Chapter Text
Sheep.
To be more specific, dead sheep. Sheep that appeared to have been ripped open in some haphazard and unnatural way, the bits that were once inside now very much on the outside.
To be even more specific, color photographs of the aforementioned ripped-open sheep, magnified and glossy, covering nearly the entirety of the wall behind the sofa. Sherlock hadn’t spared any expense with the reproduction of the photographs, and the images shone in the early morning sun. Nothing but a full wall of crisp, high-definition, very dead sheep.
It would have been a lot for any hour of the day, but at half-seven in the morning, it was especially a lot.
John stood in front of the wall of mutilated sheep, arms crossed over his chest. He had hoped to start his day with a bit of tea, some nice breakfast, but the wall of sheep was properly distracting. Knowing Sherlock for as long as he had, he had learned that the best course of action when presented with something unusual or unexpected was to simply go with it. Life with Sherlock was an exercise in the unusual and unexpected, and it was best to be flexible. Still, John was a bit out of practice in his Sherlock-related flexibility, what with Sherlock being bloody dead for two years and all. Not to mention, and it was an unusual thing to admit even to himself, John was more acclimated to seeing photographs of mutilated humans on the walls of the flat. The sheep were just...odd.
John stared at the sheep, tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth. Yes, this was definitely odd. He hadn’t woken up to anything of the sort when he lived with Mary, that was for sure. This sort of situation was uniquely Sherlock.
Sherlock emerged from the kitchen, looking delighted and carrying what inexplicably seemed to be even more photographs of dead sheep.
John pointed at the wall. “Should I be worried?” he asked.
Sherlock grinned. “Mutilated sheep, John,” he said.
“I see that,” John said. “Didn’t answer my question, though.”
Sherlock strode over to the wall, his dressing gown flapping behind him, revealing the same pyjamas he had worn for three days. He climbed onto the sofa and began affixing the new photographs to the wall. “Five,” he said. “Five mutilated sheep.”
Judging by the pictures, there looked to be a lot more than five, but on closer inspection it appeared as if Sherlock had multiple photographs of the same sheep, just from different angles and distances.
“Uh-huh,” John said. “And they’re hanging in our flat because…?”
This was, of course, a silly question. No matter how out of practice John was with daily life with Sherlock, he didn’t need to be a genius to know that the photographs of mutilated sheep hanging in their flat were a mere harbinger of the number of dead sheep that were about to be in John’s future, in some way or another. This had all the hallmarks of a case, and a particularly grizzly one at that, judging by Sherlock’s unreserved glee.
Sherlock gestured vaguely to a laptop—John’s laptop, in fact—that sat open on the table. John sighed and walked over to the computer, adjusting the screen so he could read whatever Sherlock was referring to. John had changed his password sometime in the past few months—his solicitor told him it was a good idea to change all passwords after a legal separation—and he thought he made it fairly secure, with the numbers and capital letters and special characters and everything. Sherlock guessed the thing in a matter of minutes. John considered changing it again, but there didn’t seem to be very much of a point to it.
Hello Mister Holmes. My name is Conor O’Sullivan and I am eight years old. I live in Dunquin with my mum and dad…
“An eight-year-old?” John asked. “You’re taking the case of an eight-year-old?”
Sherlock grinned, leaping off the sofa with a flourish. “Best case I’ve seen in months.” He disappeared into the kitchen again.
Sherlock had been in a category-five strop for the past three days. His mood was abysmal even by Sherlock's standards, and he took out his frustration on whoever was around—John, Mrs. Hudson, and even once an unfortunately timed postman. John had long since asked Mrs. Hudson to hide Sherlock's revolver away, but Sherlock managed to find other ways to be destructive—scattering body parts about the flat, screaming at the telly about incorrect facts reported during a nature documentary, nearly peeling the wallpaper off the kitchen walls after some half-cocked experiment went poorly. Sherlock needed a case. Badly.
Just last night, Sherlock had woken John at half-two in the morning by tearing about his bedroom. There had been yelling. It was not pretty. John was expecting the strop to have escalated in severity when he descended the stairs, fully prepared to find the windows blown out and the flat looking like a hurricane blew through. He was not expecting a smiling Sherlock. He was not expecting a case.
So. If whatever this little boy had to say managed to wrench Sherlock out of his dickishness, John was all in.
The sheep keep turning up dead, you see.
John glanced back at the wall of mutilated sheep. Little Conor seemed right to be worried about the sheep, if he was getting a front-row view of their deaths.
“You’re investigating dead sheep?” John asked as Sherlock strode back into the room, rolled-up map in his fists.
“We’re investigating dead sheep,” Sherlock corrected.
“Of course,” John said, although he couldn’t help the small smile that flitted across his face. Sherlock was right (Sherlock was always bloody right) when he unceremoniously returned from the dead a year and a half ago—John had missed this. He missed the chaos of the flat, of never quite knowing what he might wake up to discover, be it a sobbing client, angry men with large guns, or Sherlock inexplicably microwaving a spleen. He missed going off with Sherlock on some cracked adventure, righting wrongs and causing chaos in the name of Sherlock’s own personal definition of justice. As unbelievable as it seemed, he missed Sherlock. He tried to see as much of Sherlock as he could while he lived with Mary, and God knows they certainly saw each other quite a bit during the business of planning the wedding, but it wasn’t the same. John felt as if he barely saw Sherlock at all during those abysmal six months he attempted to be married, as he and Mary slowly discovered all the differences between them, the differences that helped John fully comprehend the term “irretrievable.” Mary, of course, would have disagreed. Mary would have said John spent plenty of time with Sherlock.
Anyway. All that would be in the past sooner rather than later, John supposed. He was back at Baker Street. And apparently, he was investigating dead sheep.
My mum and dad say it’s nothing for me to be worried about, but I think I know what’s happening to the sheep. I’m sure of it.
“It’s just,” John said to Sherlock, “you normally only investigate dead humans.”
“Oh, there’s a dead human too,” Sherlock said, spreading a rather large map over the only corner of the wall not currently covered in dead sheep. “Conor didn’t include it in his message because even he could tell it wasn’t important.”
“So,” John asked, “are we investigating the dead human too?”
Sherlock sighed. “We’ll likely be expected to. Boring. The sheep are much more interesting.”
John turned back to the computer.
It’s a werewolf, Mister Holmes.
John snorted. “A werewolf?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, pinning the corners of the map onto the wall. “Young minds can be quite fantastical. You could hire him as a guest writer on your blog.”
“Are you investigating these sheep because you think they were killed by a werewolf?”
“Don’t be silly, John,” Sherlock said. “I’m investigating the sheep because of where they were killed.”
“Right,” John said, still not totally convinced. “And where were they killed?”
Sherlock stepped to the side, proudly gesturing at the map pinned to the wall. “Here,” he said.
John moved closer to the map. Featured prominently on the map was a skinny island, a diagonal slash across the sea. “The Great Blasket Island.” He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
“A small island just off the Dingle peninsula in western Ireland,” Sherlock said. “It has been uninhabited since 1953. Currently, it's only residents are large quantities of sheep and one caretaker.” He paused, considering. “Well, five fewer sheep. And one fewer caretaker.”
John raised an eyebrow. “What happened to the caretaker?”
“Murdered,” Sherlock said, flapping a hand to the side. “That’s the boring bit. Bullet to the head. Dull.”
John chuckled. “But the sheep…?”
“Are fascinating.”
“And why are they fascinating?” John asked.
Sherlock sighed, the ever-suffering sound of a man constantly having to explain himself. “It is an uninhabited island, John,” he said. “Since the last residents moved off the island over sixty years ago, the sheep have ostensibly taken over. It is, more or less, an island run by sheep. They have nearly full control of the place. And—might I point out—they have no natural predators on the island.”
“Ah,” John said. “So somebody killed these sheep.”
“Exactly.”
“Like,” John grinned, “a werewolf?”
“No John,” Sherlock sighed. “Like a person. A human person.” He hopped back up on the sofa and began closely examining the photographs. “Somebody very intent on ending the lives of several sheep.”
“Could it have been the caretaker?” John asked.
“Unlikely,” Sherlock said, “as the sheep were killed after the caretaker was found dead.” He ripped an article from the wall and handed it to John. “Darren and Claire O’Sullivan—parents of young Conor—are responsible for the tourism efforts on the island. Booking day-tours, scheduling overnight guests, that sort of thing. The caretaker is responsible for the upkeep of the guest accommodations and lives on the island full-time. The O’Sullivans were bringing over a boatload of tourists last week and found the caretaker. Declan Moore. Dead with a bullet in his head.” Sherlock smirked. “Not good for business. The O’Sullivans tried to keep on with booking tours, but the next day a tour arrived to find this sheep.” Sherlock plucked a photograph of a specific sheep off the wall and handed it to John, who very much did not need to see it. “The day after that, they found this sheep.” He handed another photograph to John. “And the day after that—”
“Got it. Thanks.” John waved his hand, seeing all desire he had to fix some breakfast for himself go right out the window. Even from a distance, John could tell that the photographs of the sheep were in very high-definition.
Still, it was refreshing for John to see Sherlock like this, disemboweled sheep and all. This was when Sherlock was at his best—alive and eager and vibrating with energy. He was like a whirlpool of potential, and he inevitably sucked John in with him. It reminded him most of what Sherlock was like at the start—before his fall, before his resurrection, before John’s marriage. These days, Sherlock’s moods tended to veer a bit more towards the sullen and tempestuous, and John felt as if he got to glimpse the vibrant, excitable Sherlock less and less as of late. It made him ache in a way he tried not to understand.
“Suffice it to say,” Sherlock said, taking the photographs back out of John’s hands, “tours have been discontinued until somebody gets to the bottom of the sheep murders.”
“And that somebody, of course, is…?” John asked, already knowing the answer.
“Us,” Sherlock grinned. He quirked his head to the side, thinking. “Well, more precisely, me. But you’ll be there too.” He began hanging the photographs back on the wall.
“Sherlock, I’ve got…” John started, but found his brain stuttering to a bit of a stop as he watched Sherlock stretch himself to pin a photograph near the top of the wall. His threadbare shirt hiked up his stomach as his arms craned over his head, revealing a patch of pale skin beneath. His pyjama bottoms—barely hanging onto his slim hips as it were—slipped lower, exposing the full length of Sherlock’s sharp hipbones and what John realized was the very top of a patch of dark pubic hair. Not wearing pants, then. John felt a rapid increase in body temperature and abruptly forgot every word in the English language.
Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve already called the surgery for you,” he said. “Told them you needed to take a few days off.”
“...work,” John said, remembering the ending to a sentence that was no longer relevant. He wrenched his gaze away from Sherlock’s groin (no pants so that means that the fabric of his trousers is hanging off his—) and shook his head, trying to clear it of detritus. “Ta. Wait. What?”
Sherlock affixed the last of the photographs to the wall and surveyed his work, his shirt dropping back down to cover his stomach. “I told them you needed a…” he waved his hand in a little circle, “mental health day. Or seven.”
“You…” John was still trying to redirect his brain to focus on the topic at hand rather than mourn the sudden disappearance of Sherlock’s visible midsection. “You told them...I...what?”
“They were quite agreeable,” Sherlock said. “Given the circumstances.”
“Given the…” but John was unable to finish his thought before a chipper yoo-hoo sounded through the room.
“Just bringing up the post,” Mrs. Hudson said, a bustle of energy striding through the door into the sitting room. “You’re both up so early this morning, I thought—oh!” Her eyes boggled as she spied the mural of slaughtered farm animals pinned to her wall. She raised a hand to her mouth. “What on earth is all that?”
“Sheep,” Sherlock said.
“Murdered sheep,” John said.
“Murdered by a human,” Sherlock said.
“Not a werewolf,” John said.
Mrs. Hudson did not appear consoled by their responses. “Why are they hanging on my wall?” she asked.
“Because,” Sherlock said, popping off the sofa and grasping Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders, “John and I will make certain their deaths were not in vain. Justice for all, Mrs. Hudson!”
Mrs. Hudson chuckled, her gaze darting to John. John grinned at her. They both enjoyed it when Sherlock was like this—grinning and energetic and not madly digging through Mrs. Hudson’s drawers in search of his revolver.
“Just take the pictures down as soon as you’ve solved it,” Mrs. Hudson said. She wrinkled her nose at the wall. “Dead sheep on my walls. It’s just not proper, Sherlock.”
Sherlock made a noise that suggested the sheep photographs would hang until he was damn well ready to take them down and slid over to the table, sorting through newspaper clippings at a rapid pace.
Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat and moved towards John. She had a large manila envelope in her hand. “This came for you, love,” she said, her eyes darting to the floor as she handed the parcel to him.
John took the envelope from her. “Ah.” His solicitor told him to expect this parcel any day now.
“I suppose it’s been a year, now hasn’t it?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“Just over,” John said. “Our one-year anniversary was—would have been—” John wasn’t sure of the proper terminology anymore, “last week.” A year ago, John might have expected that he and Mary would spend their one-year anniversary celebrating at some fancy restaurant, or perhaps on holiday for the weekend. Instead, John commemorated the date with a call to his solicitor, telling him that both he and Mary were prepared to move their legal separation into an application for divorce.
“Such a silly law,” Mrs. Hudson said, “making the two of you wait a full year to apply for divorce.” She looked to Sherlock, who didn’t seem to be paying attention to the clippings he shuffled through anymore. “Don’t you think, Sherlock?”
Sherlock made a grumpy noise.
John tore open the parcel with a finger, tugging out the papers inside. Right on top, a copy of the divorce application Mary completed, all the information written out in her prim handwriting. He and Mary had barely spoken since he moved out of their flat back in January, and her handwriting—however familiar—nearly seemed like that of a stranger’s to him, which he supposed it soon would be.
“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, hoisting a cheerful smile onto her face, “I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to have this nasty business behind you, John.”
“Certainly,” Sherlock interjected. “Nothing to stop him now from going out and hunting for the next one.” With that, he disappeared into the kitchen, his dressing gown flapping behind him.
“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson said. She pointed after Sherlock. “He’s like that, isn’t he?”
John sighed—this was the Sherlock he had grown to expect since he moved back to Baker Street. Unexpectedly irritable, with unpredictable trigger points that caused him to snap at John and sulk off into another room, leaving John blinking behind him and wondering what the hell just happened. True, Sherlock’s moods had always fluctuated, but these days they seemed particularly barbed, withdrawn. It felt at times as if there was a wall up between John and Sherlock, something unyielding and impenetrable.
“He certainly is,” John said.
In fact, John was still a bit sleepy from Sherlock choosing to show off just how like that he could be a few short hours prior. He had woken up to the sound of crashing and clattering just an arm’s distance from his head, which was not his preferred way to wake up by far. He had a moment where he felt tugged back to Afghanistan, reaching for a weapon before realizing that it—of course—was only Sherlock.
You’ve taken my pen-knife, Sherlock had snapped at him.
I haven’t taken your pen-knife, John had said, sinking back onto his pillow and trying to close his eyes as an act of defiance. What do you need a pen-knife for at this hour, anyway?
Sherlock hadn’t answered. He was shuffling through John’s drawers, making a right mess of everything, by the sound of it. You’d think I could find it easily, he said. You’ve nothing in here. John heard the sound of a drawer slam shut with violence, another flung open in its stead. The sound of rustling grew louder. This is a horrible place to store spare ammunition, John.
John opened his eyes just as a box of bullets was flung at him. He managed to get an arm up to shield himself just in time. Get the hell out of my things, he snapped. Boundaries, Sherlock.
Sherlock, of course, wasn’t listening. He slammed the drawer shut, and the whole of John’s wardrobe shook. Is all you brought with you back to Baker Street five hideous jumpers and a box of ammunition?
Some trousers too, John said, setting the bullets on his bedside table. Are we through here? In truth, John didn’t have many possessions to his name after he left Mary. The two of them had a flat full of things, but in the end they had all turned out to belong to Mary. John was surprised to see how few boxes he was able to pack his life into, and he wasn’t sure if the surprise was pleasant or not.
You keep a box of records under your bed, Sherlock said.
John sighed. He ran his hands over his face. Yep, he said. My dad’s.
And your suitcase is filled with books, Sherlock said. And photographs.
John thought about mentioning boundaries again, but didn’t quite see the use. Your point? he asked.
Why haven’t you unpacked? Sherlock asked. You’ve lived here for five months now. Why haven’t you unpacked? Are you just that supremely lazy?
John exhaled, forcing his tired brain to count to ten. No room for the books and photographs in here, he said. And we don’t have a record player, so there isn’t exactly a point in my finding a spot for the records, now is there?
It’s against your ways, Sherlock said. His eyes were sharp, scrutinizing. With your military neatness, it bothers you to leave boxes packed. You’d want to organize everything as soon as you could, and yet you’ve left most of your possessions tucked away.
Sherlock, John said, covering his eyes with an arm, if you’ve woken me up in the middle of the bloody night to yell at me for not being tidier, I will remind you that there are currently fingers—
You live like a man who is ready to flee, Sherlock said, a distinct sneer on his face. All packed up. Prepared to leave town in the middle of the night. All your earthly possessions fitting into your two arms.
Military, John said, willing himself to fall back to sleep just to put an end to this conversation. No point in gathering clutter when you’re off to who-knows-where next week.
You aren’t in the military anymore, Sherlock said.
Well, John refused to remove his arm from over his eyes. Habit stuck, I suppose. I’m still fairly transient. Never quite settled in one place long enough to plant roots.
Yes, Sherlock said, his voice oozing something venomous, you certainly didn’t plant roots with Mary, now did you?
John lifted his arm from his eyes. He glared at Sherlock, standing defiantly by his wardrobe, staring at him with purposeless anger in his eyes. Right, John said. Get the hell out of my room.
Tell me John, Sherlock said, his lips curling in a nasty smile, should I expect you to sprout any tendrils while you’re here? Or should I not even bother with the plant box?
OUT, John had said, pointing at the door. Get out.
There had been a bit more yelling after that, and a few more of the bullets had been thrown. John tried not to think about it. Most of it made little sense. Still, it was fairly common of Sherlock’s temperament these days, and John did his best to breathe through it. It was Sherlock, after all. Nasty moods came with the territory. Besides, John couldn’t speak very highly of his own mood since moving back in, and having to wait a full year in order to begin steps to divorce a woman he no longer loved certainly didn’t help.
John thumbed through the papers Mary had completed. Unless there was anything in Mary’s statement that he disagreed with, John had only to sign the acknowledgement of service form and the process would be underway. John doubted there would be anything he disagreed with in the papers.
“Well,” Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” She gave him a kind pat on the shoulder and puttered back down the stairs.
Some of John’s mates and his colleagues at the surgery tried to be supportive of the divorce. They asked him to the pub for a pint, offered carefully-worded condolences in the hallways at the surgery. Spouted endless platitudes, trite nonsense about closing doors and opening windows and the multitude of fish in the sea. Two days ago, one of the nurses gave him the number for her friend, saying that the friend was single and just lovely. John had pocketed the number but had no intentions of calling. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t be putting down roots anytime soon. In fact, he had a feeling that—despite Sherlock’s biting little assumptions—he was on course to be alone for the remainder of his days. John had a feeling it was for the best.
He sank down onto the table with the papers. He reviewed the application for divorce Mary completed. In the end, there wasn’t much to it. Unreasonable behaviors, that was the grounds for divorce the two decided upon, the one that made the most sense for them and would get them divorced in the shortest amount of time. John read through the little paragraphs of behaviors Mary listed, the facts that they intended to present before the court, the cracks that broke their marriage to pieces—objective truths that carved a frown onto John’s face. He didn’t like any of it, but he agreed with all of it.
Their solicitor helped them with the tricky bits, like drawing up the paperwork for the legal separation and divvying up the property and finances. The property bit was easy; they had very little. Mary stayed at the flat in the suburbs the two rented, and John moved back to Baker Street. Mary got the car; John didn’t need it in the city. John thanked whatever lucky stars he still had that they didn’t have any children to worry about with this whole mess. Now, everything was sorted and all John had left to do was to agree to it.
John shifted the acknowledgement of service form to the front of the pile. This form was even simpler. Confirm the identity of the respondent. Indicate whether or not the respondent wishes to defend the case. Sign and date. John found a pen and tapped it against the table. It all seemed remarkably easy.
Sherlock trudged back into the sitting room, still looking grumpy. He watched John at the table, staring at the blank signature line and twiddling with a pen, and said nothing.
“One year,” John said. “We couldn’t even make it one bloody year.” He looked up at Sherlock, who seemed uncertain about what to do with the eye contact.
John sighed, looking back down at the papers. “Is it odd that that is what’s bothering me?” John asked. “Not that we’ve split up. Not that I lost my wife. Not that I’m pining or heartbroken or what-have-you. No—it’s that we couldn’t even make it one bloody year.” He shook his head at the papers spread out before him. “What do I even do about that?”
Sherlock was silent, not that John was exactly holding his breath for a response. For a man who had something to say about everything, Sherlock had astoundingly little to say about the dissolution of John’s marriage. He doesn’t go in for romantic relationships, John reminded himself. He’s probably just biting his tongue to keep from saying I told you so. For that, John supposed that he was grateful.
Sherlock stepped forward and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. John looked up at him, surprised.
“What you do,” Sherlock said, “is you come to the Great Blasket Island with me. And seek justice for some murdered sheep.”
John smiled. “Okay,” he said.
He put the signed papers in the post later that day.