The Item of Many Items

Holmes Homes

So, I was driving past my school today, where in front, they are beginning to build some new houses. I couldn't help but notice the builder's trailer, proudly bearing the company name. Holmes Homes. 

I.....couldn't help it. 

Scene: One year after the birth of John and Mary's little girl, Sherlock stopped getting so many cases. Mycroft, alway the big brother, convinces him to get a job as an architect. Although he initially refuses, Baker Street will have to be leased out again unless he can pay his rent. He accepts.

"Ridgewood!" shouted Sherlock irritably at the large man in the brick pile. His temper was fraying already, and it was only 7 in the morning. His fingers moved at his side, the fingerings to a song he was composing. He could tell why Ridgewood was so uncharacteristically indolent, of course. What it must be like, to be concerned about such things as marital arguments. Sherlock never wanted to find out. Too mundane. But there was no excuse. He worked for him, not the other way around. Ridgewood looked up nervously. 

"What do you think you are doing?" Sherlock asked irritably. 

"I....." Gerald Ridgewood  trailed off, abashed. 

"I don't care that you had a fight with your wife last night," he answered peevishly. "Or that you couldn't find clean trousers, because she didn't wash them, because she was boycotting you. Regrettable, but I don't."

Ridgewood looked shocked, though his other expression was a dull acceptance. "Fine. I had a fight with me wife. Jes' because you don't have one don't mean you have to be Satan." he scowled. 

"Of course I'm not Satan," Sherlock snapped. "I'm his favorite minion. Get to work." And with that, he walked away, running a hand through his curly dark hair. He frowned at his clipboard. There should have been a shipment of 2x4 wooden beams today, whay hadn't they arrived? Oh, that's right. The company manager had had a late night, he could tell because he had been stressed about the stock exchange, and he must have gone out with his co-workers. Irreponsible man. He sighed, and straightened his neon vest. He hated the alarming shade of orange, but apparently, "it was the law" or whatever. At least it fit over his coat, and although the autumn day was sunny, there was a noticable chill in the air. He went over to peer at the beginnings of a house, it's skeletal, honey-colored frame proudly protruding from the dark earth. 

"John!" he barked at a tall, African man. He was the heavy lifter of the building team, and although he was the complete opposite of....the other John, it still reminded him of the old times. However, he reminded himself, thinking about the past did nothing for you. He smashed a neon yellow hard hat on his head, scowling. He decided to indulge the protocol, he didn't fancy getting suspended yet again because he refused to wear a hard hat. John was peering down from the scaffolding, squinting in the sun. Sherlock realized that he had been waiting for his orders.

"Yes, John, do you have the updated blueprints?" John was about to answer, but not before Sherlock interjected, "Of course you don't, if you did I would have known already, here." He pulled a neat roll of paper out of his voluminous jacket, and handed it to the man. He nodded in thanks, and curiously looked at it.

"Mister Holmes?" John asked politely.

"Sherlock," Sherlock reminded him. Honestly. Mr. Holmes was his brother, the idiot who made him work here.

"Yeah, well..um,  do you have the shipment of wood beams yet? I can't start building this without them, and we're on a deadline." Sherlock, about to walk away, turned, and crossly intoned, "Of course we don't have the beams, if we did I would tell you, and given that I didn't tell you, I would assume that you knew that they weren't here. Unless, of course, someone's been feeding you false information. But who? Who cares about wooden beams?" A spark had lit up in his eyes as he talked. 

"Mister...Sherlock," John interrupted. "I was just asking, sir. Nobody was tellin' me anything." 

"Right...Sorry," Sherlock said distractedly. He hurried off, and bumped into one of the smaller workers. 

He was going to mutter an apology, but the man was saying something.

"Sorry...Do you know where I could find...?"

"Who?" asked Sherlock impatiently. Why did they always bother him? Couldn't they see he was clearly busy? 

The man didn't answer, so Sherlock looked back. 

"Sherlock...." John said, in a hushed voice. 

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"Well, you've found me," noted Sherlock a few minutes later. They were sitting in the break room, each with a cup of coffee. Neither of them had drank any. 

"Yes, I...I found you," John said. 

"Can I inquire as to your intentions or are you going to keep staring at me as if I am an overgrown bird?"

"Sherlock-"

"I'm on a tight schedule, this better be quick," he warned John irritably. Brilliant job, messing up his day. His mild expression deepened into a frown. 

"Sherl--What are you doing here? Why the hell are you working in a building company? Why haven't you bothered calling? Mary wanted to make you the godfather, but no, Sherlock is too busy, d'you know, it had to be Mike Stamford!" John's voice had risen in volume until he was shouting. 

"Interesting you should ask," remarked Sherlock, finally sipping his coffee. "It was all because of my thick-headed brother of mine. He knew I had had no cases, but---" John interrupted, suddenly.

"You didn't have cases? How does the super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes not have any cases?" He asked crossly.

"Please don't use that word, it lowers my thinking ability," was Sherlock's thoughtful answer.

"What word?" John scowled. 

"'Sleuth'. It sounds like sloth, which as you know, is a member of the anteater family and enjoys indolence. I am not, in fact, a sloth," he finished, staring interestedly into his coffee cup. 

John ignored him. "I thought you were on a tight schedule?"

Sherlock, in turn, ignored this, and went on. "Anyway, I had no cases, and therefore no rent money. Mycroft convinced me to get this boring little job in this tasteless little town with the same irritating people. I must have been drunk."

"You weren't drunk," John rolled his eyes. "We both know you haven't drank anything since my spectacular stag party."

At this, Sherlock cracked a smile. "It was, wasn't it?"

"Was what?" 

"Spectacular."

"Rather. Anything else, or is this all you're going to tell me?" John asked. 

"Sorry I didn't call!" Sherlock answered cheerfully. "Busy busy, you know. Lots to do."

John scowled. "Well, we happened to be in the area, thought I would make an effort, if you werent going to." 

"I wasn't." Sherlock agreed. 

"Some friend..." muttered John. 

"Well, I knew you would. It's no use both of us wasting petrol, now is there?" He checked his phone for the time. 

John stood up. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he said, clapping him on the shoulder. "If you ever need a case, I'm sure I could find you one."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he saw John smile. 

As you see, I was bored. Anyway......that's that. Thanks for reading, lovely readers!