PARA/DOX

Rain Making Gone Wrong

Eventually the world stopped moving. Sherlock had just gotten used to watching eras go by, he was used to watching colors flicker and pass by. But just as soon as he grew accustomed the process suddenly stopped, 1950 settling so hard around him that it knocked the poor boy to the ground. Sherlock fell fast, as the movement of the decades suddenly solidified into something more than a landscape, something physical, as if someone had erected a brick wall in front of his face for the grand finale. Sherlock fell into the mud, his jacket crunching down upon the loose stalks of corn that had been chopped down from the previous crops. The roots had been left to rot, and thankfully their stalks were not so sharp as they would have been in the earlier months. The fall wasn't comfortable, but at least the poor boy was not impaled. Sherlock felt cold water seeping into his clothing, his elbow stuck deep in a rut that must have been made by horses dragging a plow behind them. He winced, clutching his headband with one hand and trying to steady himself with the other. Sherlock's long white fingers stuck deep into the mud, and with a groan of effort the boy clambered to his feet, wincing to feel the frozen water dribbling from his clothes down his back. At first he looked aimlessly around, wondering if he would have any luck in finding his accomplices. He turned slowly, trying to position himself in every direction possible to observe the spots in the fields that might have hosted the party's original arrival. Sherlock had been standing at the machine when he was taken, which meant John and the scientists must have been a couple of steps off. They were standing at the wall. Sherlock tread anxiously to where he remembered the scientists standing, where in relation to the facility they would have been deposited. He searched the ground, dropping to his knees to closely observe the mud. It was just like the rest of the field, torn up by the horses and elements. If there ever had been a futuristic footprint here Sherlock would have seen it. The boy rose again to his feet, heaving in an apprehensive sigh as he began to wonder the consequences of his half constructed plan. So he was in the fifties, with no prospect of finding his goal. Oh what good was it being the only successful time traveler when he was looking for the unsuccessful ones? Somehow Sherlock had missed them, perhaps they had been trapped between the rapid fire time periods. If so, how to get back? Sherlock grumbled to himself, stomping his feet apprehensively in the mud and staring around the bleak field in which he now stood. It was strange to think a scene so beautiful could possibly be turned into a most miserable government agency. The rolling hills, peppered with farms and fields, forests erupting in the distance and mingling their stark branches with the cold winter sky. Dark clouds had collected overheard, though Sherlock did not expect it to rain. These were beautiful clouds, much too grand to ruin his day. He could see a farm house not too far down the field; in fact Sherlock even spotted a small muddy road that led from the fields to its front yard. That would be the most logical assumption; the place where the scientists would have first escaped to if their mission had been a success. But was it worth the risk? Could Sherlock dare leaving behind the spot he was expected to return to in an attempt to track those who had come before him? The boy hesitated, staring at the farm and wondering just how inviting its inhabitants might be. There were clouds of puffy white smoke emitting from the chimney, a welcomed sight for a boy now dripping with cold muddy water. And yet Sherlock was trapped, at least momentarily, until a real scientist could take Mr. Trevor's place and reverse his teleportation. If so, would he have to be standing in the same general location? The room where it happened? Sherlock sighed heavily, figuring it would be no use getting sucked back into the present if he had nothing to show for his trip to the past. He couldn't yet prove where the scientists had been lost to, but if he could at least prove it was not the fifties they could start from here and work backwards. Sherlock was willing to check every time zone, every second if he had to. John Watson would not so easily be lost. And so, with that determination in mind, Sherlock scavenged for a sharp stick to wedge into the cold mud at his feet. With this in place as a landmark the boy started for the road, rehearsing an introductory speech which would be understandable and welcome by a family who was living seventy years before his time. The dirt road was not made by wheels, or at least not any sort of wheels he was accustomed to seeing. Sherlock's leather shoes intermingled with the shoed hooves of horses, two by the count of them, dragging a small wheeled wagon behind. This was the fifties, though he must insist on trying to differentiate it from an alien world. Sherlock wasn't an expert on time and inventions, though he was still confident that cars had at least been introduced by this time. Was this family too poor to afford one, or were they preferring to live off the land? Their state wasn't a flourishing one by any means, and there wouldn't have been money for miles until you hit the suburbs of New York City or Philadelphia. It would be safe to assume that the automobile was only for the masters of industry in this part of the country, with the poor farmers riding the same horses they used as their plow and tractor. As Sherlock approached the door he found that, despite his previous predictions, a light drizzle had begun to fall over the field. It was a remarkable sound, each rain drop making its mark against the mud in an almost silent array of tapping. For most of Sherlock's life he had experienced the weather either under or around metal and plastic rooves, each making their own manmade chorus as the water was interrupted on its way to the ground. As Sherlock trotted through the mud, now picking up at a faster pace, the rain sounded genuine. It was the way the weather was supposed to resonate, terrifying, frigid, and potentially deadly if you did not find shelter quickly. Thankfully Sherlock was not far from the house, and with a little bit of a skip in his step the boy launched onto the wooden porch, one which was made of different wood than the rest of the house. Sherlock hesitated, shaking off his jacket and running his hands through his hair. He rubbed the metal headband on the inside of his shirt, trying to keep the electronics from being flooded with long recycled water. He wondered if the contraption would scare the family, in fact it might be better left outside. Nevertheless Sherlock held on, figuring the headband would be too precious to lose. Who knows what fate could befall the thing if he left it in the elements, especially with the chance that he would be teleported back to his current time period at any moment? Better to confuse the family than lose a John Watson original. Sherlock quickly observed his outfit, figuring there was nothing he could do about the fiercely purple shirt that was hidden underneath a jacket of synthetic fabric. He would either look like an alien or a millionaire in the eyes of these poor farmers. And yet, if all went well, eh would not be the only ones who seemed odd. He wanted to be the fourth traveler to come to this door for help. He hoped his reception would have the exact elements of confusion he most desired. The sort of repetitive confusion, as if the poor souls on the other side of the door were starting to wonder if this was all a big joke. Mustering up his courage, Sherlock approached the door with a squeezed fist. He wondered if he might be chased off the porch with pitchforks, or if these old timers were already training muskets in his direction from behind. To be safe the boy looked over his shoulder, just to make sure there were no pilgrims creeping about in the low corn stalks. When he was satisfied that he was at least safe from behind, Sherlock knocked hard upon the door. At that very moment, the rain picked up into a downpour. For a moment he waited, rocking back and forth on his heels and clutching his metal headband behind his back. He knew enough about cold rain that banishment from this warm farmhouse could lead to hypothermia, potentially even an early death fifty years before he was even born. After a minute of waiting, Sherlock could hear hushed voices behind the door, as if the entire family had collected to ward off this potential threat. Perhaps they were not accustomed to visitors, which right off the bat lessened his chances of success. There were two things on Sherlock's mind at the moment, one more pressing than the other. He would have to prioritize in his introduction. Finally the door cracked open, and the boy was faced with what appeared to be an animate chunk of grey beard. No face could be determined in the shadows of the house, and at the moment the family was too reluctant to allow the door any wider.
"What do you want?" the man wondered. "We're armed here, son. And we won't hesitate; we've got the law on our side."
"Oh dear!" Sherlock exclaimed, stepping back involuntarily and flashing his most innocent smile. "No, no I don't want trouble. I'm sorry sir, but I've been caught in the rain and caught even more off guard. I'm soaked to the bone, I'm afraid, and was wondering if I might borrow a spot at your fire?"
"Well don't you have a strange accent. What are you, some sort of foreigner?" the man wondered suspiciously.
"I'm visiting." Sherlock agreed, figuring that was about as truthful as he could make it.
"Visiting who?"
"You! As it would seem." Sherlock chuckled apprehensively. The beard did not look amused. "I mean no harm." Sherlock added again. The door responded this time, and with such a loud snap that Sherlock nearly jumped off the porch and back into the torrent. He sagged his shoulders, wobbling his heels across the edge of the porch step and just feeling the rain pelt down upon the back of his head. He wondered if he would really be forced to sit outside in this, with the temperature dropping and the rain slowly beginning to feel like sleet. Sherlock waited on the porch for what felt like an hour, though in all reality couldn't have been more than five minutes. He watched the door, and then the rain, and wondered how long it would be until he was driven off this porch to a parade of rifle muzzles. It wasn't by any means a comfortable spot, for the roof was leaking and the wooden floor already seemed to be soaked through. Though it was, by all accounts, much better than his available alternatives. As far as the eye could see there were empty fields, not even a large tree that might provide the due coverage needed to survive in this rain. Sherlock was considering settling himself in the driest spot of the porch, a safe place where the occupants would either ignore him or forget about him, until the rain had passed. He only hoped the machine would not summon him back before he was able to get the answers he needed. Before he could get too comfortable the door opened again, this time a bit wider, displaying the whole of the man who stood on the other side. He was just the sort of man who would be parading these fields, hidden behind a thick pair of overalls and single colored fleece. Sherlock clicked into attention, standing straight like a solider and bearing the same posture he remembered Doctor Watson holding. It was militaristic, admirable for men like these.
"Turn out your pockets." The man demanded, in such a gruff voice that Sherlock didn't dare hesitate. He followed orders, first setting down the most threatening device he owned so that he could pull apart his jacket pockets and display old wrappers of gum and a handful of old coins.
"What's that?" the man demanded, nodding towards the headband that now lay across Sherlock's feet.
"That's...well it's a hat. Of sorts." Sherlock admitted. "I'm color blind, and...and this was made by my doctors to help draw out the lights I need to see."
"Specially made, huh? What are you, some sort of privileged rich kid?" the man presumed.
"One might say, though that's no dampening of my character." Sherlock assured. "And it doesn't help me at all in a situation like this. You can't buy warmth, you can only rely on the kindness of strangers."
"Ya well, you can try. Give me those coins and we'll get you a chair." the man insisted, revealing his hands in front of the door. One was outstretched, with a calloused palm clutching greedily towards the sky. The other was clenched across the handle of a revolver, though Sherlock could see that the gun was not cocked. Sherlock hesitated as he scooped the money into his hand, wondering just how many obscure dates would be revealed upon the heads of the change. Certainly he had modern coins mixed in, perhaps drawing attention upon further examination. At the moment the farmer was satisfied, and he pocketed the money before opening the door a bit wider to allow the boy entrance into the house. Sherlock smiled thankfully, figuring his gratitude did not need saying as he stepped into the house and was enveloped by the comforting air of a smoky wood stove. The interior of the house was not unlike the shambles of his own home when he was lost within its past, with the exposed wooden frame sometimes left barren in spots, other times filled in with a cement base or sparse papering. The furniture was all old or homemade, only the necessities peppering the wooden floor. Sherlock was invited in towards the fire by a nice looking woman in a long blue dress, a handmade item that had been patched several times with similar fabrics in an attempt to make it blend in. This was the fifties; he knew that for a fact, though Sherlock could have sworn he had stepped into a much more distant past. Even though they were considerably distanced from the rest of the world, in Sherlock's opinion these two could have fit perfectly within the first Thanksgiving. Though he didn't care about their habits or their look, not immediately. Instead Sherlock sat thankfully within the spindly wooden chair that sat before the fire, warming his hands in the heat of the open flame and trying to regain motion in his incredibly pale joints.
"Odd looking kid." The man grunted from behind, prompting his wife to look closer upon their guest. Sherlock wiggled in the chair, absentmindedly patting his hair down in an attempt to at least look decent. Though his hair was probably not what struck him as 'odd' to these folks. It was undoubtedly his clean shaven face, his tailored clothes made of foreign fabrics, his leather shoes that were now soaked through. Who knew how many bone structures these farmers were witness to out here? The only cheekbones they saw were those that stuck out from starvation, and those were far from attractive. Sherlock tried to hide his beauty the best he could, though the rain had already done most of the heavy work when flattening his curls and dribbling drops off of the base of his chiseled chin.
"A cup of hot water will do you well." The woman presumed, tapping Sherlock on the shoulder before hustling towards the kitchen in an attempt to warm the kettle over a rather rusted propane stove. Sherlock watched hesitantly, turned around in his chair in an attempt to keep the couple within his sight. His teeth took to chattering, though he wasn't sure whether to blame that on the cold or rather a sudden bout of nervousness. His head flashed the most disturbing memories of cannibals and scavengers, strange sorts that hid within the fields of the eastern coast in an attempt to escape or terrorize society. He certainly hoped he had not stumbled upon a lot more threatening than himself. Before long Sherlock was sipping hot water from a ceramic mug. His lips burned, though he figured it would be impolite to wait too long before drinking. He wanted to please this family with his manners, even if his appearance appeared strange or forbidding. They were a quiet couple, obviously too afraid to introduce the rest of their children to the wandering stranger. Sherlock could tell that the two were not alone, as there were children's toys scattered about the floor, in such an array of disorder that the children must have been shuffled out of the living room just as soon as the knock was heard.
"Where did you say you were coming from?" the woman asked, obviously getting uncomfortable with the growing silence. Sherlock sipped again from the nearly boiling water, feeling it scalding down his throat and warming him from the inside out.
"I'm visiting." Sherlock said again.
"From where?"
"Nor far. About...about seventy miles." Sherlock explained.
"There ain't nothing for seventy miles around here. Certainly no rich boy manors." The man grunted.
"Oh well, perhaps you haven't looked hard enough." Sherlock chuckled. His host was not amused; in fact his eyes were growing smaller by the second.
"I wonder if you might have seen someone before, some other travelers come here? I'm not the first of my party, and we got separated a couple of days ago. Have you seen anyone else nearby?" Sherlock asked hopefully, gripping his cup between his hands and warming his palms to an almost dangerous degree.
"Travelers? No. No one around here." the woman admitted. "You separated from your family?"
"Yes, I was. I thought..." Sherlock sighed heavily, rubbing his fingers across his face as he processed the denial. No travelers meant no scientists, and that meant no John. It was official, as he suspected. They never reached their final destination. "I just thought that they might have come through here."
"We're not on any major roads; it'll take about two hours on horseback to the nearest town. No one passing through here." the man pointed out confidentially, hooking his thumbs across his suspenders and giving them a good snap for added effect. Sherlock lowered his gaze, slightly off put.
"Well...we're on a very particular route." Sherlock admitted truthfully, figuring this couple would never comprehend just how well traveled their house might be in the coming years.
"When would they have passed?" the woman wondered.
"About four days ago. There were three of them; one was short with sandy blonde hair, wearing an orange suit." Sherlock explained, his voice growing ever more anxious the longer he described.
"Four days ago? You mean during that freak storm?" the man wondered, thankfully passing over the detail of John's extravagant wardrobe. These were the words Sherlock was waiting for, or at least the acknowledgement of absurdity that began to warm his heart with hope.
"What do you mean, freak storm?" Sherlock clarified excitedly.
"Well I don't know exactly. Mabelle was out with the horses, feeding them their grain, and I was just getting back from feeding the chickens. There weren't no storms, no nothing. All of the sudden a cloud blotted out the sun, and a strike of lighting flew from the Heavens. I couldn't explain it, as soon as it appeared it was gone. No burns, no nothing."
"That was them!" Sherlock exclaimed, nearly jumping out of his chair in excitement. "I mean...I mean that might have been my friends."
"What are your friends exactly, if not some sort of devils?" the man snarled, recoiling from his guest. Sherlock chuckled nervously, shaking his head and trying to regain his look of innocence.
"They're...they're miracle workers." Sherlock managed, sounding as if he was choking over the lies that he told. "We were all here on a rain maker case, you know...the sort that ends droughts. Well, sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes we summon something more powerful than rain, like lightning or things like that."
"Sounds like witchcraft to me." the woman whispered.
"No, no! It's quite holy." Sherlock insisted, now standing on his feet and backing a bit closer to the open hearth than he would like. He felt suddenly trapped, suffocating within his own pathetic lies.
"I think it's better if you were to leave." the man decided at last. "Holy or not, I don't like meddlers."
"I'm just lost, lost and cold! Please, please try to remember very clearly. After that lightning, did you see anyone in the fields?"
"What you going on about?" Mabelle demanded, "You think we're blind, do you?"
"I'm not trying to cause any trouble, I just really..." Sherlock didn't get time to finish his sentence. The gun was drawn again, and this time he decided not to raise a fuss. His words were useless against these two, and while he got clarification that the machine had made its arrival it would appear as though the travelers had not. It was what he needed, ultimately. This warm fire was just what he wanted. And so, figuring it was better to brave the elements than the temper of a good Christian family, Sherlock backed slowly out of the house, trying to enjoy the warmth before it was sucked from his body in the cold torrents of rain that were now coating the world in thick sheets.