A Study At Bullimore

7

The road to Sherlock's house was dusty. Arguably, it was less of a road and more of a track, studded with thick white stones and sandy grains. John watched some birds hop from tree to tree and across the track, the shadows cast long and dark, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Of course, it was private, John expected nothing less from Sherlock. It was odd it was so unkept, but when asked Sherlock replied with 'surprisingly, multi-millionaires are very selfish and don't like helping their neighbours to fix a road.' his tone dripped with sarcasm. He told John about the arguments the Holmes' had with the next neighbours 'who were a good mile away' and how they 'didn't want to noise of builders,' but Sherlock thought it was more about having working class people in the area. John laughed at this, then adjusted his shirt slightly, very aware of how he was the working-class people.
"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock had said when he saw John do this "I'm only joking." And John smiled because Sherlock was smiling, and he tried to shake off the worry that going to Sherlock's seemed to be bring him.

"This is nice." John said after a short while, smiling into the sun. They had just emerged from under a tree canopy and into the still blazing sun.
"This is my family's land. It goes back generations."
John nodded as Sherlock gestured to their right, where there were fields and fields of green grass and yellow flowers. Sherlock was a proper rich boy, acres and all. "When I was little there was a big tree house in the woods that Father built, but it's not there anymore. Mycroft and I used to play pirates in that house."
"Mycroft is a good name for a dog." Sherlock paused and shook his head.
"Mycroft is the name of my brother."
"Right. Sorry." John cleared his throat, and they began to start walking again. Rich people and their names.
"It's fine. He's a bit of a bitch sometimes." This made John laugh and Sherlock looked back at him with a grin.

They walked in silence. John imagined what it would be like to have all these riches. An entire woodland to play in, acres of fields and all the money in the world. His little flat on the east side of a tower block didn't begin to compare. The closest thing to wildlife John experience were drunks on a Saturday night.

And somehow, somehow, they were becoming friends despite their differences. John watched Sherlock walk up ahead, his shirt and trousers shifting as he took each step. How much would that be? The shirt looked expensive, sewn with some slightly silky material, and his trousers looked well pressed. The shirt alone was probably more than all the jumpers John owned. Still, unlike the other men, Sherlock didn't seem to think any less of him because of his lack of money. Although they never said anything to his face, John knew that his shoes were too scuffed for an independent, expensive university as this, and his hair cut a little too short. Sherlock ignored that and, out of everyone else whom he seemed to hate, spoke to him. It made John glow a little, no amount of money could buy Sherlock Holmes' attention and yet he had it.

"Here we are." Sherlock put his key in the lock to a gate like Bullimore's, only this one was iron and black. It was submerged within a bush, the gate marking a dead end to the track. John assumed that this wasn't a main entrance, that there was one with large, fancy gates and a buzzer. And he was right.

John followed Sherlock through a tunnel of over bent trees before they opened into his garden. That alone took John's breath away. There was a lake on the far side, a bright flower garden and what looked like a pool with hedges marking the perimeter. As they approached a pave slabbed patio Sherlock stopped.

"My mother. She can be a little...cynical. I just want to let you know."
"Oh. Okay." John was unsure how to reply or what that really meant, but Sherlock obviously deemed this valuable enough information that he ought to know it. Sherlock flashed a brief, false, smile, adjusted his shirt and walked through the double French doors. John followed suit.

The interior was as impressive as the garden, dark polished wooden floors with a long white clothed table running through the center of the room. There were about 5 high back chairs either side, facing towards oil paintings hung on pastel blue walls. John's eyes lingered on a portrait of Sherlock (they had caught his eyes perfectly) and a larger, brown-haired man.