Chapter Text
"You know we'll have to leave soon."
Sherlock stared out the window, pointedly ignoring his brother's voice in favour of studying the pattern of lichen growing on the windowsill.
"People will begin to talk. It would be wise to be gone by the end of the month. I suggest you start thinking about packing your things."
Sherlock turned away from the window and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I dreamt last night that you died in a horrific plane crash," he said.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Sherlock." He looked down at his brother with a frown. "Did you hear what I just said?"
"Yes, I heard you. I'll think about it."
Mycroft accepted that as the most positive response he would be getting from the conversation. He sighed and sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.
"Were you on the plane, as well?" he asked.
"What?"
"In your dream. Were you on the plane with me?"
Sherlock didn't answer, just looked back outside the window for a moment before standing up abruptly.
"Dreams are nonsensical," he said. "I'd rather I stopped dreaming altogether than dream about things that are impossible. " He plucked his violin from its case in the hallway before walking out the front door, letting it slam behind him as he left.
---
They said that the fresh air would be good for him. That the noises and crowds and suffocation of London were no help to a man who suffered nightmares of explosions and gunshots.
John stared out the bedroom window of his new home—a tiny cottage owned by his sister, located in the middle of the woods about a half-mile from town. She’d said that, because the town was on a hill, there were places on the outskirts where you could see all of London sprawled out beneath them. John wasn’t sure if seeing it would be a comfort or a tease. He pulled his identity tags out from under his shirt and turned them over in his hand.
There was a sudden, loud thud from the kitchen, where Harry was busy sifting through the cabinets.
“I found the kettle!” she called, shortly. “John?”
“Coming. Just a moment.” John slid his tags back under the neck of his shirt, grabbed his cane from where it lay on the bed, and followed Harry’s voice into the kitchen. She looked up as he entered.
“How are you doing?” she asked, cheerfully.
John shrugged.
“Well like I said, if you need any help unpacking, just let me know. Feel free to make yourself at home."
John nodded. “Thanks, Harry.” He tilted his head towards the kettle. “You going to turn that on, or just let the water sit there?”
“Oh.” Harry flicked the kettle on and smiled at her brother. “Sorry. Distracted.”
John nodded, absently, then looked out the window, staring at the woods that surrounded the property. “I’m just about done unpacking. I think I’ll take a break for now and get some fresh air.”
“Sounds good,” Harry said. “You want me to show you around? You haven’t been here since you got back from—”
“No, I’m fine. I can find my way around. Thanks.” John hated the way Harry looked at him, sadly and almost pitying. He turned away.
Harry pursed her lips and got John’s RAMC mug from its new home in the cabinet. She tossed in a teabag and filled it with water, then pushed it across the counter to John.
“Well,” she said, watching John carefully as he stirred in some milk, “I have a couple of things to do inside. You’ll be alright, then?”
John scowled into his mug. “I’ll be fine. You don’t need to babysit me. I’m not going to break if left unattended.”
“Just trying to help you out.”
An awkward silence hung in the air between them. John sipped carefully from his mug, then headed for the front door. He heard Harry sigh behind him as he left the room.
---
The sun was high in the clear August sky. Birds chirped, insects hummed, and the air was pleasantly warm without being uncomfortable. John couldn’t have hated it more if he tried. It was peaceful, and the air smelled good and fresh, but he could tell already that nothing happened here. They had passed through the centre of town on the way to Harry's house. It was made up of a handful of antique stores, a few boutiques, a barbershop, a train station, and a few family-owned restaurants. People greeted each other as they passed on the road. No less than three complete strangers had waved at John as they drove through.
Harry’s house was small and cosy, a pale blue colour that matched the summer sky on clear days. Harry and Clara had repainted it themselves years ago. Now that they were divorced, John knew it would never get repainted. Harry tended to cling to small memories like that.
The property was surrounded on all sides by a white picket fence. It separated the front yard from the dirt road that led into town, and the backyard from the deer that used to sneak in and eat Clara’s garden. All that was left of the garden now were the marigolds that had insisted on reseeding themselves from the year before. They grew big and bright, dropping petals on the ground in preparation for next spring.
John walked up to the fence and ran his hand along the edge, feeling the wood grain against his fingertips. He took another sip of tea, then rested his mug on a fencepost.
“Hi there.”
John startled and looked up. There was a man on the other side of the fence, coming down the dirt road leading from the forest. He stopped in front of John with both hands clasped behind his back. John felt a flash of panic before he willed it away. He gripped his cane tightly. His eyes lingered on the man’s suit, which made him seem strikingly out-of-place against the woodland backdrop.
“You like?” the man asked, in a sing-song voice. He brushed his hands down his front. “Westwood.”
John nodded, politely.
“Are you new in town?” the man asked.
“Just moving in today.”
“Ah. Alone?”
“With my sister. Temporarily.”
“How long has she lived here, your sister?”
John shrugged. “A long time.”
The man smiled. “Forever?” John didn’t say anything. He got the feeling he was being left out of an inside joke.
The man looked John up and down. "I'd like to show you around,” he said.
John forced a smile. “Maybe another time.”
“Don’t be silly, I don’t bite.”
“It’s just that I have a lot of unpacking to do right now,” John tried to look apologetic. They held eye contact just long enough for it to be uncomfortable.
The man was about to speak when the sound of a violin drifted through the woods, catching their attention immediately. They both turned towards it, but nothing could be seen in the darkening forest. John frowned. There weren’t any houses nearby for at least a mile. He looked back at the man in the Westwood suit, who was staring in the direction of the music, eyes wide and eager. When he turned back to John, the intensity in his gaze made John take a step backwards. The man opened his mouth to speak just as they heard the front door squeak open.
“John?” John turned to see Harry watching them. Her eyes flickered to the stranger at the fence, then back at John questioningly.
“Be right there,” called John. He turned back. “My sister. Like I said, there’s a lot of unpacking to do, so if you don’t mind...”
The man shook his head. “Oh, no, no. Go on. Settle in. I’ll see you in town, I’m sure.” He gave what should have been a soothing smile. A chill went up John’s spine for no reason that he could place. He grabbed his now-tepid mug from the fencepost and went back inside.
---
John asked Harry about the violin over dinner.
“Oh, I’ve heard rumours about it,” she said. “People in town say it’s elf music. Clara was really into the elf thing. She used to leave a bowl of honey on the front steps for them.” Harry poked at the carrots on her dinner plate, a sad smile on her face. She looked up at John. “Apparently elves like honey. Who knew?”
“So you’re saying no one knows what it is?” John asked. “No one lives down there?”
Harry shook her head. “No, the road's a dead end with no one else on it. I’ve no idea where the music comes from. At first I thought it was spooky, but now...well, it’s not hurting anyone, is it?” She put her fork down and pointed at John’s dinner roll. “You going to eat that?”