Sherlock Holmes and the Knoxville Fever

Sherlock Holmes and the Knoxville Fever

A Fanfiction Novella

Based on BBC Sherlock

Dedicated to my Sherlock-watching buddy: Dad

By Casey Jackson

Part I

March 1, 2017, 3:01 p.m., Gatlinburg, Tennessee, United States of America

A man in the middle of the Smokey Mountains of Tennessee, hiking, presumably, went unnoticed easily. A smile on his face, he took in a deep breath, released it in a sigh, and looked through the trees. At three in the afternoon on a sunny, humid day in the first week of March, the sun cast perfect beams, visible to the man. In the beams, the man could see iotas of dust, pollen, and other contaminants dispersed throughout the air, floating. A child's laugh reached the man's ears; he turned toward the sound. A little girl with curly blonde hair chased a butterfly. The man was surprised at the way the girl chased the insect: she did not try to catch it, did not even try to touch it. She lacked the rashness so prominent at her age. She did not touch. She observed.

The man smiled, a much different smile than the one that was displayed on his face just moments prior. This time, the smile was accompanied by a glint in his eye, a glint that did not brighten his stare...

But one that darkened.

†

March 6th, 2017, 9:43 a.m. London, England

"You're barking!" John Watson exclaimed upon walking into the flat.

Sherlock Holmes sat, seemingly staring off into nothing. John Watson, however, knew this to not be the case. When Sherlock Holmes had a blank expression, this meant his mind was anything but.

"C... F... A minor... G..." Sherlock muttered, his mouth being the only part of his anatomy that moved, "C... F... A minor... G. Every. Single. Time."

"What?" John asked shortly, yet still going along, as he had learned to do from their first meeting over six years ago.

"The chords... the pattern... every single time. Americans," he scoffed, whilst continuing to remain still.

"If it bothers you so much, why don't you turn the bleeding thing off?!" John suggested, walking past the sociopathic genius and into the kitchen, slamming doors and drawers.

"8," Sherlock said, unmoving, his eyes staying in their death-like state.

John knew he didn't have to ask.

"The cashier at the grocer's, number 8. The employee -she's going through a divorce. Has children, and is pregnant; barely in her first trimester. Struggling financially. Left-handed, red hair, brown eyes. Looks older than she is."

John drew in an exasperated breath, turned around, and placed his hand on a chair to support him. He was already irritated, but Sherlock was on the right track, as always.

"She turned you down, called you an old man, and a creep."

John grabbed some tea and a pack of biscuits, walked into the living room, and sat in a chair perfectly, directly in front of the listless gaze of Sherlock Holmes.