Where We Started

Deadbeat in the Barn

"That's...me?" he asked, taking the camera once again.
"Yes, that's you, moron." John muttered.
"Don't call me a moron I have an IQ of 190." Sherlock boasted, puffing out his chest a little bit and looking proud of himself.
"That's nice, but you're still scared of a camera." John pointed out. "So look at the angel, that's not normal is it?" John pointed out.
"Not in any house I've seen." Sherlock decided.
"And you live in the weirdest place I've ever seen, so it makes sense. Something I don't know, transported me here, and I need to find out who so I can go home." John decided. Sherlock sighed, as if deciding whether or not to take John seriously.
"Whom." Sherlock muttered, making John stop.
"I'm sorry?" John asked.
"You need to find out whom, so you can go home." Sherlock corrected, making John want to slam his face into the table.
"Sorry, my mistake." He muttered. Sherlock smiled proudly, as if he lived for people admitting he was right and they were wrong.
"So, what now?" Sherlock asked.
"I have no idea; I've got nowhere to go and can't get home, so I guess I'm staying here until I find somewhere else."
"Well, if you need a place to stay I could probably smuggle you into my master's barn." Sherlock shrugged.
"Your...what?"
"I'm a servant, as I said the only thing I'm good at is violin and intelligence, but that doesn't get me anywhere except this place on Fridays and weekends, and it's not like it pays well." Sherlock shrugged.
"No, it's okay, I think I could probably find somewhere else..."
"This bar closed you know, at around one o'clock, and I don't think you want to sleep in the street with this week's rotting dead." Sherlock pointed out, and he was irritatingly right.
"Why are they dead?" John asked, remembering the bodies piled up in the streets.
"Do you live under a rock or something? They're dead because of the plague, there's no cure, you're telling me you've never heard of the plague?"
"Well, I have, but only in history books, there's a cure, some bloke found it back in the 1600's." John pointed out.
"Now you're messing with me officially. It is the 1600's, 1665." Sherlock pointed out. John's jaw dropped, but that had to be fake, he was obviously lying.
"There is no way I was teleported from 2015 to 1665, there's no way." John decided with a laugh. Sherlock sighed, pulling the full mug from out of John's reach.
"You know what, you really do need some sleep, let's go, and you're going a little bit..." Sherlock waved his finger around his head, the universal kindergarten sign of crazy, and got up out of his chair.
"I'm not crazy, if anything all you lot are!" John debated, not moving from his seat.
"Ask anyone here, it's Mr. 2015 or the entire town of people with their heads screwed on right." Sherlock pointed out. "And they already proved the world is going to end in 2012, so sorry to break it to you."
"Oh yes, how could I forget, I was one of the few survivors, after the aliens came down." John muttered.
"Aliens? Is that where you got that camera?" Sherlock asked, looking worried.
"No it's not... oh my god I am surrounded by idiots." John decided.
"Come on John, let's just go." Sherlock decided, grabbing John's arm and trying to pull him out of the seat. John reluctantly got out of the seat, but shook Sherlock's hand away, not wanting this guy to get the wrong message.
"How about I just check into a hotel or something?" John suggested.
"I thought you didn't have any money." Sherlock pointed out.
"Well, I don't, but you know, I could maybe find some?" John shrugged.
"Impossible, if you're thinking of pickpocketing the victims then you're likely to get arrested or hit with an angry family member, I've tried." Sherlock debated.
"I wasn't thinking of doing that, it's ghastly." John assured, making Sherlock roll his eyes.
"You are so cute and innocent. Obviously you don't want to survive." Sherlock decided.
"I thought I just said I would... wait, cute?" John asked, but Sherlock just smiled, turning away to walk away towards the door. John was torn between sitting here and waiting to be kicked out and following this flirtatious stranger. But he was right; John had no money, no other friends, and no place to stay than on the streets. He just groaned, running after Sherlock's retreating back as he walked out the door, violin case in hand.