Where We Started

Hide and Go Madman

"That could've gone better." John decided, picking up his own sandwich anyway.
"What do you mean, we got a book, went fine." Sherlock pointed out.
"You were a bit rude."
"I'm always rude, that's how I am, she's used to it."
"You're not rude to me."
"Because you're interesting." Sherlock shrugged, as if that settled it.
"That definitely makes me feel better about myself." John muttered, sliding the book over as he took another bite. The sandwich was actually a lot better than he expected, very fresh tasting and healthy. As promised, the book was about methods of supposed time travel, but there were no machines or cars that John saw, just little things like boxes and helmets and jewelry.
"Looks like rubbish." He decided.
"Maybe we can find you a nice time rock." Sherlock laughed.
"I doubt it, but I suppose there could be more logical things."
"We're in the 1600's, remember that, we don't have cars and video games like you do." Sherlock pointed out.
"That's what I'm worried about." John agreed. They finished their lunches in silence, Sherlock was flipping through the book, undoubtedly smearing olive oil in the pages, and John was enjoying every last bite of his food. When they were done Sherlock paid, once again making John feel guilty about his lack of money, but thanked him for the lunch and followed him out the door and into the sunlight.
"So, police, what exactly are we supposed to ask?" he asked as they walked down the street.
"Were Henry Knight lives, we only need to talk to him, don't go into detail or we'll end up in an asylum." Sherlock shrugged.
"I don't fancy that." John decided.
"Or they'll end up putting us on that island, they could do that instead." Sherlock shrugged.
"That would be, if anything, worse." John decided. Sherlock nodded, opening a glass door with painted on letters reading police. It was a small little place, with a desk in the front and a couple of chairs. There was a door leading into the back, where John guessed the rest of the people were. There was a bored looking secretary scribbling something down on a piece of paper, looking lazily up at the two as they entered.
"Hello." Sherlock said with a smile.
"What can I do for you?" she asked, looking as if she wanted nothing more for them to just ask for a bathroom.
"We're looking for someone, thought you might be able to help out." Sherlock said, walking up to the desk with a sort of swagger, as if he thought if he looked like a loser he'd get what he wanted.
"It depends who you're looking for." She sighed.
"Henry Knight, the guy who claims the world is ending every other day." Sherlock decided. She sighed, getting to her feet and walking into the back through a swinging door without telling them where she was going or why. The door swung for a little bit, John and Sherlock looking at each other with confusion, wondering if she was just leaving to get away from their questions.
"So, should we wait?" John asked. Sherlock sighed, walking over and sitting in one of the chairs, crossing his feet and arms with a frown.
"Oh who knows when she'll get back, seems like she doesn't want to move very much." Sherlock sighed, letting his head roll back onto the back of his chair with boredom. John groaned, sinking into the chair next to him and watching the door expectantly. Indeed, it took a little while for the secretary to come back, but she was carrying a thick folder, filled with all sorts of papers, just like the one at the library.
"Let's see, we've got arrest, arrest, arrest, fine, arrest, ah, here we are." She decided, flipping through the papers with lazy fingers. Sherlock and John got to their feet, coming up to the counter to see exactly what she was doing.
"He was infected, quarantined just this week." She read. With those words John's heart dropped, the only person they needed to see was impossible to actually talk to.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Positive, sorry." She muttered, but obviously she wasn't sorry, nor did she care. Sherlock sighed, grabbing the paper out of her hands and inspecting it thoroughly. With a sharp curse that made both John and the secretary jump, he slammed it back down on the table and stormed out of the building, John thanking her sheepishly and running after him.
"What the heck Sherlock?" he called, jogging to catch up to Sherlock's angry stride.
"Well now what are we supposed to do? Our only lead in now dead." He growled, looking like he was about to kick the closest thing to him, which, evidently, was John.
"He still could be alive, who knows?" John pointed out.
"Oh stop, you know it's impossible to survive the plague."
"Some people did."
"Well he's probably not one of them, and now you're stuck here !" Sherlock said loudly, making some people turn around from their shopping to see who was causing all the noise.
"Sherlock calm down, it's not like being stuck here is the worst thing I can imagine." John pointed out. Sherlock's angry face seemed to soften a little bit, looking into John's eyes with a look of doubt on his face.
"Why would you ever want to stay here?" he asked in small, surprised voice. John broke eye contact to look around the street, where people were milling around, not really bothering them, but not wanting to have a sappy romantic-ish moment in the middle of a busy street.
"Because you're here." John pointed out, blushing a little bit as he stared up into Sherlock's adoring face. But Sherlock just took a sharp breath, looking as if he were torn between crying and screaming and kissing John right on the spot, which made John's stomach twist a little bit. But Sherlock only took a step back and nodded, as if running from whatever he was about to do.
"Well, I'm glad you feel that way." He decided, his voice small and forced, as if he were trying his best to catch his breath. John nodded, but he didn't get the chance to say anything more since Sherlock turned his back and started off down the street. John followed like an obedient dog, catching up but having to walk twice as fast to match Sherlock's speed. Sherlock was obviously upset, but John saw something in his eyes, something new, that he hadn't seen in those emeralds before, there was softness behind the tough act. Something inside him was suffering, missing his parents, his brother, and not being able to handle the thought of losing someone so close to him again, someone that, in the two days they had known each other, had become almost family. They went into the market, collecting all the random food items Mrs. Hudson needed, the price soaring as her efforts to impress rose as well. John was shocked they took impressing family so seriously around here; he was almost certain that if he went to visit Harry in a couple of years that she would give him a lawn chair and make him order a pizza. When they paid for the food the two of them were almost swimming in grocery bags, John was carrying three per arm, and Sherlock was balancing six on one and three on the other, with a freehand for Mrs. Hudson's shirt. They walked back onto the street with difficulty, John knowing that it would be near impossible to get home without his arms falling completely off. Sherlock was still quiet as they entered the clothing store and searched the racks for the shirt requested by Mrs. Hudson. It wasn't too difficult to find it, the shirt itself was the most hideous thing John had ever seen, and that was saying something really, he lived in 2015. Sherlock paid quickly and they began the hike home, through the fields and dirt roads, not a word spoken of course. What happened, what did John possibly do wrong to make Sherlock, who usually couldn't keep his mouth shut and definitely wasn't anywhere without a smile, stare gloomily in front of him? When they turned down the driveway John's arms were shaking, if they were just a little bit farther he would've dropped the bags in defeat. Sherlock was also starting to reach his limit, looking like he was scraping the last of his energy from whatever preserves he had to get the groceries to the door. Finally they were able to drop the bags, John sinking to his knees in the dirt and heaving for breath, shaking his hurting arms out and wincing.
"I guess I do have noodle arms." He decided, looking up to see if he had managed to get even a hint of a smile from Sherlock.
"I'll get these inside." Sherlock said after a little bit of silence, picking up more bags than he had carried previously and heaving them inside. John knew the drill, going into the small hut and sinking into the armchair. He hated to admit it, but his hopes for the future were wearing thin. Henry Knight was the only lead they had to possibly get John home, to maybe have a time travel device up his sleeve, and he was quarantined, undoubtedly dead. He might have to get used to this place, maybe even call it home. He could never see his family again, not Mike, not Harry, he'd be with Sherlock forever. But that was the positive of staying here wasn't it? Sherlock, if John stayed they'd be able to spend the rest of their lives together, maybe start a business, get money, start families, be happy. Both sides of the story there would be sadness and loss though, no matter what happened John would be leaving someone behind. Sherlock arrived a little bit later, massaging his arm and sighing.
"We should've brought a wheelbarrow." He decided, but his voice was sharp, he was obviously deeply upset.
"Don't be so angry Sherlock; it's not your fault." John assured.
"No, but that was chance to help you get home, and obviously I can't even do that." Sherlock growled, sitting on his bed and scowling at the floor.
"It's not meant to be I guess. Maybe someone upstairs wants us to stay together." John suggested.
"Yes, maybe." Sherlock muttered, but he obviously didn't believe it.
"Should we go get water?" John suggested after a little while of angry silence.
"I guess we have to." Sherlock agreed, getting to his feet moodily and storming out the door. They each got buckets, walking through the woods and filling them without any splashing or fooling around. John had a sneaking suspicion if he pushed Sherlock in, Sherlock would just drown him. So they walked back, the water slopping over the brims of the buckets, John's arms losing strength a lot faster now that he had been pushed almost to his limit. They dumped the water into the tubs, two for Sherlock and two for the Hudsons, finally their work was done, and the sun was pretty much gone by now. John's stomach was growling, but he didn't want to point it out to Sherlock in fear that he would sound like the helpless baby he was.
"You go up to the loft, I'll bring food." Sherlock decided, reading John's mind. But John just nodded, thankful that he was going to get food instead of having to resort to animal grain or something. John scurried through into the barn, using the approaching darkness to hide him from the windows of the house, and climbed the ladder in a hurry. He pulled the bags into a sort of couch position, with three bags lined up, one for John, one for Sherlock, and one serving as a table in the middle. It was crude and uncomfortable, but at least they wouldn't be sitting on the hay. He also lit the oil lamp, lighting the loft up nicely, and sat on the bags to wait for Sherlock. John wondered just what he was supposed to say to him in a time like this, what was there to say? Sherlock was obviously only working to help John leave because he wanted to get it over with, he was terrified, and the quicker John went away the less pain he had to endure.