brother to get out of his apartment. He began staying with Mycroft for a bit until Sherlock could get his feet back on the ground. And stay that way. 

When Mycroft came to check on Sherlock for the first time after John left, he just found Sherlock staring out the window, unresponsive. The urge to self-destruct was just as strong as the need for a needle to his skin, and perhaps that charged the want more. 

Substance abuse (past history would claim it as ‘addiction’ but he prefers to skim over details regarding that…time in his life) was unjustifiably the reason for his downfall on many occasions.  Arguably, he didn’t quite mind the fall. 

It was just landing that could kill you.

He didn’t go back, because he kept a promise to John that he wouldn’t. 

It was easier said than done, since John had disappeared off the face of the Earth. He could’ve been in an astral plane or a parallel universe for all Sherlock knew.  

He thought, if he wouldn’t go back to that life, the universe would reward him and bring John back. Apparently, the universe takes much joy in not giving him any. He felt nothing. For an entire year, nothing. And this year, it's been about the same. He’s gotten back to doing cases, but it's not as exhilarating. It's almost a task now, not some grand escapade from the boorish events of reality.

He moved back to Baker Street, and somehow got his life on a  ‘okay’ track record. But not a day has gone by where he doesn’t think that he should drop everything and go on a manhunt to find John. Even though it’s an extremely powerful urge, the thought that John hasn’t come back after 2 years…would John even want to see Sherlock? Would he slam a door in Sherlock’s face if Sherlock ever tracked him down? 

These thoughts are always here. Hitting him when he least expects it. 

Sherlock snaps his head up, as he looks out the cab door, an alien, but  breathtaking view before him: 

Chideock Beach. 

He’s staying in Chideock, but he hopes he can get a glimpse of the beach again or maybe set foot on it for some profound reason. Maybe it reminds him of the beach near his own family home. The one he can’t even remember. 

He’s taken a case that a community of Chideock hotel owners reached out to him for. A private circle of hotel owners of the area had rumours circling that their clients were found dead in their hotels, all around the same time. All the clients were found over the age of 50 and all were taking gelsemium 1000,(or yellow jasmine) for medicinal purposes. 

Sherlock took immediate interest in this—--interest being doing some brief research, then sending a rejection email. And he would’ve been perfectly content without ever having to give this case a second thought. 

If not for the British Government himself and…Graham? Garret? Whatever his name is. 

Lestrade and Mycroft forced him to travel here–which didn’t take much after Mycroft threatened to reveal Sherlock’s ‘secret’ drug stash hidden in a torn down flat, to the authorities.

Sherlock was surprised that Mycroft didn’t forcefully take the drugs. Maybe it was a sign that Sherlock had more resilience than he gave himself credit for. 

Well, he did have resilience, just usually not to addictive properties. 

 Lestrade volunteered to go with so he wouldn’t be alone in Chideock—-doing Sherlock things. Lestrade volunteered to go with him, because (a) Sherlock could end up in a life endangering incident, (b) Sherlock could get arrested for hundreds of reasons, (c) Sherlock just needed moral support in a mundane way, and being alone was the worst scenario he could be put in. 

Especially in a new area where people are even less accustomed to Sherlock in some ways. Not that many people see Sherlock on a regular basis, but those that he had an off-chance of encountering multiple times—----the negative feelings are pretty much mutual. 

 “You know, I’ve only been here once. My brother..took me here.” Sherlock barely acknowledges Lestrade who’s in the other passenger seat. 

Brother?  

Even though Lestrade and Sherlock have known each other for nearly a decade, such information that could be called ‘personal’ has stayed hidden for the majority of their time as..friends. 

“When you were younger, I assume?” Sherlock forces himself to engage in whatever pointless conversation Lestrade’s attempting to start. 

“Yeah. I was a freshman. My brother was in his last year of uni. He wanted to take me somewhere before he left London for good. He’s somewhere in the States now. He came for Christmas two years ago.” Lestrade’s brown eyes flicker with a reminiscence and a bitterness Sherlock can’t fully understand. 

“Haven’t even met his wife.” Lestrade adds, shaking his head slightly.  “This is a nice spot, Chideock. Longrock. They don’t experience death and destruction on a regular basis. Unless you want to count the death of a famous dog I knew as a kid.” Lestrade chuckles. 

“Famous..dog?” Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. 

“An old shop owner, he had this dog named Perry. Real beautiful golden retriever. She was quite nice to tourists and liked to go beach-walking. She remembered everyone. Everyone knew her. Became an icon of a sort.” Lestrade says as Sherlock’s expression softens.   

“What happened?” Sherlock asks, trying to appear interested, though his gaze keeps lingering on the alien view before him. The sea is a brilliant blue, the sky is muddled with a periwinkle type colour, fading into the horizon, which is a muted lilac. 

Blades of grass that each are a slightly different colour than the one beside it, sway hypnotizingly in the wind. Sherlock can feel the salty air from the sea prick his nose. He hasn’t even stepped a foot out of the cab. 

The serenity is nice. 

Different from the busy, just-go-don’t-stop-idealism in London. 

“She jumped off a bloody boat while her owner was fishing in freezing cold waters. She couldn’t swim.” Lestrade titters. 

Sherlock gives him a dubious glance and beckons him to continue. 

“I know. A dog who lives by the sea can’t swim. Anyways, they hauled her up onto the boat. By the time they got her on land, she had already died from hypothermia.” Lestrade lowers his tone and sighs. “Broke the owner’s heart. Can’t go into town and mention the name Perry without some bloke coming up to you and ranting all about the dog.” 

“People are strange.” Sherlock sniffs. 

“Sentimental. Kids loved Perry. Adults too. I was one of the kids who saw them bring her back from the shore, a towel wrapped around her. Her owner looked as if he’d plunged into hell then had to crawl all the way back up.” Lestrade shakes his head again. “Poor sod.”

“Sad.” Sherlock locks his eyes with Lestrade. “Sorry.” 

“Ah, it’s a long way into the past now. It’s been what, 20 years? I’m sure the bloody dog has her own gravestone.” Lestrade smiles, but it fades quickly. “Does make this place all the more special.” 

“I had a couple pets when I was a child.” Sherlock says as Lestrade nods. “I did not approve of interacting with other people my age so my parents gave me a dog. He suited me well.” Sherlock’s lip twitches upwards slightly. 

“Animals can help people with emotions better than most humans can.” Lestrade remarks, which earns a wry smile from Sherlock. He likes Lestrade. He reminds him of John a little, though he feels like Lestrade’s always been an older friend he can consult in some rare way. John never felt like that. Not somebody to console in for advice, but to console in for a shoulder to cry on. Not that he ever really cried in front of John or vice versa.  

“Oi. Hotels right up here.” The cabbie coughs out. 

His eyes move up to a hill cornering up to the right, then they rest on a small brick building with a few quaint decor pieces outside. A black sign hangs on the building that says ‘The Ortolan Inn’ in white paint, scratched off at the edges. 

The house is mainly built from calcium silicate bricks, and it's clearly an older design. Dirt is noticeable around the bottom of the building, which Sherlock is sure can only house at least 20-25 people.

He’s fine with sharing a room with Lestrade, they had planned it ahead of time. 

He just wants privacy in this most likely, loud and tight-knit hotel with tourists who will spend their time ticking off boxes of activities to do and what meretricious souvenirs to purchase. 

He sees an older couple sitting outside on the veranda of the building, sipping  beverages out of mugs. They must be having a good conversation, because they both have smiles up to their ears. Or maybe it's just each other's company? They look so..mindless, both sunkissed and a leathery tan. Sherlock’s stomach tightens and he breathes out slowly. 

Life has aged them both well, and he wonders if one day, he’ll be as carefree as they seem. As content and no longer driven by worldly consistencies. As loved and at peace as they seem. 

The world has shown no such kindness and mercy to him. He cannot begin to hope for peace, since he has to worry about living till the time where he acquires it. 

Can he even grasp what peace is? What is it to him? Would it be drinking tea on a veranda with a significant other on a calm afternoon? Would it be living in a cottage in Sussex with a vegetable garden alone with himself–to become a hermit? 

This life he’s shaped for himself, the constant chase and thrill is what he craves, but no old man will be able to experience the thrill. Not when his body will deteriorate and his skin will wrinkle. His vision will blur and his brain will be slower. No, not for many reasons will he need the thrill. But that doesn’t mean he will miss it. Linger on it. Reminisce. Time will certainly wear him thin—--and he’s not quite ready to face that yet. One day he shall, and it will dawn upon him suddenly and swiftly—-a curveball from out of nowhere.   

Sherlock is pulled out of this moment when the cab abruptly stops, and Sherlock almost bashes his head against the ceiling of the cab. 

“Welcome to Chideock, mates.” The cabbie says in a slightly more amiable tone than before. “Er–’Mem’br Seatown’s minutes ‘way by vehicle. If yer’ prefer to walk—it’s 15 minutes ‘way. It’s easy to get er’round if yow have a guide. ” The cabbie’s voice is thick and nigh’ indistinguishable, English clearly isn’t his strongest language.

“Thank you. We’ll be sure to keep it in mind.” Lestrade nods as the cabbie puts the car in brake.

Sherlock gets out of the cab, and quickly gets his suitcase out of the boot. He and Lestrade shouldn’t be here for more than 2 weeks, so his luggage is fairly small. Lestrade has two suitcases–one full of his amenities and travel necessities, the other Lestrade said it was full of detective/police force equipment that could be of use.

Sherlock crinkles his nose as he breathes in the salty air. 

He’ll have to get used to the scent. It isn’t the same musk of London’s streets, so he feels like his senses are about to purge and overwhelm him. New places are always hard to deal with, and he’s not going to linger on this any longer. 

The faster he gets inside, the better. 

“Oi. Sherlock, you alright mate?” Lestrade’s voice fills his ears as he looks up at his older colleague. 

“Mmm.” Sherlock begins walking forward and puts an extra stride in his steps just so Lestrade can’t tail him. 

He makes his way up a cobblestone path and turns up his Belstaff’s collar. He breathes in deeply as he feels Lestrade’s presence go up the steps and pass him. 

“If you want, I can do the talking. I know how you feel, Sherlock. I’d never put ya’ in a situation ya’ don’t want to be in.” Lestrade turns and gives him a slight smile. 

“Does this entire trip count as a situation I don’t want to be in?” Sherlock titters, as Lestrade gives him a slightly put-off glance. “...Thank you. I’d prefer that.” 

“Not a problem. As long as you try your best to not terrorise the locals, I’ll give you as much bloody leeway as you want.” 

“I don’t want pity.” Sherlock scowls.  

“This isn’t pity. This is me putting up with you and trying to make it as easy for you as possible. Because if it's easy for you, it’ll be easier for me.” Lestrade reaches for the door handle as Sherlock sighs. 

“Get this over with.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“Getting it over with.” Lestrade smirks and opens the door, a bell chiming as he walks in, Sherlock following. 

As soon as he walks into the building, he’s hit with a tidal wave of everything .

The quiet chatter between tourists enjoying a late afternoon lunch and employees conversing with them sounds like everyone’s been put in a chamber and the volume’s turned up to 100%. The smell of fresh food is a spiritual re-awakening to Sherlock’s nose, but not in a good way. The warm lights in the room feel like a torch is being shoved into his eye sockets. The warm light reflects off of the windows, onto the wooden walls in the room, shining onto every possible reflective surface. It’s as if the sun is targeting his eyeballs every time he makes a step. Of course, he makes this look like he’s just mildly disinterested with whatever he’s glancing at, and he does it quite well. He hears Lestrade asking for a double room, and he re-directs his gaze to Lestrade in front of him. He moves closer to him, he realises he’s just been by the doorway. 

He walks forward, and almost crashes into an middle-aged woman. 

“Sorry.” He grunts and she opens her mouth to say something, but she closes it and scuffles away. He stares at her, a bit dumbfounded. 

Why did she look like she recognized him?

Before he can try to look at her again, Lestrade walks up to him and begins talking. 

“There’s a corridor that leads upstairs. The rest of the rooms are booked. Apparently this place is a hotspot for tourists. Ironic isn’t it, that this is the smallest hotel we’ve both seen?” 

“It seems to be the same size as the Cross Keys Inn.” Sherlock sniffs. 

“I think you’re remembering wrong.” Lestrade shakes his head. “That place was pretty large.” 

“I was fully aware of what went on in that place.” Sherlock hisses as Lestrade points towards a hallway veering right from the front desk Sherlock has found himself at. 

“Well, then, would you like to ‘ be aware’ of the building we’re in, and take my luggage for me so I can call a friend of mine that we’re here?” Lestrade asks, the duffel and suitcase are already in Sherlock’s hands, along with his own smaller suitcase in his other. 

“It’s room 6, farthest to the left.” Lestrade calls, since Sherlock’s already begun making his way to the room. 

“Wait, you need a bloody key card.” Lestrade stops Sherlock and hands him a green card with a scratched off bird. An ortolan. Sherlock finds it strange the vinyl coating is eroded, for the hotel being in such clean shape. This must be what Lestrade called it, a hotspot for tourists if the keycard is worn down, being put into the slot of a keycard machine nearly everyday. 

“Room 6, is it?” Sherlock murmurs and resumes walking, but stops again when he hears a baby wail loudly. He has to suppress the instinct to flee or plug his ears with his fingers. He glances at the infant and a punch of sombre pain hits his chest. She looks like Rosamund. She’s a little too small and her arms are too short, and she doesn’t have blue eyes. But everything else is startling. 

He almost looks around for John but it's pointless. 

That isn’t Rosie, so there will be no John. 

Rosie wouldn’t even be an infant. She’d be two years old. Or was it three? 

He shakes this haunting feeling off and finds the room. He unlocks the door with a black 6 nailed to it with the keycard. He walks in and speculates about the room; it looks tolerable for the most part. 

The lights hanging from the ceiling are dimmed and the wall is painted a soft grey. He eyes a light mahogany coffee table by two Windsor chairs by a window. It’s a strange design choice albeit simple. There’s a soft looking sofa and armchair nestled in the corners of the room. They look expensive; the texture isn't the cheap, raspy wool mix he despises, but a silk weave. 

The white noise from the wind outside calms his racing mind and he breathes deeply. 

 He walks over to a door, the assumed bedroom, since it's across from the front door, an easy escape incase of disaster or intrusion. 

He opens the door and thankfully it has the same muted interior as the living area. He chooses the bed closest to the door, in case he needs to make a sudden exit due to many reasons. He places his suitcase on the bed, and puts Lestrade’s luggage on the unclaimed bed. He unzips his case and begins to sort through his things, placing them beside his bed. No way on earth will he place his clothing in the dresser and closet that have probably been contaminated by who knows what. 

“Sherlock, you in here?” He hears Lestrade call and the assumed front door closes after Lestrade has walked in. 

He doesn’t respond and resumes organising his things. Lestrade walks into the room, a wry smirk on his face. 

“You had a preference?” He chuckles, looking at his luggage and then walking over to his bed. 

“What?” 

Lestrade shakes his head and says, “You preferred the bed closer to the door in case you needed to flee or get some air. I don’t really care, but you are predictable, Sherlock. More than you think you are.” 

“Just because I have preferences does not mean I am ‘predictable’ . Maybe you’re getting predictable, George.” 

“Greg.” Lestrade rolls his eyes. 

“George-Greg- your name could be anything, what does it matter?” 

“I’m pretty sure it matters, seeing as it’s been about a decade now and you still haven't.” Lestrade sighs and clears his throat. “You’d gut me if I’d called you William.” 

“How do you know—”

“John. Before..er Mary. When we knew she was going to have some complications. And you had been in..uhm..a bad sort that week. I stopped over to see how bad it was. You were out. He was a bloody wreck. He told me he didn’t know what to do about you. But he wasn’t really angry. Just…” Lestrade glances out the window as Sherlock involuntarily squeezes the handle of his suitcase. “Desperate.” He turns back to Sherlock and gives him an apologetic glance. 

John is a sensitive spot. Why wouldn’t he be? Lestrade should know better than this. Why would he bring this up? Is this just supposed to be some mockery of Sherlock? He finally gets out of London, then is still reminded of his life there? He surely has a right to tell Lestrade off to his face—---

“It may not be easy for you to hear..about John. But I think the more you talk about him, the easier it will be to—”

“Get over him? What, next you’re going to compare us to a blabbering old married couple to delight yourself. ” Sherlock shoots him a deadly glare. He thinks back to John and Mary’s wedding, having to let go of the only person in his life that made him feel not like he should be reduced to atoms. Because Sherlock would be persecuted for showing emotion—being the one who isn’t human and is heartless. 

John had loved Sherlock and Sherlock loved him back. Even if they both were too stubborn to admit it. 

Intimately, if he’s confident enough to say that, more than Sherlock thought possible with another person. Intimately, in their own, strange little way. 

But it wasn’t as black and white as the media made it seem. As thrilling and would he dare say romanticised as it was?  It was thrilling at some point. But those days are far, deeply rooted in the past. 

That ship had sailed and it’s never coming back to harbour. He cannot gain that type of connection anymore even if he tried. 

“No.” Lestrade answers calmly. “You were his best friend and God knows you couldn’t live without him.” 

“I’m right here. It’s been 2 years. Still living.” Sherlock lets go of his suitcase handle and takes the piece of luggage off the bed as it lands on the floor with a thud. If it wasn’t so heavy, he would’ve tried to chuck it at Lestrade’s face. 

“Yeah, surviving. And don’t give yourself all the credit, Mycroft and I forced you to have some form of self-preservation.” Lestrade scoffs and doesn’t touch his luggage and walks over to Sherlock and looks at him concernedly. 

“I didn’t intend to upset you, Sherlock. But you really don’t make things easy for us. I want you to just get back into a..rhythm these next couple weeks. I won’t bring up John, but you have to try and participate.” Lestrade gives him a partially stern glance. 

It’s different from how John treated him. Lestrade’s approach is…softer. Stern, but it doesn’t make Sherlock feel like he’s about to blow his gasket. 

“Participation is an action I don’t fail to exceed. What I’m taking part in dictates my motivation to show interest.” Sherlock scowls. 

 “I’m not asking you to be a daisy. J-Just be..you, and that’s all you need to focus on.” Lestrade says, his voice hesitant with what he would probably call advice coming out of his mouth.  

“I’m always me.” Sherlock sniffs harshly, his shoulders straightening indignantly. 

“You’d be surprised.” Lestrade walks towards the door. “It’s almost 2:00. We’re supposed to meet up with Chief Davis at 4:15.” 

“Local enforcement?”

“Yeah. He’s basically the chief of police, investigative squad, and every once in a while, he’s a chef at a restaurant here.” 

Sherlock smirks as the anger he’s just experienced is beginning to abate.

“He was going to take us to all the crime scenes today, but his schedule is pretty backed up. We’ll be seeing two today, and the other two tomorrow.” 

“Are any of the people who died related to each other?” 

“You can ask him that. Sherlock, they only told us they heard that you were the ‘best’ and that’s why they hired you. These are simple people. It’s scaring tourists and the locals. Just solve it when the time comes.”

“Just ‘solve’ it?” Sherlock nearly lets out a dejected laugh.

“You’re the man with the brilliance that can’t compare to anyone else.” Lestrade shrugs. “I’m going to grab some food. Do you want something?” He asks, trying at an awkward attempt to change the mood. 

“No. Thank you.” Sherlock nods and Lestrade returns it. 

“Alright then. Meet me downstairs at 3:50.” 

“Right.” Sherlock watches as Lestrade leaves and once he’s in the clear, he sits down on the edge of the bed. He stares at the dresser in front him and angrily flicks a hot tear out of the corner of his eye. 

Bloody sod.

Chapter Text

It’s been nearly two hours, and Sherlock’s done some research of the area surrounding Chideock. He’s researched the locals, public hours, traffic-heavy areas. The ecosystem and the structure of the area–specifically surrounding Chideock Beach. And Seatown. But he’s been told he and Lestrade aren’t travelling there, so his research is unneeded. Most things he does are unneeded, but what else does he have to do to amuse himself? Besides getting high or wallowing in self pity?

His phone chimes as he glances at his phone.

New Message from Lestrade, Greg: ITS 3:49. TIME TO GO. 

Message from You: I GET A MINUTE. 3:50, REMEMBER?

New Message from Lestrade, Greg: GET DOWN HERE. 

New Message from You: SPOILSPORT. 

Sherlock clicks his phone off, slips on his coat he had taken off after the air conditioning randomly gave out, leaving him roasting at room temp which was somewhere above 80. Sherlock tampered with it enough to have it work again, but the temperature won’t go below 77 degrees. Not that he had anybody to scold him for it. John would’ve been breathing down his neck about it. Or laughing at the fact Sherlock so urgently needed to fix ———-Lestrade will die a very, very painful death. 

He gets to the lobby, and sees the back of Lestrade’s figure talking to a tall, 40-something man. 

“Sherlock.” Lestrade nods and steps to the side.

He gets closer and is now standing beside Lestrade and the man. 

“Sherlock, this is Chief Davis. Chief Davis, Sherlock Holmes. The, uh, one and only.” 

Lestrade’s introduction earns a side-eye from Sherlock as the chief sticks a quite large hand out. 

“Welcome to Chideock.” He smiles as Sherlock takes his hand and shakes it. 

“Thank you.” He nods and releases himself from the handshake. 

The chief’s frame is well-built, his shoulders raised and imposing. An oily, greying beard frames his face, many multi-colored strands of hair curl and look almost matted in some ways.  Sailor at heart. Fitting . His piercing sky blue eyes are polite, but not exactly warm. He’s wearing a green jumper and patched up jeans, a seemingly too small vintage bomber jacket hugging his frame. He doesn’t look anything like a man of law. 

How is this man wearing such heavy clothing and it's in the middle of June? Sherlock could barely stand it with his coat on. 

“Was your trip alright? Our roads are not exactly the smoothest.” Davis grins. 

Sherlock finds it strange. For someone so burly and having the appearance of a tank, his voice is surprisingly light and not thick like the cabbie’s.

“It was tolerable. Our cab driver may have been intoxicated.” Sherlock doesn’t match the chief’s friendly tone, but it doesn’t seem to affect the man.

“Same one the whole way?” He asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Probably was. Cabbies that drive from London to here are either tipsy or hungover. There’s no inbetween.” 

“He did a shoddy job at roundabouts.” Sherlock smirks only slightly. 

“Well, if you two would come with me, I’ll drive you around to the premises.” He beckons them to the door as they head out.

“So..Chief Davis—” Sherlock begins, but Davis stops him.

“Please, call me Elliot.” He smiles again. Practised. Disingenuous. 

“----Elliot, how often do murders or these types of crimes arise in your area?”

“Not often. We’ve tried to keep it hidden from the locals. It isn’t everyday they hear that someone had enough mental instability to end some other bloke’s life.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows raise as he notes the bitterness in Elliot’s tone. 

“So, this is a ‘hush-hush’ type of ordeal?” Lestrade comments, intentionally looking at Sherlock.

“Just about. It’s not the end of the world if someone hears about this, but until we actually can figure out why all of these people are facing an unfortunate end….we’d prefer to keep this quiet.”  

“Serial killer?” Sherlock murmurs. 

“You’re the detective, Mr. Holmes.” Elliot shrugs, as he leads them to a grey Volkswagen. “The first site is about 10 minutes away at a hotel called The Birch Tree. ” 

Sherlock’s tired of moving. Yes, he came here to this town in the middle of nowhere to find action again, but if he’s honest, sitting down and staring off into space would be a better way to spend his afternoon. 

The thoughts must translate on his face, because he looks up and Lestrade and Elliot are standing by the car, Lestrade’s face somewhere between concerned and pestered. 

“I’ll take the back, Sherlock.” He gives the detective a knowing glance only Sherlock can see. 

“You know Elliot better, Lestrade. I don’t care.” Sherlock insinuates he won’t be taken pity on by swiftly moving to the car door, shoving Lestrade out of the way, and sitting down. He shuts the door, and stares at Lestrade and Elliot  who both look at each other. Lestrade opens his mouth and closes it, fighting off an eye roll. Elliot just smiles politely and turns away. 

Sherlock looks at a large black crate full of police tape rolls, a few cases, and what looks to be a literal fishing harpoon just protruding out of the crate beside him. He shrugs and looks down at the floor which is littered with files, more police tape, and random photos. Before he can inspect any of the objects, his phone buzzes in his trouser pockets, and he brings it out with confusion. 

New Message from Holmes, Mycroft: I SEE YOU’VE MADE IT TO CHIDEOCK WITH ALL LIMBS INTACT. I WILL BE IN CONTACT FOR ASSISTANCE. DO TRY YOUR BEST NOT TO GET THROWN INTO A JAIL CELL.   

Sherlock huffs at the phone, but he also feels surprise swell in his chest.  Why would Mycroft waste time reaching out to him, and through text? He never texts. 

  He looks up at the backs of seats in front of him, the DI and the newly encountered police chief’s voices going back and forth in conversation. 

Boring. So very boring . A cigarette would help right now. It would distract him. Sherlock had been smoking earlier, before he decided to do extensive research. He had wished the cigarette between his fingers was a syringe, but at least he has his smoking privileges back. There’s a grey area if he really is supposed to be smoking. But that sentence isn’t stopping him, is it?  

He was an acclaimed user of cocaine and opium before he met John. He stopped, then John married Mary and he started using again. Mary died in childbirth, Sherlock tried to stop. He ended up using, but kept hiding it as well as he could. He stopped before it became serious, when he realised how badly John was suffering. Then John left. And he would’ve started using again, if it weren’t for the government (his brother) prohibiting him from living alone.

“So Mr. Holmes—-“

“Sherlock.” He corrects Elliot and glares into the rearview mirror. 

“Sherlock—do you usually travel to small coastal towns to solve your mysteries?” 

The almost mocking tone in Elliot ’s voice makes Sherlock squirm in his seat a little.  

“No. London is ridden with more interesting people and cases so I stay local unless something interesting appears somewhere else—here for example. And they aren’t mysteries. They’re crimes that NSY are too incompetent to solve. Or you, since you're the local law here.” Sherlock remarks, as Lestrade clears his throat. 

“Interesting people being serial killers, crime lords, psychopaths, and suicide bombers?” Elliot asks, with full intrigue. 

“Like I said, they’re far more interesting than the stereotype of normal people.” Sherlock notes how Lestrade is tapping on the dashboard, he’s clearly uncomfortable. Elliot seems unphased. 

“And back to being incompetent. That’s why I called you. I was recommended that you were the best.” Elliot ’s tone isn’t mocking anymore. It’s a bit more resigned, but it seems..unaffected by Sherlock’s rudeness. He doesn’t like it, though he’s intrigued as to why Elliot hasn’t lost his cool yet. He certainly has a right to be offended.  

“Who? Nobody in this town knows of me. I am not that well-known.” Sherlock cringes at the thought that he actually is well-known and has even been called famous a few times. 

He’s not doing it for show and tell. It’s his bloody job and the reason he hasn’t jumped off a rooftop and actually killed himself. Maybe that’s not the best analogy to use, since he has done that. Well he’s not actually killed himself—--he already knows this. He doesn’t have to relive pretending to be dead.  

“You’d be surprised Mr.—-Sherlock.” Elliot chuckles. 

“Who?” Sherlock presses and Elliot shifts the gear of the car into reverse and begins backing up out of the parking lot. 

“Anonymous. Quite strange. Tried tracking the phone. Couldn’t.” Elliot  answers. “He sounded a little flustered.”

  “He?” Sherlock scoffs. 

  You could go up to every man in this town and ask if they recommended you to us. But you don’t seem like that type of person. Or can you deduce it from what I said?” Elliot says with a friendlier tone than Sherlock knows he wants to use. 

Elliot shifts the gear to drive and exits the parking lot.

The road has a good amount of cars travelling around, but it doesn’t feel crowded. 

Sherlock doesn’t feel as claustrophobic as he usually does in cars because of this. It’s also probably because in the far distance he can see a brilliantly blue ocean. He can hear the wind from outside, that white noise that calms him instantaneously. He can still feel every bump and noise the car hits and makes, and the sound of other cars too. But knowing the ocean is close and the serenity is closer, he feels an odd tranquillity out of his fear.  

“I can deduce just fine. Some information is lacking in areas of what you told me.” Sherlock clips. Elliot ’s not backing down but he’s not a prick. Sherlock finds him tolerable. It makes sense for Lestrade to be friends with the man. 

“Lestrade has told me that I am a show off, and I shouldn’t use my skills for rewarding purposes for this trip. Not that I find most people's reactions positive when I deduce. My frie—flatmate was the only one who—who—“ Sherlock’s words come to a screeching halt as he squeezes knuckles, and shudders. 

He stretches his fingers as he shuts his mouth and wipes the idea of talking out of his mind. And the thought of John too. 

He’s vaguely aware that Lestrade started to talk. 

“His flatmate and best friend..er..left him without so much as a goodbye 2 years ago after some pretty terrible things happened to him. He hasn’t heard of him since then.” Lestrade recovers Sherlock quickly, in a hushed tone, but Sherlock can obviously hear him. 

Sherlock wants to strangle Lestrade for telling a stranger about his past. But he has not acquired the energy to do so, trying to wipe John’s face out of his head is so painful and tiring, it’s all he can do. 

“They were close. Really close.” Lestrade says this even quieter. Sherlock cannot believe Lestrade is being this insensitive about this. He’s never like this. Blunt and un-thoughtful. 

“They used to s—-“ 

“Lestrade. Shut up now.” Sherlock growls and he now has registered the pain in his hand from digging his fingernails into his skin. 

“Shutting up.” Lestrade turns around, looks at Sherlock, a concerned expression plastered on his face as he looks back at Elliot .

“Sherlock, I understand. My wife left me 5 years ago without an explanation or a reason. She didn’t leave me a note or anything. She just left. We’re the unlucky ones. We’re the ones who’ll stay for the ones that leave.” Elliot comments, as Sherlock tilts his head at the words. 

We’re the ones who’ll stay for the ones that leave.  

“Makes you feel unwanted, to be honest. ” Elliot hums. “Unloyal friends never get you far do they?”

“John wasn’t disloyal—-“

“Not saying he wasn’t.” Lestrade cuts in, and shoots a message at Sherlock to pipe down. 

For the next few minutes, Sherlock shifts in and out of listening to conversation between Elliot and Lestrade. He’s now on the verge of some sort of overstimulation; the amount of beeping a person can produce from honking a horn under 3 seconds is a mammoth achievement for the locals. 

“Are we close?” He winces as he hears a child screeching of laughter from outside. 

“Right around this bend.” Elliot  points to a left turn that looks like it shifts into a hotel parking lot. 

“Thank God.” Sherlock murmurs and shoves his head back into the seat, and stares at the ceiling. He’s never this uncomposed, but the synaesthesia he’s experiencing just might send him off the edge. 

He feels his phone buzz as he looks down. 

It’s Lestrade. Texting him not 3 feet away from him. He’s asking if Sherlock needs a breather once they get out of the car. Sherlock clears his throat. 

“No, Lestrade. I do not need a breather and whatever incessant concern you have broiling in your heart can cease right now.” Sherlock says loudly , and Lestrade titters.              

“Alright…. Got the message.” He says cornily which makes Sherlock want to strangle every living breathing person who’s walking down the street at this moment.                    

“If I may ask, Sherlock—” Elliot pauses. 

“Yes?”                   

“Why this job? Uh, crime solving? Being a ‘consulting’ detective? You surely must never get bored.”                       

“It’s the only job I can sustain without wanting to blow my brains out. And to your remark, it certainly isn’t boring, if the right case comes along.” 

Sherlock hears a stifled sigh come from Lestrade.

“Understandable.”                     

“No. it isn’t.” Sherlock sneers.                    

“No it is. I mean, police work isn’t always thrilling. Especially in this little, on the edge of the world town, where the worst thing to happen here was when a local bird made a nest in someone’s chimney and it caught on fire.” Elliot’s tone has not shifted in any way, even though Sherlock knows it should be. All he’s been is a twit, and this man has been, well, not a twit.           

Sherlock’s not sure what to say to this. Elliot reminds him of John. He’s amiable to strangers, but there’s a hardness deep inside. Someone who has secrets, but knows others have them too. A well-rounded, aware of themself type of man. Sherlock can also see Elliot having fits of rage. Like John. Something could hit a sensitive spot, and he could blow up in someone’s face. He’d try and control it but fail. It’s hard to speculate such things, though most of the time it’s easy to predict, regardless of intention to predict, it’s still hard to be so aware.                 

“Such things feed the soul.” Sherlock says with a neutral tone, beginning to display he wishes to eradicate this conversation—since it's comfortable. He would stray from conversation if it was uncomfortable as well, but he could grow a measly attachment to Elliot and that would simply not do. He can’t have attachments to people anymore, from what Mycroft told him. 

All lives end. 

All hearts are broken . 

Sherlock and Mycroft’s old refrain was something he played on repeat, churning in his brain. Maybe he was proved otherwise at a different time. John probably distinguished that Sherlock lived by that refrain in some way, and coaxed him to live against it. Sherlock remembers it working for a bit. Until he jumped off Bart’s, John had to witness him coming back, and then lose someone else in his life. Sherlock had thought he only jumped to save John, not to jump and land in the ninth circle of hell.                 

“But only for certain people.” Elliot  breaks Sherlock’s thoughts. He rids himself of the thought of the past 2 years from his brain. There are wispy vestiges that’ll stay behind, lingering, waiting to pounce. He’ll confront and sort them out later, though he’s never been gifted with what medical specialists call, ‘coping mechanisms’.                  

“Touche.” Sherlock sniffs and silence follows. It hurts. The silence. He wants somebody to say something to fill it, but at the same time, he’d prefer the silence to stay. Because the words could bring pain.                              

The silence stays. And Sherlock decides to be grateful. 

Greg knows he has bit off more than he could chew. Not that it was Sherlock’s fault. The man has gone through hell and back more times than Greg can count. Maybe it was that he felt guilty and he decided to come along with Sherlock out of thinking Sherlock needed a friend. 

That notion might be a bit precarious to Sherlock, but after putting up with Sherlock for 11 years or so, he’s used to it all. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be surprised.

But being surprised is somewhat..rare recently. Greg’s not a fool—he’s hoped to make that clear. Sherlock’s declined in..basically everything. Greg shouldn’t be–but in one of the ways he has been surprised–is that Sherlock shows up at the Yard nearly everyday. He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock one day, just stopped coming. It’s probably saying something that Sherlock is that desperate to be stable–whatever that is, Greg has no clue. 

The first time Greg came to see Sherlock after John left, it was..pretty horrid. Sherlock was sitting on the living room floor, knees against his chest, just staring at the wall. 

Greg had assumed it was a danger night, but Sherlock’s drugs had been confiscated. He looked like a wreck but not a high, gun slinging wreck. A broken, shattered and confused wreck who was trying to make sense of the cruelty handed to him on a silver platter.  It had been a hard year. And this one isn’t all that better. Sherlock’s trying—--which is more alarming than him not trying. Because he’s trying to patch himself for all the wrong reasons, and in all the wrong ways. 

He’s been trying to cut the man some slack, but with Sherlock being Sherlock—--it takes a monumental amount of patience. Greg's been ‘round Sherlock probably too long, so he has a pretty good idea of what ‘patience’ is. 

But Greg can only take so much of Sherlock. He hates it when it feels like babysitting, but this time, he hopes it doesn’t. He hopes that Sherlock can heal here. To be away from London, start fresh somehow. Even if they’ll only be here for a couple weeks at most, he’d like to see his younger colleague and friend make a provocative step forward . 

Because too many steps were gone backwards for certain -very -special -saints who-cared-for-Sherlock-likings. 

“Greg.” Elliot’s voice enters his ears as he looks at his friend with a tired look that he knows Sherlock can’t see.            

“Sorry, what’d I miss?”            

“We’re here.” Elliot points to a building with yellow police tape encompassing the front, a small brick building. It looks much newer than The Ortolan.             

“My team is inside, Jameson and Braves. You remember Braves when we were kids, right Greg?” Elliot  hums a little.               

“Oh, y-yeah.” Greg honestly has no idea who bloody Jameson and Braves are, but he carries on like he does because why not?                 

“Are they boorish and incompetent?” He hears Sherlock murmur.                 

“Oh, just wait and see.” Elliot snorts.                 

“I am waiting.” Sherlock answers, and Greg has to stop himself from looking back at Sherlock. He knows Sherlock will hate him for it. He knows he only has so much time till Sherlock reprimands him for intervening and telling Elliot  a bit about Sherlock’s personal affairs. 

It’s the only way he can keep Sherlock protected when he’s been especially blatant or Sherlock-y.            

“Are you always like this, Sherlock?” Elliot  asks out of the blue.             

“Rude and generally awful?” Sherlock smiles fakely.                

“Eh, I was thinking more so thinking brilliant and unexpectedly entertaining?” Elliot  answers, which earns silence from the detective.                 

“Flattery is for fools, Mr. Davis.” Sherlock makes his tone seem emotionless, but Lestrade knows he’s more than flustered at Elliot ’s comment.                  

“Unless the fool means it. And I do.”  

“Then is it to find a vulnerability? To exploit and to manipulate?”               

“None of the sort. Genuity is something all men should have.” 

Greg can’t believe it. Whatever conversion this is, will be the closest thing to playful banter he’s seen between Sherlock and another person who wasn’t John.                

“I do not accept compliments.” Sherlock growls.              

“They might do you some good.” Lestrade comments.               

“So you took the time to analyse me, Elliot?” 

Sherlock clicks his tongue. 

Oh no. Here we go.                  

“You clearly aren’t an office worker, from telling me you get bored easily, and your face is clearly tanned, but not sun-kissed. So you don’t get breaks often, but you’re outside enough to have experience in your line of work. You have stress lines on your forehead, but not from your job itself. A co-worker? It wouldn’t be a personal matter since you were comfortable enough to talk with me about your ex-wife…” Sherlock sucks in a breath and continues before anyone can say anything to stop him. “You’re a smoker too. New. You don’t have ash stains in between your fingers, but you have them beneath your lower lip for coughing up the tobacco. You only wipe your lips, not under. You also don’t smoke cigars. Pipes, you find more tolerable.”                 

“I—”

 Sherlock isn’t going to stop now. He’s on a roll. Lestrade just has to watch till he says something severely impersonal.                

“You don’t have children, obviously . But you’re fond of one. There’s the scent of baby powder and milk wafting off of you. So either you work at a nursery–which is ludicrous—- or you babysit for somebody. Not a relative, you’re living in the middle of nowhere for Christ’s sake. Someone significant to you, did I miss anything?”                 

“That was..impressive. Brilliant, really.” Elliot  says after a moment of processing. “Yeah, uh a friend of mine has a baby boy. He’s in a rough spot, so I’ve been checking in on the kid whenever I can, or at designated times. I go over when the regular sitter leaves and stay on weekends sometimes too. The friend is my co-worker actually, it’s Braves,” Elliot glances at Lestrade, who’s been looking back at Sherlock for the moment.               

“He gets on my nerves but I love the man. Yeah, sometimes I’m inside more than outside but I try to spend my time in the sun when I can.”                

“So I didn’t miss anything?”              

“No. The pipe bit was incredible. How’d you even see the ash on my—- —---” Elliot  doesn’t need to finish his sentence, since Sherlock’s already begun talking.                 

“I observe. Seeing is for those who do not wish to observe. Observing is for those who have never known what seeing is.” Sherlock’s lips curl downwards. It’s a telltale sign that he’s thinking back on a past memory.              

“Well, I’m looking forward to seeing how your deductive skills work out at a crime scene. I don’t suppose I’ll be disappointed, seeing what you just performed.” He says and pulls into a parking spot. He had literally stopped the car to witness what Sherlock was doing. 

Performed?

That’s going to ruffle Sherlock’s feathers.                  

“I am not performing. Like I said earlier, which you clearly did not heed, I am doing it for a living . Don’t mistake me for some magician, which you did, so don’t continue to. You’re entertained by people telling you what you want to hear, and are hungry for people to tell you otherwise to correct them–”

“Sherlock, you need to–” Greg tries to interject, but it’s no use. Sherlock is going to crack bit by bit. This is the first shard coming off. 

“Don’t stand in wonder of my mind, it’s not some idiot’s place like yours to witness it at your delight. It’s my hard drive, Elliot. And I’ve trained it to perfection .” The words roll off his tongue, the tone is cold, it’s as if shards of ice have plunged into Greg’s skin, and he can’t help but wince.

He’s barricading himself. He’s putting on the ‘I’m a machine not a human. I’m a masochistic, self-absorbed machine who cannot love or feel. Therefore, be intimidated’ suit.  

This time, Elliot doesn’t respond. He parks the car and Greg pats his friend’s shoulder, giving him a ‘sorry, he’s always like this’ look. Elliot looks far more understanding than he should be and just keeps his distance. 

Greg shouldn’t be apologising; he knows this too well. But again, formalities and all that, what Sherlock would call, ‘trivial nonsense.’ 

Once they all make their way out of the car, underneath the neon police tap, and into the front door of the hotel, Lestrade breaks the ice,            

“So, where are the—-”               

“Just up these stairs.” Elliot  points to rickety looking wood stairs, which begin to creak when he walks up them.                   

“The bodies are in two different rooms.” Elliot  leads them up a landing as Sherlock murmurs something incoherently that sounds something like, ‘John’.               

“Here.” He opens a door with police tape plastered on the front. Lestrade walks in as he immediately eyes the corpse in front of him, an older man with a wider physique and clammy skin. 

Very dead. 

“Ben Kaiden. Was staying here for 2 weeks, was only here for 4 days before he was found by a housekeeper.” Elliot  informs them and stands near the door. 

“Was he the first victim?”  Lestrade asks, as he feels a presence behind him. He turns around, expecting Sherlock, but it’s none of the sort. 

It’s a short, burly man with a handlebar moustache, in a police uniform.                    

“DI Lestrade?” The man asks.                    

 “That’d be me.” Lestrade gives him a small turn of the lip.                     

“Andrew Braves.” He sticks his hand out and Lestrade shakes it dutifully.                     

“Elliot wasn’t sure if I’d remember you from Perry’s death, but I’d remember you anywhere.” Lestrade comments, the memories now flooding him at the sight of Braves’ face. “You had all us boys jealous of you for winning over the girls in town.” He jokes, Braves shaking his head.                        

“I wouldn’t blame you, it’s been what, 30 years?” He laughs.                      

“40, by the state of your receding hairline.” Sherlock murmurs, he’s already knelt down next to the body, his magnifying glass hovering above the neck of the corpse.                        

“Oh uh, Andrew this i—-“                         

“Sherlock Holmes.” Braves says, his tone almost excited.                           

“Gawking is for school children, Mr. Braves. I can feel your eyes searing into my back.” Sherlock mumbles.                         

“Not one for niceties then?” Another voice murmurs. 

The voice belongs to a tall, skinny, 20-something man with cropped red hair,  dark brown eyes and expensive looking glasses. He doesn’t share the same amused look Braves and Elliot both have on their faces. 

He’s somebody who if Sherlock nettles with, they won’t be as forgiving.                     

“Paul Jameson.” He stiffly walks over to Greg and shakes his hand.                          

“Greg Lestrade.” He doesn’t bother to smile as Sherlock stands up to speculate about the two officers.                          

“Why did you leave this body here for a whole day before calling me? You should’ve taken it to the morgue. Dust particles have covered up any sign of residual markings.” Sherlock quickly eyes Jameson but his eye stays more on Braves.                       

“We thought you’d like to inspect the body right where it was found.” Jameson murmurs, clearly he’s fazed by Sherlock’s bluntness. But in the category of fight or flight towards the detective, Jameson is already seeming to be a fighter.                        

“Only if there was a murder weapon or solid evidence leading to the death here , would I be more thankful. The only thing given to me is this corpse, and this corpse will answer everything. There’s traces of yellow jasmine on his left pointer and thumb, and a bit of it on his wrist too.” Sherlock snaps his head back to the body. 

“Yellow jasmi–” Braves clamps his mouth shut as Sherlock begins, 

“Gelsemium sempervirens or Gelsemium 1000. Anti-anxiety medication. It’s used widely in Hindi culture.” Sherlock says, leaning in and sniffing the man’s hand. “Also known as a suicide drug.”                         

“Would you still like to see the other one?” Lestrade clears his throat as silence fills the room.                        

“Yes.” Sherlock gets up and brushes past Jameson and Braves, Elliot  stepping closer to Lestrade.                          

“And you two.” Sherlock turns and points to Jameson and Braves. “Go be of service somewhere else. You have no use here.” 

And with great flourish and a sweep of his coat, the detective leaves the room. 

And Greg follows him as he always does. Greg has no idea how John followed the man around without relent, for years. Greg  didn’t really have to take on the bulk of Sherlock once he moved in with John. 

And thank God for that.                              

“What’s with him?” Jameson calls after him.                             

“He’s Sherlock Holmes, mate. He may be a twit, but he’s a bloody brilliant one.” Greg mutters quietly, so Jameson can’t hear him.                            

Greg hears footsteps behind him. 

Elliot. 

“I assume you’ll see which room has the other body in it by the obnoxiously neon police tape, but just in case, I’ll come along.” Elliot says disarmingly. 

“The more the merrier.” Greg chuckles. “I’m not sure if it applies to Sherlock though. Sorry about that.”                         

“Eh, I don’t mind it. Certainly won’t make these next couple weeks boring. Braves will cope with Sherlock..but Jameson. I’d fire the man if he wasn’t such a bloody incredible analyst. Went to medical school, then dropped out, and wanted to work in the police force. He’s highly eligible for many jobs, yet he stays here. People are peculiar, aren’t they?”                           

“Everyone has to learn to deal with someone.” Lestrade quips.                            

“Would you want to deal with Jameson?” Elliot sighs and Lestrade’s eyes land on another door plastered with an ‘X’ made of tape.                            

“The door’s shut—--did he already go in there?” Elliot beckons him to the door.                           

“Man likes his privacy, I’ll tell you that much.”                         

Elliot opens the door, and there’s Sherlock, just standing above the corpse.                          

Greg and Elliot enter, as Sherlock does nothing to acknowledge them.                          

“What’s the verdict on this one? Do you know if—----” Greg begins but Sherlock puts his hand up.                         

“Shut up John.” He mumbles as he kneels down on the floor.                           

“Greg.”                             

“Same thing.” He says distractedly; he pulls out his magnifying glass yet again to inspect the victim. 

Greg finds it unintentionally amusing, and sorrowing—-that Sherlock is like this. It’s not all that different from when Sherlock first came back…quite frankly, it’s striking similar to when—-                            

“Both are the same.” Sherlock stands after a moment of silence.                             

“What?”                           

“Same cause of death. He had the same white powder on his fingers and wrist. There’s blue tints near his jaw and lips, more noticeable than the man before. Hypoxia. Gelsemium has a particularly nasty depressing-respiratory effect.”

“So suicide by overdose..?” Lestrade steps forward. 

“They both grabbed the pills with their left pointers and thumbs. Yes..both are left-handed but it was on their wrists too, so they kept repeatedly dropping the pills. No one with the intent of ending their life is going to drop the thing that’s dictating whether they stay on this earth or not. They hold onto that thing until they almost crush it.”                             

“Get them to the morgue. Tell me the results. Then we can figure out why . Right now we’re figuring out how and when .”                          

“So are you taking the case!?” Elliot  calls after him.                            

“If I’m right, which I never cease to be,” Sherlock comes back towards Elliot . “There won’t be one. All you need to do is find the suspect. Which shouldn’t be hard to do, mmm? This town is, from what you said, ‘tiny, on the edge of the world’? Shouldn't it be that hard?” Sherlock’s tone is full of acerbic ness, he doesn’t sound the least bit interested in this. He sounds irritated and bored. 

Quite opposite of how Greg has pushed and pushed for him to feel when arriving here. Maybe he should’ve waited for tomorrow; rescheduled and let Sherlock adapt to his surroundings more. 

“Nope.” Elliot  bears a smile and Sherlock huffs indignantly.                        

 “Well, I guess we don’t have to be here since you’ve already sorted this out, mm?” Greg locks eyes with Sherlock then Elliot.  

“I just said—---” Sherlock digs a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out his mobile. He looks down, and holds the phone up to his ear. 

 “Who are you—-” 

“Going outside.” He says as he turns and walks out the room one final time. 

As Sherlock disappears from view, Greg turns to Elliot  one last time and breathes a heavy sigh—it certainly won’t be his last. 

“See you tomorrow?” Greg sticks his hand out. 

Elliot shakes Greg’s hand firmly, nodding. He looks almost tentative and then leans in near Greg’s ear, even though Sherlock has left the room.

 “Listen, I really am glad you and Sherlock are here, I dunno what we’d do without you both but we—there needs to be some parameters set in place.” Elliot  looks timid, and Greg nods, fully understanding what Elliot  means.

“Understood. I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

Elliot smiles and Greg steps back. 

“Well—uh, are you… mind taking us back…to..”

“Sure thing!” Elliot  smiles and they begin walking out the front door of the building. 

“Oh Elliot. By the way, if Jameson acts that way to Sherlock again, I might end up in a jail cell right along with our killer.” Greg says, his tone half joking, half serious. 

He’s going to make this better, and he’s going to prevent any barmy individual from attacking Sherlock verbally or physically. The man has had enough hurt in his life from people who are complete idiots. 

 “I understand, Greg.” Elliot ’s eyes flash a sympathetic glance. Elliot  excuses himself to talk to James and Braves, who both look impressively p’d off. 

Greg walks away towards Sherlock whose jaw is clenched tightly. 

“I will find a way to slip poison into your tea and gladly watch you choke if you say that again.” Sherlock hisses. 

Greg’s eyebrows raise, and watches Sherlock, who doesn’t pay an iota of acknowledgement to him. 

“I am not doing Christmas dinners again! And my god, it’s not even Fall yet! Why is Mummy so insistent on all this traditional balderdash? I’d rather get hit by a bus then participate—”

Greg has to use every sheer ounce of willpower to not giggle in front of Sherlock. 

“Galvin is here. Goodbye.” Sherlock says abruptly and hangs up. 

  “It’s Greg. Still Greg.” Greg smirks, as Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket. “Trouble in paradise?”

 “You didn’t have to defend me. In front of Elliot. Or reveal my life story.” That ice in Sherlock’s eyes hasn’t abated. 

 “Sherlock, mate, I get it. It wasn’t my place, but you haven’t moved past any of this.” 

Sherlock’s cocks his head and something switches in his chilling stare. It falters, and his mask cracks a little. But only for a moment. He scowls and inhales sharply. 

“Chief Davidson is taking us back to the hotel?” Sherlock briefly looks at the three officers who are standing off to the side. 

“Y-Yeah.” Greg sniffs and shoves his hands in his parka’s pockets. “Yeah, he’s..discussing things with James and Braves. Won’t be long.”

Greg watches as Sherlock goes near the parked car, looking lost.

This is going to be far harder than Greg expected.

Chapter Text

“Bloody–it is not that difficult to keep your mouth shut Sherlock!” Lestrade’s voice reverberates through the hotel room as Sherlock sinks into his mattress with a dignified thunk!

“I was merely trying to get answers.” He says, hiding the growing smirk on his face. 

“You nearly assaulted a guest!” Lestrade shouts, to which Sherlock raises his eyebrows. 

Somebody’s touchy. 

“The man wouldn’t have been able to do anything, Lestrade. He had already downed 2 pints of Guinness and his hand-eye coordination was nothing short of tragic.” He sniffs, grabbing his computer off the nightstand. 

“Was there anything remotely suspicious about him?” Lestrade sighs, taking off his jacket like he has a personal issue with it. 

“Besides the fact that I believe he’s meeting up with a woman two doors down from us who is not his wife..no. Nothing related to our case, if that’s what you mean.” 

Sherlock opens a tab and begins to type. 

“What are you doing–Sherlock, I’m trying to understand why you nearly body slammed a man into the bar downstairs while we’re trying to stay discreet.” He sits in a small chair near the window, legs spread. 

“He was a prick.” Sherlock shrugs, Lestrade’s questions now feeling irritating. 

A link up shows for the Ortolan Hotel. He clicks and skims down the page, the header and outlines of the website grossly….tacky. 

A stock image floral print runs behind the summary text about the hotel, bright pinks and greens clashing with the white text so much it makes Sherlock’s eyeballs burn. 

“You know I’m talking to you right?” Lestrade sighs. 

Sherlock does in fact realize, and refuses to acknowledge this. 

He scrolls down to find a tab that says “Our Team” and clicks. The same horrendous floral pattern appears as he scrolls. 

Got it. 

An image of a 40-something, round faced man, with thinning brown hair, blue eyes, and the largest possible smile rests at the top with a brief description. Sherlock skims over most of it, it’s all self-advertising propaganda except for his name. 

Mason Bradley. 

Owner of the Ortolan, since 2012. 

“Lestrade, I believe we have to arrange a meeting.” He says, not looking up from his laptop. 

“Hmm?” 

“The owner of this hotel. Mason Bradley. Says here he 'started his humble journey hailing from Charlotte, North Carolina, with the help of his brothers Henry and Nathan Bradley, as well with cousin Ben Kaiden.' The rest of their information is below as well, photos and all.” 

“Our Ben Kaiden?” Lestrade whistles. “Now that’s interesting.” 

"Quite." Sherlock murmurs. "They haven't updated anything related to Kaiden's death. Don't you think it's a bit strange not to give..condolences?" He looks up at Lestrade who's looking out the window, up from his seat. The sky has grey clouds tainting it, a brewing storm in the distance. 

"I was thinking the same. But maybe they could be a bit..behind?" 

"If your family member died from supposed overdose and was on the front page of your hotel website, without any sort of mention or memorial, would you find it a bit alarming?" He stares at the image closer. Nothing peculiar. Just an overweight American with a horrid spray tan. 

"Yeah I guess, but this Bradley guy, we don't even know if he's here." 

You don't. 

"Well, that's why we pay attention Gabe." He sniffs, watching Lestrade shoot him a glare. "There was a car right outside the hotel when we walked in. Red V12 Vantage Aston Martin, fine-condition." 

"So? Someone's been blessed with making enough to parade around a fancy rolling piece of metal."

"There was an Ortolan symbol pasted on the edges of the side mirrors and the license plate said "BRAD-LY" so I think that would point us to his location." He scoffs and turn the laptop around, facing it to the DI. 

"It's not like this hotel is 5 star or anything. Don't see why he'd customize his car to put the logo of a seaside hotel on--"

"Irrelevant. We have to, well, I have to meet with him." Sherlock feels a thrum of energy surge through his chest, lodging itself somewhere near his heart. 

"I can go down and ask for where he might be." Lestrade nods, peering down at the screen. He shudders, locking eyes with Sherlock. "That spray tan is a choice." 

Sherlock allows himself a smirk but it fades as the light outside catches his gaze. That energy, that warmth seems to fade just as fast as it appeared. There's an empty space there. 

His brain is a powerful tool and he can harbor it just fine. He needs someone, something to streamline it. His motivation to do this, to pursue this case, feels as if it's running in a circle. He needs a steady flow, something grounding, something to keep the tendrils of his thoughts from sweeping him up from what's at hand. Perhaps it's all redundant. He's aware enough to know the Game, the Chase, is needed to keep his brain going. But it also is the consistent killer of his own feelings, his own experiences. 

He finds he must be a detective first, before being Sherlock Holmes. 

Even though he isn't quite sure what the name Sherlock Holmes means anymore. 

"Oi, you alright?" Lestrade's voice cuts into the feedback his brain is pounding at him and he nods, seeing the concern on Lestrade's face shift into something like annoyance. 

"Yes." He sniffs, splaying his hands. He pretends the tremor in his fingers doesn't exist. "I'll go down to find Mr. Bradley." 

"I'll come with you." Lestrade sounds genuine enough. "Make sure you don't assault some other drunk bloke."

"I'm certain that won't be happening again, I do not need supervision." 

"I know you don't need supervision. I need you to trust me mate." Lestrade goes for the door leading into the main room, hand against the doorknob. 

You aren't John. Maybe that is a blessing. 

"Fine." He sits up, the bed shifting under his weight, the cringe of the springs beneath the mattress cause a shudder to run down Sherlock's spine. 

"Good to see you've come around." Lestrade cracks a smile, and grabs his jacket. He walks out the room, footsteps padding into the distance.

A sigh comes from Sherlock's lips as he stands against the bed. He has nothing better to do, and there's no point in really leaving now, as much he wishes he could evaporate back to Baker Street and curl up in his chair. As much as he wishes it was normal it can't be. It's his curse, he supposes. 

He tightens his Belstaff, shuts the laptop and walks to the door. He shuts it and linger for just a moment. 

Into battle we go. 

Mason Bradley, Sherlock has found, is one of the more visually intolerable people he's ever had to lay his eyes on, and he's had to work with Anderson for years. 

After talking to some hotel staff, he and Lestrade found that Mr. Bradley typically resides in a lounge or in his office, mingling with guests, going through routine check-ins, or paying a good portion of people's tabs at the bar. 

Sherlock stands at the entrance of a small outside lounge, an outdoor veranda which stretches far off the side of the building, a canopy draped with fairy lights. 

He understands the jackpot won here. A big city American comes to a coastal town to make some money, invests into a hotel that pulls traction through its quaint charm and bingo. The world's your oyster. 

Mason, wearing a grey notch lapel, sits at a table with a brown-haired man, cleanly dressed in an obnoxiously baby blue suit.

Divorced, rapid hair loss, borderline alcoholic and diabetic, people pleaser.

Sherlock smirks and watches.

Out of the few guests outside, an assortment of couples, a family with young children enjoying lunch, he and his companion seem to ignore the public sound barrier. 

"Should we just wait til they--" Lestrade starts from behind Sherlock, to which he holds a hand up. 

"Follow my lead." Sherlock motions, brushing out his hair. 

Nothing if but dramatic. John's voice quips through Sherlock's head. 

Sherlock advances towards the table. He plasters on a cheery smile, walking to the side of their table. Mason and his companion watch in confusion, their red, smiling faces soon gone. 

"Afternoon gentlemen!" He cries with a southern accent, claps Mason on the back, who tenses. "I must say this place is really quite astonishin', I love what you've done with the place, is that eggshell white for the banisters?" 

"Uh, I'm sorry who are you--" Mason starts, giving an awkward smile. 

"Oh, I'm a friend of Ben's, real shame what happened." He sighs, portraying a dramatic amount of sorrow on his face. "He always talked to me about the Ortolan, too bad the first time I'm here to visit is when he passes."

Mason's companion looks annoyed, as Sherlock gears up for a counter attack. 

"Really? I don't believe I've ever met you before." Mason says, smiling politely. He fiddles with a golden ring on his thumb, a faint emblem of bull scratched off. 

Fake gold. Old. 

"The name's Peter McDowell." He leans against the table, purposefully jostling the silverware and plates of half-eaten cod sandwiches.

"Hey, could you watch it man?" His companion barks. 

"Lewis, easy." Mason shoots him a look. 

Business partners. Lewis is offering something

"Excuse me, you gotta excuse my clumsiness, y'know Ben always said I was gonna get myself in trouble for not being able keep my feet on the ground." Sherlock adds a tremble to voice, tears blinking into his eyes. 

Mason looks instantly horrified. Lewis just clears his throat and watches as Sherlock begins to sob even louder, making the table cloth slip more and more. 

"You know, I-I wonder what it'll be like now, not being able to hear his jokes. Oh, he really was such a light in our lives." Sherlock grabs for a napkin on the table, snorting loudly into the fabric. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Lestrade appears, wearing a concerned mask and approaches, cursing with a poor Southern accent. 

"I am so so sorry, I'm his uncle, we both wanted to share our condolences." Lestrade grabs at Sherlock's shoulders pulling him back as Sherlock wails harder. "He's been really struggling with the grief." He sighs.

"Hey now, aren't we all? I'll come with you two, make sure Mr..uh, McDowell here is settled." Mason nods, eyeing Lewis.

Panicking. 

"Oh, oh thank you." Sherlock sniffs, as Lestrade leads him out, Mason following behind. A spectacle of people watch, a few whispering under their breath. 

As they walk into the lobby, Mason turns, hands in pockets.

"Why don't we go to my office?" He nods.

"No, it's really fine." Sherlock shudders as Lestrade gives him a glare.  

"No, I insist! Any friend of Ben's is a friend of mine." He beckons them down a hall adjacent from the lobby, and turns to the right. He opens a door to a small office space, a desk in the center of the room, a few chairs littered throughout the room. A painting of a boat caught in the middle of a maelstrom sits above the desk. A small gold bull emblem is etched on the corner of the painting frame. 

Sherlock settles himself into a chair and waits, Lestrade beside him. Mason stands to the side grabbing a Kleenex box.

"Couldn't we have made this a little easier?" He murmurs as Mason sits across from them. 

"Here." He smiles. 

Fake. 

"T-Thank you. I'm sorry, it's just been...it was so sudden." He snorts into another tissue loudly, Mason holding back a cringe.

Sherlock watches carefully, Mason fiddling with the ring again. 

What are you hiding? 

"So, you said you were friends of Ben?" He asks, eyes flicker between the two men.

"Yes. I met him, in our college years." Sherlock sniffs. 

Lestrade nods in agreement, "Oh y-yeah." 

"Oh really? You went to the same school?" Mason tilts his head, Sherlock can see there's no actual interest behind his eyes. 

"Yes, we shared a dorm together." He chuckles. 

"I didn't think he made any friends at UNC. What class?"

Lestrade shuffles in his seat, smiling. 

"I believe, gosh it was so long ago, '98?" Sherlock returns his demeanor with a breathy laugh. 

"Ah, Ben was '97." He nods. "Funny he never talked about you though." 

"We kind of fell out right before he graduated." Sherlock crosses his arms. "I regret it now."

"He left a legacy, that's for sure. I couldn't build all of this without him." Mason motions to the room, and the door. "I still can't believe it's happened if I'm honest. I supposed that's grief though..."

"I mean but he didn't...I didn't think he was one to use drugs like that?" Sherlock leans in, watching Mason's expression. 

"Well, of course not." Mason straightens his shoulders. "He never even touched substances, unless it was prescription. His anxiety was always something we worked on, ever since him being deployed."

"Of course." Sherlock sniffles. "I just...why would he ever do such a thing? Especially to his family?"

"He went down a lot of bad paths, you know that if you went to college with him. Everyone does things to their family." 

"Do they?" Sherlock drops his accent, tone blank, blinking the tears out of his eyes. 

Mason startles, looking confused.

"Well, yes I--"

"Well, thank you for your time Mr. Bradley, your hotel really is the picture of beauty." Sherlock stands, his coat sweeping behind him. Lestrade scrapes his chair, getting up, nearly knocking it over.

"What--who are you?" Mason stares, rising from his chair as well. Sherlock opens the door, watching Lestrade glare at him with wide eyes, mouthing to get out. 

"Nobody special! Toodles!" Sherlock waves as he darts down the corner, Lestrade at his tail. 

"Okay Sherlock, what the actual f--"

Sherlock shushes him, wrapping an arm around his partner's arm, scanning the room. 

"Best not to make more of a scene?" Sherlock growls, as they book to the stairs where their room is. Sherlock opens the door, Lestrade walking inside. They walk into the kitchen, cool cream surfaces and high tech appliances rest in the wall. 

"Okay, you better tell me that you got something from that, because there's a high chance we'll be kicked out of this hotel before we even get started." Lestrade hisses, running a hand through his hair. 

"Yes I got something." Sherlock sighs, shutting the door behind him. "Mr. Bradley is impressively good at not being able to lie. You had to at least notice how polite he was for having his cousin die just a couple days ago."

"Yeah but--"

"He's no suspect to any of these murders, but he certainly knows something. Did you see the emblem?" He leans against the kitchen counter, typing.

"Emblem, what, no--who are you texting?" Lestrade groans, face in his hands.

"My brother. Getting a background check."

"Sherlock, I'm the one who's supposed to be doing backgrounds or better yet, one of Davis' analysts." 

Too slow. 

"Mycroft has better access." He shrugs. "Well, I'm off then."

"Off where? I know nothing Sherlock!" 

"Mr. Bradley has made some sort of financial deal with his business partner earlier, Lewis. Or was in the middle of one before I fortunately interrupted. He was wearing a fake gold ring with a bull emblem on it. In the business world, bulls represent strength, power, dominance. In his office, that same emblem was on the corner of the painting." 

"So? They could be gifts? Something he betted on?" Lestrade shakes his head. 

"A fake gold ring and a replica painting?" Sherlock frowns. 

"Replica?" Lestrade freezes.

"You've seen that painting a million times. It's one of the biggest unsolved art history cases out there." 

"Well then indulge me."

"The Storm of the Sea of Galilee." Sherlock sighs. "Painted in 1663, by Rembrandt van Rjin." He pulls up a photo, a ship downsizing to the right, men desperately trying to hold onto her frame, ropes. A orange-y blue storm beats against the waves, threatening to take her over. Lestrade glances it over, eyes creasing with annoyance. 

"Okay, nice painting why does it--"

"This painting went missing in 1990 from the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum in Boston. No one has found it since." 

"So? People can still have replicas." Lestrade shrugs. 

"Yes. It's not the original, but clearly it's been branded." 

Sherlock's heart is racing, adrenaline soaring through his veins. This is the high he missed. 

"So what does this mean?" The DI rubs a hand down his face. 

"There's a gambling group, more for betting and auctioning. Have you ever heard of Bull and Gavel?"

"No." Lestrade sighs, "Sherlock, listen I'm still pretty lost here so you have to--"

"They're prestigious well-known business men who all group together to sell replicas of famous pieces of art, for far cheaper than what they're worth. And not to mention, these replicas have been known to be produced illegally. Mason is spending money on auctions from this group, and I believe Lewis was a buyer." 

"How does this relate to having multiple people murdered Sherlock?" He leans against the sink, arms crossed. 

"I'm not sure yet, but I have probable solutions." 

"And how many is that?" 

"7." Sherlock sniffs and wanders to the front door. 

"Sherlock." 

"3, maybe 4." He admits, feeling that clawing desire in him to flee.

"Where are you going?" He sighs. 

"I need to think. Call Davis. See what he says."

"Sherlock, I don't even know what to--"

His voice trails off as Sherlock swiftly moves down the hall, heart thrumming in his chest.

It feels wrong. Maybe the adrenaline is misplaced. 

He wanders out of the lobby to the front porch, cool, salty air blasting him. He flinches at the salt piercing his senses and moves down the steps, inhaling deeply. 

You're no use if you can't think. 

He wanders down the parking lot, and across the road. which leads down to a small white gate, blocking off the beach. The sand leads down to the beach in the far distance, some large rocks lining the furthermost edge of the beach while to the left, a cliff hangs on the side.  The distant rush of waves moves something within him and he watches, a few passerby's either walking down to the beach, coming back, or sitting down in the distance. A few women are making their start for the gate, wind whipping their hair in all sorts of directions. They're wrapped in towels, shielding from biting wind. Sherlock watches as they approach, all laughing, holding beers in their hands he's certain they aren't supposed to have. 

He grabs at the gate, and steps onto the sand, his Oxford's shifting under the surface. He watches, letting the white noise seep into his skin, focusing on the swishing of the wind. He closes his eyes, one hand brushing against the gate. 

Mason didn't kill Ben. But he knows something.

The image of the bull flashes in his brain and he rubs a hand on his temple.

Think.

He could've been caught up with something more sinister with the money, it got to be too be too much for Ben, he takes his own life?

Think.

They aren't suicides, not by choice. They can't be. It's more than one man. 

Think, idiot. 

His brain feels more scrambled than he wants to admit as he tries to collect his thoughts, slipping in out of his hands like noodles in a strainer with holes too large. 

"Sir?" A voice startles him so badly, he nearly throws a hand out behind him. He spins to see a small Hispanic woman with two wide-eyed, excited little boys watching. "You're blocking the gate." 

"Oh yes, pardon me." He nods, stepping away from the entrance. 

The woman walks through, her children screaming as they trample down the beach, one landing head first into the sand, erupting instantly in tears. 

He sighs and scans the beach once more finding it irrelevant to stay any longer. 

His foot spins on its heel, as he starts to face the hotel again. A giggling screech of a baby stops him, and he whips his head back. 

Down further on the beach, almost close to the water, a little girl with blonde ringlets is running down the side of the water, waving her hands. A man runs behind her, arms out to catch her in case she falls. 

The man laughs after her, and for one second, Sherlock swears through the wind, it sounds like a noise he never thought he would hear again. A surprisingly high chuckle, out of breath. 

The man is too far away for him to really see or really hear. 

Though his hair does look sort of blond...cropped too...

The man staggers onto the sand, his daughter jumping around him. 

Sherlock shakes his head. 

He doesn't have the ability to dream. He can't afford to hope. 

He walks back to the hotel, holding back something ugly in his chest, heavy, dark and overwhelmingly empty. 

As he crosses the road, something blurs at the side of him, and he flinches, a screech and a loud honk invades his ears. He wraps himself in his coat, watching the hood of a car stop itself right at the edges of his feet. 

"Watch it!" A deep voice yells as Sherlock raises a hand and steps to the side, blinking. 

The car roars past, and Sherlock suppresses an urge to rip at his hands, something, anything to calm the heat jittering underneath his skin. 

Get inside. 

He trudges toward the house, ignoring the rattled sound in his lungs as he stares back at the ocean once more.

You can't afford hope. 

It's just a dream. 

Chapter Text

There's no place like my room

But you had to go

I know, I know, I know

Like a wave that crashed and melted on the shore 

Not even the burnouts are here anymore

-Phoebe Bridgers "I Know The End" 

"Oh would you shut up please?" A crude voice snaps from the receptionist desk, a short middle-aged blonde woman jabbing a finger at a tall, wiry young man. "I know which room I booked, if I'm not in your records, then there's been a mistake." 

God, Americans. 

Greg watches from a small table overlooking the parking lot outside from the window, a grilled cheese sandwich in front of him half-eaten. 

"Ma'am, I'm afraid I don't see your name listed here, are you sure you booked for this week?"

"Yes I'm certain, for my son's memorial you pompous bast--"

"Aunt Harriett?" A voice enters. 

Mason. 

"Mason, oh!" She smiles and approaches him, the two embraced tightly. 

Aunt? 

Memorial? 

"Freddie, it's alright now, she'll be staying in our luxury suite, the one on the north side should be vacant, yes?"

The receptionist looks frazzled but nods, head bent to his computer. 

Greg digs for his phone and finds Sherlock's contact. 

-MASON HAS A AUNT. VISTING FOR MEMORIAL. MOTHER OF VICTIM???

Greg sees it's been read shortly after. No reply. 

The door on his left opens, and lo and behold, Sherlock. 

He looks tense, shoulders wired back towards the ceiling. He spots Lestrade and darts to him, evading waiters, staff and guests as if they'll burn him. 

"Where'd you pop off to?" Greg asks through a mouthful of lukewarm cheese, the melty goo now a plastic sensation sticking to the roof of his mouth. He cringes, watching Sherlock sit in front of him, thin hands folded into each other. 

"Nowhere interesting." He grumbles. Greg's eyes dart to Sherlock's leg bouncing against the table. "Now that woman over there is Ben's mother?"

"I think so, she caused a riot over not gettin' a room--"

"Shut up." Sherlock flicks a hand at him, then rub his temples, looking at the table. His eyes are closed, but fluttering. 

"What?" He frowns at the detective, the bushel of dark curls mildly irritating to Greg. 

"I'm processing." 

"What?" Greg eans closer.

"Stop thinking." Sherlock huffs, shooting a glare up from his curls. 

"Sherlock, what are you on about--"

"You're loud, far too loud in fact, and I must focus here so shut off your brain for a moment and whatever two braincells dancing around in there and let me do my work." He spits and Greg straightens in his seat. 

Red flag right there. 

"What happened outside?" He pries softly. 

"The two braincells are off worse than I imagined." Sherlock snaps his head up and looks around, dissecting. 

"You're just lovely today." Greg grumbles as a waitress comes over, face tight with fake cheer. 

"Hi there! Is this gentleman joining you this--"

"Yes." Greg gives her a half-baked smile. 

"Can I get you started with--"

"No." Sherlock's tone bites and it startles the young girl enough to step back and wander off. 

"You could be nice y'know."

"Whatever for?" Sherlock crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. 

"Stop being an arse for two seconds." Greg breathes deeply and focuses on the wall behind Sherlock. "Now, I think if we could just regroup with--

"No." Sherlock sniffs, waving a hand. 

"What do you mean no? We're literally on a case right now and--"

"And I find this frivolous at best." 

"You saw it yourself, those marks on the men weren't just--"

"They're assisted suicides, people who couldn't just do it themselves without some reassurance. Or something of the matter. They just needed a way out. Arranged killer, payed." 

"What?" This feels off, and Greg knows it. 

"Just like that? It's that simple?"

"Not everything has to be a mind-bending magic trick that takes 3 months to solve. I'm not Henry Potter, am I?" 

Greg blinks. 

"You're lying."

"I'm absolutely certain I am not." Sherlock crosses his arms. "You solve it yourself."

"You're acting like a child-"

"Is that so bad?" Sherlock rolls his eyes, Greg can see his leg bouncing even more. 

"You're on edge and won't tell me why, this case is clearly not that simple, now I'm not John but you--"

Sherlock's hand slams onto the table, and a few guests raise their heads up from their meals. 

"The case is simple, so simple in fact it's insanely idiotic, we're here for nothing but to please and entertain some low-life business owners and we're on a goose-chase for something that's been solved--" He stands, head bowed to Greg's face, grey eyes scanning. 

"Sherlock, keep it--"

"And you, are just dragging me out here in hopes that good old Sherlock will find his merry way back again to being a pompous freak of nature, galavanting through London on whims unbound." He sneers, Greg straightens in his chair. 

Sherlock's nostrils are flared, a slight tremble to his frame. 

Anger masking fear. 

"You done?" Greg mutters. 

"Not quite." Sherlock smiles, and that's what most of all sends a chill down Greg's spine. 

The detective wanders out of the restaurant, guests staring or politely avoiding eye contact. 

He disappears down a hall and Greg sighs. 

"Sorry about that everyone." He clears his throat, "Uh, enjoy your meals." 

Greg leans back down, staring at his uneaten meal. 

Anger masking fear. What exactly is he scared of? 

The door slams with a ferocity that makes Sherlock's bones jump out of his skin (or something like that.)

The lights he finds are too bright-they're always too bright. 

His coat which normally is a comforting weight feels suppressing, his body wound tight, threatening to pop loose. 

Stupid. 

It's all stupid he finds. 

They're assisted suicides, but it doesn't make sense, where's the motive, where's the reasoning? He knows he can find it, he knows it's somewhere, he doesn't want to find it, he'll figure it out. 

He always does he finds. 

The center of the living room is appallingly bright so he beelines for the bedroom. 

Grossly bright. 

He shoves the curtains closed, his chest aching. 

Dark. Baker Street is dark, safer than here. Baker Street is secure, it's not rubble anymore. Rubble rebuilt by me and him. 

He finds the crook between two pillows on the bed and settles himself deep in there, watching the wall. 

Quiet. 

He tries to make it quiet. He knows this is far off the hinges for him, losing his...composure like this. Analytical monster, just afraid of the outside. 

He once thrived in the outside he finds. Now it eats him alive. 

He looks under his nightstand, cigarettes buried in the far back. 

He'll use them later if this gets worse. 

The pressure building in his chest, around his lungs, pushing up his throat is confusing. 

His fingers find the loose ends of his Belstaff's cuffs, he twiddles with them between his fingers, the soft brushing against his knuckles partially drowning out the pounding in his head. 

God, you're pathetic. 

John doesn't sound like that, but he assumes that's how he would sound now.

The great Sherlock Holmes, at the end of his wits.

Down and around we go. 

He squeezes down on the top of his right wrist, rubbing against the bones underneath.

Breathe. 

Squeeze. 

Breathe. 

Let go. 

Breathe.

The cycle repeats until he sees the skin is red and angrily raw and his chest no longer feels like weights are being thrown on it. 

End of his wits indeed. 

"Watch out!" A voice barks from outside the window, a wail coming from outside. 

Sherlock groans, rubbing his eyes. He slips off the bed, wandering towards the curtains. 

Light slips through the boots, it's dimmer now. 

How long was he calming down for?

He pulls the curtain back slightly and looks down, a small sitting area outside his window, looking out towards a small, gated playground. It's quite dismal, a swingset, a small yellow tube slide and some miniature version of a rock wall on the other side of the stairs. 

A few parents are sitting around on benches, a tremendous amount of children all atop of this very tiny slide, each waiting their turn to go down the 10 foot slide. 

A small toddler sits on the mulch, she's wailing, upset at something probably easily fixable. 

A man is crouched in front of her, holding her gently. He has the same blonde windswept hair as the girl, wearing a light jean jacket.

Something is captivating, even just from behind.

A moment of gentleness.

Sherlock knows assumes this is sentiment.

The man rises, the little girl no longer crying. 

Voices are muffled outside as the man talks to the little girl. 

Same ones on the beach? 

Yes he finds.

He waits to see if the man will turn, but he begins to walk forward towards the playground.

Sherlock berates himself on this, whatever hope sentiment is in him.  

He closes the curtain and faces the bed, rubbing his eyes. 

The clock across from him reads that it's far later than he anticipated, almost around 5. 

He picks at his Belstaff, the quiet hum of the room grounding. 

What next, hmm? 

He starts to walk to the bed but a loud shout cuts through the gentle lull of the room, and Sherlock growls. 

The same man is shouting, words and tone muffled. He opens the curtain again. 

His toddler is trying to climb up the rock wall, to no avail. She won't come to him. 

Sherlock smiles. 

He presses closer, not necessarily with intention and watches. 

He does realize how this seems. He cannot bring himself to care. 

He listens. 

"God......no...you..."

Familiar. 

"Come here....Rosamund no.."

His heart stops. 

Rosamund. 

Probability of that name? Low, well perhaps not too low. 

Rosamund. 

He watches the man scoop her up, the toddler giggling and blabbers something to him. 

He laughs and turns towards the building. 

No.

Sherlock closes the curtains. 

No. 

Baker Street feels so much closer now. 

London feels not so distant, the world feels small and Sherlock feels smaller. 

Because with nearing 100% certainty and probability, John Hamish Watson is a couple stories down below. 

Chapter Text

Because I stole and I lied, and why? Because you asked me to

But now you make me feel so ashamed 

Because I've only got two hands

Well, I'm still fond of you

So what difference does it make? 

-The Smiths

The coast, is drastically different than John could've ever expected. Not because of the stark blue sky, or the stretches of sand. Not because of the waves that crash at mountainous heights against the rocks or the simple charm to this small town. 

It's different, because, as John has found, he has no ties to it. 

London grabs you by your shoulders and plants you down nice and easy, and ships you off to work. He knows the scent and sour of London, the gall of its mighty hand that sweeps you up into its majesty of historical buildings and cheap Chinese food. 

London is a prison. Chideock is a rebirth. 

"Daddy!" Rosie squeals from the playground, her feet nearly toppling out from under her. It's blazing right in the sun, other children screeching and parents all wearing the same expression of,  "I'd take a whiskey and no parenthood right about now." 

"Watch your steps there love." He says, grinning, watching her bounce down the steps. Her curls have really grown out. Impressively so, a blonde little halo. 

"Slide! Up!" Her neon blue sneakers clunk against the metal. 

"You just went on the slide, didn't you?" 

"Slide!" She giggles. 

John sighs. "One more time Rosie. We have to head back home." 

Of course, none of this registers in his almost 4 year olds brain so he fulfills his duties as a father and brings her towards the obnoxiously yellow plastic slide.

She screeches, giggling as she slips down the slide, almost tumbling at the bottom. 

"Easy there cowgirl." John smiles, Rosie standing up, proud of tackling the 5 foot slide for the 10 to 15th time.

"I wanna go again." She clings onto John's leg.

"Last time sweetheart."

"Please?" The classic Rosie pout clears over her face, her please coming out a soft "peas." Adorable, yet her tactics no longer work on John. Mostly.

"We're gonna make pasta tonight and I need a helper."

"Pasta?" She chirps as a flicker of a figure catches his eye. It couldn't be. 

Grey hair, brown eyes, nursing a beer in a lounge by a children's park?

Gregory Lestrade.

Surprise, and panic flares in John's chest. Why would he be here? John's been off the map. He wouldn't have found him would he? If Greg is here, there's a high chance it's not just a stay-cation, and he's here for work. And if he's here...

"John?" Greg looks up, absolute shock twisting his face into what would be a hilarious expression if it wasn't for the circumstance. 

Oh. Damn. It.

John freezes, Rosie against him. 

"God!--what are--is that Ro--John, holy f--" Thankfully he has enough decorum to not shout obscenities around toddlers. 

Greg approaches, shock still carved into his face. 

John braces for an insult or a jab but all he gets is a bone crushing hug. Oh. 

"God, we missed you." Lestrade pulls away, a wide grin on his face. "And....this is Rosie?" 

John nods, Rosie standing shyly. 

"Hi there Rosie." Lestrade waves, crouching. "I'm an old friend of your Papa's."

She nods. She understands nothing. 

"Hi Greg." John gives him a tight-lipped smile. 

"You're gonna have to give me a moment." Greg breathes out. 

John realizes the passage of time from the these past couple years, Greg's gained more wrinkles and his hair has more grey streaks than he remembers. He has a bit of scruff too. It really has been a long time. 

John locks eyes back with Greg, the man's face now knit into a tight frown, eyes almost sad. 

"Where have you been?" Greg crosses his arms.

John doesn't know where to begin to answer him.  

"So....you've been here this whole time?" Greg's voice cuts into the static of John's brain, and John blinks, looking past towards the playground where Rosie is running around with two other kids that look about her age. 

"Yeah. Rented a little spot when we uh, first came here. Bought a house about a year ago." 

"Ah." Greg smacks his lips together. "Just you and..?"

"Just us." John tries to make his tone as even as he can, but from the cringe on Greg's face, he must sound defensive. 

Greg leans back on the park bench. 

"I work at a clinic here. It's small, but it's good work." John sniffs. "Rosie's starting nursery soon too." 

"That's great John." 

John ignores how detached Greg sounds. 

"So what have you been up to? You're still doing work for--"

"Yup. The Yard is as busy as ever. Not that we solve much." Greg scoffs and John raises his eyebrows. 

"How come?" 

"We don't have...well, we haven't had Sherlock work with us until just a few months ago, so we're bloody behind on--"

"He's still working?" Pain flares through John's body. Of course it's Sherlock. Of course Sherlock is still around. It's not he dropped off the planet, he's still out there. 

"Well now he is." Greg glances at him. "Took a lot of convincing you know, he didn't find it worth it, not without....." 

John nods, watching Rosie sit down with some children on the edge of the playground, seeming to be organizing pieces of wood chips. 

"Yeah." John sniffs. "But what brings you to Chideock?" 

"Oh, uh, a case actually. I'm guessing you know about the deaths in the--"

"Yeah. Nasty stuff." John nods. "A bit far out for you to solve isn't it?" 

"It's a big case. And we needed to get outside." Lestrade sniffs. 

We? 

No.

"Who's we?" He asks, trying his hardest to sound casual, ignoring the pounding against his ribcage. 

"Just a team." 

"A team?" 

"Well...." Lestrade clasps his hands together. "More like me and Sherlock actually." 

John's brain damn near explodes and he can feel his whole body scream and beg to get up and leave. 

"I see." He blinks. "Where's uh, Sherlock now?" 

"Our hotel room? I think? He's....had a rough go of it." 

I don't care.

Lestrade clears his throat and stands, patting imaginary dust off his legs. "I won't keep you John." 

God, you idiot. 

"No, uh, it was great seeing you Greg." John stands clumsily, sticking his hand out. 

Greg takes it, but John can feel the discomfort seep right down into his bones. 

"You too. We'll try staying out of your hair." He laughs but it's really not funny. 

"If you see me, don't worry. I don't bite. Let me know how the case goes." 

"Will do." Greg stands and begins to walk away, John watching him. 

"Oh and John?" 

John nods, swallowing. 

"If you do see Sherlock, don't expect the same man you left." 

John turns, Rosie running towards him, giggling. He looks back, and all he can see is Leatrade's frame disappearing into the lounge. 

If you do see Sherlock? 

I don't plan to see him at all.