The Saint And The Settler

Preparations

It was early morning, the time in which the sun slowly began to rise, when Sherlock was woken up by the loud, high-pitched screetch of a firetruck as it sped past his apartment in 221B Baker Street in the large city of Manhattan. Usually he would've been capable of returning to sleep but instead he sat up in his large bed, glanced at his digital clock sitting on the wooden stand loacted next to his bed, and rose to his feet as he placed them on the warm carpeted floor. Sherlock streched his thin, white arms behind his back and groaned in comfort as a slight popping noise was made. He dropped his arms back to his sides and trudged over to his dresser where he pulled out a purple button-up shirt and slid it onto his bare torso. The second item he removed from the open drawer was a pair of black trousers which he shimmied up over his briefs. After covering his feet with a dark coloured pair of socks he emerged from the room and walked into the kitchen to prepare himself a cup of tea.

His anticipation continued to build as he was packing a green duffel bag with the last of his essentials: laptop, deoderant, toothbrush, and extra pair of shoes and a few pieces of his scientific equipment. He'd already packed a bag of clothes and other things the night before. Sherlock also added a couple books for his flight, since it would be a long one. He was nervous, though you couldn't tell by just looking at him. His brother had taught him long ago to mask his emotions from everyone. "Caring is not an advantage, little brother." Something that's been drilled into his head from day one and this stupid trip was his brothers, Mycroft, idea.

Mycroft believed that Sherlock spent 'to much time in the city' and never 'got in touch with nature' or some rubbish like that. So now Sherlock was being forced to travel to, and live in, Texas for a few months. Though Sherlock completely despised the idea, he was forced to agreed because there was no point in bickering with his older brother when his mind was set.

"This is stupid," Sherlock muttered to himself. Once he finished packing he carried the few bags he had out into the lobby that was just down the stairs. As he walked out of his flat, Mrs. Hudson, the land lady, greeted him from the bottom of the steep staircase.

"Oh, hello, Sherlock," she said in her happy, bright tone. "What's with the bags? Are you headed somewhere?" Sherlock forgot that he never mentioned his leaving to her. It was a last minute ordeal.

"Yes. I'll be gone for a few months," he replied with his chocolaty, flat voice. "By tomorrow I'll have landed in Texas." Sherlock drew out the last words hating to admit it really was reality and not some twisted dream.

"Why, that's marv-" but she was cut off by a knocking at the front door. "I'll get it." she stated as she opened the bulky, wooden door. Standing inside the entrance was a young man, most likely to be in his mid twenties. He wore fair, brown hair atop his head. He had a hooked nose that looked to be a bit big for his face and in the middle of his slight dark-toned face were two hazel eyes, staring right at Sherlock.

"Hello, little bother," spoke the man. "I assume you are ready to leave?"

Sherlock just grunted at him.

The car ride to the airport was silent, although Sherlock didn't mind. The drive was uneventful since they took all of the less crowded backstreets to get there. When they arrived Sherlock opened the car door, stood up and stretched. The driver of the vehicle got out and walked to the trunk and lifted Sherlock's bags out with a small struggle. Sherlock thanked him and then ran to catch up with Mycroft, who had just walked in through the glass doors.

Once Sherlock entered the airport he was taken aback by the force of reality. He'd always known it in the back of his mind but mow the concept was so real. The plain white, brick walls surrounded him, like he was trapped inside a jail cell. As he followed behind Mycroft, he naturally picked up bits of conversations. Some were farewells, some greetings. He was actually a bit sickened by the sight, unsure how people could be so emotional.

Suddenly Mycroft came to a halt and was sticking something out at Sherlock. It was his plane ticket. Cautiously, Sherlock took it from his brother's hand and examined the slip of hard cardstock. He was to land in Houston, Texas and then, he imagined, was going to be brought to some rural area. Sherlock sighed and put the ticket into his coat pocket. Just as he was heading to the boarding area of his plane, Mycroft began to speak, "Make the best of this, Sherlock." And with that, he was gone. When Sherlock finally found his seat, Mycroft's words were still echoing inside his mind. He closed his eyes.

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When John woke up it was to the daily scream of his rooster from outside his bedroom window. This was how he usually started the day: at the asscrack of dawn. John was used to getting up so early, since he had been doing it for the past 10, maybe more, years. John sat up, for if he didn't he was afraid he would fall back asleep.

His hair was matted to his forehead, wet and sticky with sweat due to the recent mild temperatures. Although he was adjusted to the heat of Texas, sometimes it could be overwhelming, especially if it was unexpected. He pushed the light green sheet off of his lightly taned body and placed his feet onto the hard, cold, wood floor below. John stood and on his way out the bedroom, he lifted a plain white shirt over his head.

The moment he walked out of his room he was bombarded by the happy panting of his dog, Winston, a black and white Saint Bernard. John pet the dog's head, an affectionate smile plastered on his face. Winston was one of the few things that made John genuinely happy. John continued toward his kitchen, Winston at his feet, as he turned on his 'Mr. Coffee' machine.

The familiar churning noise flooded the small kitchen and then suddenly came to a stop. John turned, confusion in his expression, to see what had occurred. It only took him a few seconds to realise that Winston had removed the plug-in from the wall socket, again. This gesture was only normal for Winston when he wanted either more food or water.

With a shallow sigh, John lead Winston into the dining area where his food and dishes lie. He plucked the large, blue container from the floor and carried it over to the sink to refill it. After the task was done he poured some more food into a smaller, yet big bowl. "Happy now, boy?" He questioned the animal, only to receive a low grunting noise as Winston shoved his snout into the food dish and began eating.

He sighed, for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning, and yet again returned to the coffee machine and placed the plug back into the outlet. Once his coffee was ready to drink, he brought his lips to the edge of the yellow mug in his hands and took a gulp. The bitter, black liquid sent a gush of energy into his veins and all of a sudden he had the inspiration to begin his house cleaning. John couldn't bare the thought of his guest arriving to such a messy home for it would leave a terrible first impression.

Once John finished his cup of coffee he got to work on cleaning up. "This better be worth it," he muttered to Winston as the dog approached. John then glanced around the home in awe, realising that the cleaning would take much more time than he hoped and then brought his attention back to the task at hand.