Sherlock seems to lose yet more faith in his choice of eatery once he and Y/N are standing outside outside a stone building little larger than a house.
Pressed into the steeply inclining hill like a raisin into a bun, its facade protrudes a little on the wonk, as though, over time, it is slowly dribbling down the hillside. Despite its age, it radiates an active, lively charm, the porch bright with hanging baskets and lanterns, its name proudly lit with a warm orange glow:
'The Red Fox'
A peeling, fox-shaped wooden sign flaps below it in the low wind, a few spits of rain darkening the mascot's coat to a rusty brown.
Y/N grins at the windows flickering with the inviting warmth of candlelight and hearty laughter bubbling out of the open shutters like steam from a kettle.
In the old fashioned, gentlemanly way he does, Sherlock holds the door open, and Y/N is immediately hugged by the warm smell of malty tap beer and chips.
In keeping with its name, The Red Fox is indeed very red, the burgundy wallpaper and fuzzy shag carpet patterned and homely. A stack of sappy wood burns away in a huge open fireplace, several sodden-looking couples in rambling gear perching on the lip of a Chesterfield, holding out their steaming boots to the flames. At the well-stocked bar, a huddle of large, rugged men in overalls and muddy wellingtons chat merrily, occasionally clanking pint glasses together and roaring with spirited laughter.
Sherlock looks about the quaint, rustic little building and then apologetically to Y/N. "You're sure this is okay?"
"I really like it," Y/N says, meaning it. "It's cosy."
He leads her to the dining area where, amongst framed photos of black and white tractors and vintage nick-nacks nailed to the wall, a quiet selection of couples enjoy candle-lit meals at little round tables.
They take a seat by the window. The curtains are drawn but, over the crackle of the fire, Y/N can hear the rain striking the pane behind the faded fabric, the wind blowing it sideways off the fields.
Sherlock frowns. "I didn't want cosy, I wanted...well...when I'd envisioned our first date I'd planned to take you to Clos Maggiore."
'The Red Fox's' ceiling may be latticed with woodworm-ridden timber beams instead of thousands of cotton cherry blossoms---but their table is adorned with a little bouquet of real-life wildflowers; daisies and yarrow and baby blue forget-me-nots, and they smell sweetly of fresh air and the fields.
Y/N smiles. "I like this better." Then she realises something. Smirking:
"You'd imagined taking me on a date?"
Sherlock flushes, his eyes twinkling with a sly smile. "...I've imagined lots of things."
...
When a waiter takes their drinks order, he leaves a basket of fresh bread and a colourful pot of condiments, and---giving Sherlock a wink---lights the candle between him and Y/N with the flick of his lighter.
Wedged into a green bottle, a blob of wax steadily slides down the curved glass as they chat in their easy, accustomed way, the night growing darker and the rain outside growing steadier.
"So," Y/N begins, her tone light and jesting. "Is this an old haunt?"
"What?"
"You know; did you used to come down here with your mates?"
Sherlock looks at her as if she's grown a second head. "I didn't really have mates." He says the word through a sneer as if it tastes strange on his tongue. "Mycroft used to work here so I'd walk down after school. I'd do my homework or read at one of the tables until his shift ended and he'd drive me home." He points to a table tucked shyly into a corner as if it's trying to keep out of everyone's way. "Usually that one."
"Was he a waiter?" Y/N's brows furrow with effort as she tries to picture Mycroft Holmes in a little apron, simpering and weedling the insufferable public for tips.
He looks like a very grumpy praying mantis someone has trained to carry a serving tray.
"I can't imagine him taking orders from anyone."
"He worked in the kitchen, making mash and the desserts and things. He did it to pay for his car."
"What did he have?"
To Y/N's surprise, his answer is not a Bentley, so then she has to try to imagine Mycroft's spidery limbs neatly folded into a sedan.
"Just a Cortina back then, but he loved it. He was always going on about leaving this place, saying how he'd 'get out' one day," Sherlock reminisces airily, playing cooly with the napkin swaddling his cutlery.
However, his eyes betray the feelings of a young boy, puzzled and upset by his idol growing up and travelling to places he could not follow and, without thinking, Y/N places her hand over his own.
He looks down at their palms on the table and then at Y/N, and she thinks he'll clear his throat and pull away---
---but his lips curve with a soft smile and, with uncharacteristic tenderness, he intertwines their fingers.
As they talk, Y/N distractedly observes the decor fastened to the walls. It's all farming equipment; spades and forks and horse tack---and things Y/N can't begin to guess the purpose of.
All along the sagging load-bearing beam running the centre of the building are bunches and bunches of dried wheat. Each proud little bundle is tied with twine, the one at the far end browned with age and dust, the other fresh and yellow and golden.
The table Y/N leans on is a dark old wood, smooth from calloused hands and chipped glasses and hot dinner plates.
She imagines generations of Holmeses dipping into 'The Red Fox' for a pint, discussing that year's harvest, the invention of electric lights, the declaration of World War Two, and, eventually, the coming age of computers.
When they've ordered they can smell their meals being cooked in the narrow kitchen behind the bar, hear the clang of saucepans and the sizzling of Sherlock's toad in the hole.
...
Y/N is scraping her spoon around her empty dessert bowl when she notices a man shifting restlessly at the bar. She hadn't seen him amongst the other patrons---who have drunk themselves into giddy giggles---and his clothes are beaded with rain.
Dressed in tweed, he's unusually large, with a round face, his old body strong and solid like a cart-horse. He's not drinking, but discussing something quite seriously with a grave expression to one of the other farmers, and Y/N flushes as his fretful brown eyes accidentally catch hers.
He dips his hat good-naturedly with an antique politeness, but the smile he gives is wobbly and he makes to leave in an obvious hurry, distractedly trying to erect a soggy umbrella.
Then something makes him falter. In his peripheral vision, he must have noticed the infamous curl of Sherlock's hair or the distinct point of his nose because he haults, his great shoulders sagging below his rain-slick anorak.
Instantly, his whole demeanour brightens and he bustles over, having to breathe in his vast bulk to slip easier through the crowd and close-knit jumble of tables. "Ah!" he exclaims, his eyes settling on Sherlock's face and confirming he is who he thought he would be---and is glad of it. "Sherlock! Dear boy, 'ow are yer? It's been, what? Three yers?"
He pronounces Sherlock's name more like 'sher-lack', and Y/N grins, instantly warming to the man's bumbling, gentle-giant manner.
Smiling politely in greeting, Sherlock stands to accept a hearty handshake, his narrow violin fingers dwarfed by the farmer's huge, leathery palm. "Yes, I think so, Mr Morghan, are you keeping well? And how's Mrs Morghan?"
"She's alrigh', she's alrigh'---and I told yer, yer a grown lad now, call me Teddy."
Y/N notices Teddy hasn't really answered both of Sherlock's questions.
He shifts from one mud-caked wellington to the other. "Actually, I'm glad I come across yer. Yer ma, Wendy, told me you were staying up at the old Holmes place for a few days. Nice ter be back, is it?"
"It always is, Teddy," Sherlock deflects his small talk meekly."But, if you don't mind...I'm actually on a date." He flushes proudly, pressing his lips into a regretful smile.
Teddy looks between Sherlock and Y/N, at the plates and dribbling candle between them, red like a liquid rose.
Apologetically, he takes off his hat and holds it in both his soil-stained paws. "I can see that, an' I'm everso sorry ter bother yer both on yer special night. It's just, I wanted to ask for yeh help. It's my sheep, see. Some 'av gone missing. I think someone might 'av snuck in an' stole 'em---it's been 'appening a lot recently, to cows an' all. You jus' did such a good job of findin' old Frankie's horses that time I wondered if..." he trails off, looking imploringly between Y/N and Sherlock.
Y/N finds it peculiar such a large man can seem suddenly so small.
He rings his hat in his hands again and a sad little dribble of rainwater trickles onto the carpet. "They're my best ewes. I worry the longer they're gone the further away they're gettin'."
Y/N can see Sherlock wavering uneasily. Not needing to consider it, she turns to Mr Morghan resolutely, offering him a sympathetic smile. "It's nice to meet you, Teddy, and don't worry; we'll help you find them."
Sherlock lights up, but turns to Y/N, surprised. "Really? Are you sure?"
She gives her hands a last wipe with her napkin and stands, donning her jacket. "Of course. I don't mind, we've had dessert anyway."
...
The velvet night sky is insistently drizzling when they step out of the pub's warmth and into the night. Teddy drives them to his farm in his Landrover---Sherlock in the front collecting information in the brisk, concise way he does---Y/N squashed up in the back with Teddy's excitable sheepdog, whom she is informed is called Wicket.
Wicket licks Y/N's face affectionately, and Y/N puts an arm around her warm fur, the rain on the roof getting stronger, like solid little pellets pinging off the metal.
"Sorry 'bout the weather; summer storms an' all that," Mr Morghan apologises guiltily, the car wading through a temporary lake that has formed in a dip in the road. "I 'ope whoever has my sheep 'as at least given 'em a nice barn to huddle into."
They pull into a long driveway, farm buildings and a squat, weatherproof cottage huddling around a courtyard at the end of it.
When they hop down from the Landrover, Y/N and Sherlock's boots sink several centimetres into the saturated mud.
In London, the rain is warmed by the petrol-burning cars on the pavement, the bright street lamps, and rooms flooded with ovens and central heating towering into the sky. The brickwork intercepts the droplets, splitting them in two, halving their weight and heating them up.
The rain in the countryside, however, is brisk, even though it's summer, the droplets a fat, cold sting on the skin.
Teddy leads them between two barns to a metal gate and unlatches it. An empty field stretches far beyond the reaches of his torch, the ground pricked with sheep's hoofprints that are quickly becoming pools of rainwater.
"I am really grateful you bought me these wellies!" Y/N shouts over the sound of it slapping the mud about her feet, suddenly washed over with gratitude for the clumpy---but bone dry---boots. She draws her jacket around her shoulders a little tighter, zipping it all the way up for good measure.
Unphased by the rain and excited about a case, Sherlock begins prowling over the hillocks of tidily nibbled grass. Bent over to examine the soft mud, he scouts about like a bloodhound for several paces before straightening up resolutely. Flipping his coat collar up against the downpour he declares, rejoining the group:
"Well, the good news is: they weren't stolen."
Hopefully:
"How der ya know?"
The wind howls spookily through the trees, lifting a panel of the barn above their head up like a loose tooth. It whistles through it with a shrill breath and Sherlock shouts over it:
"There aren't any tracks or tire marks beside your own, and the dog prints match Wicket's." He gestures to the collie, who watches them curiously from the foggy windows of the car. "The ewes must have been spooked by the roof coming off and gotten themselves lost."
For a moment Teddy's round shoulders had sagged with relief, but the new horror of his animals being lost out in the cold tightens them up again below his sodden coat.
Sherlock just gives him a confident smile and a reassuring pat on the back, sending droplets flying from the wool of his coat like he'd slapped a sponge. "We said we'd find them and we will. If you don't mind, Y/N?"
"Of course not. Mr Morghan, you go inside and have a warm drink," Y/N says, naturally stepping into her usual role of civilian comforter/wrangler. "We'll bring your sheep home. How many did you say we're looking for?"
"Six, and two lambs. I really can't think yer enough---are yer sure yer don't want me to go with yers? It's right dark out there."
"No, you go inside, Teddy," Sherlock assures. "I know the land well enough by now."
The old farmer nods with fatherly satisfaction. "Yes, of course. Quite right."
...
Making sure Mr Morghan makes it back to the safety of his front door, Sherlock and Y/N set off into the night.
By the light of their phones, Y/N follows Sherlock through the paddock as he traces a trail of prints somehow distinguishable from the rest, occasionally lifting a hand to wipe away raindrops beading on her lashes. Somewhere in the trees an owl screeches and she draws her borrowed rain mack tighter about herself.
It belongs to Mrs Morghan, and is several sizes too big, the hood over her forehead, filling with water and running off her shoulder like a peculiar fountain.
Sherlock notices her shiver and slips his hand into hers. It's damp but warm, and she grips back.
They continue following the tracks across the paddock, over to the brittle hawthorne edging the field. They suddenly cluster together as they reach the obstacle, as though the sheep had dithered back and forth in search of a weak spot. Having found it---in the form of a rotted fence post---they'd wriggled through the branches, their wool knotted on the thorns like damp candy floss caught in the teeth of a comb.
Diverting to find their own, sensible way out of the paddock (through a gate), Sherlock rejoins the trail and they carry on, skirting the fringes of a barley field.
Somehow, Sherlock manages to distinguish the sheep's delicate little tracks amongst wild hare's streaking sprints, fox's pointy paws, and the trodden path churned up by walkers and farmhands.
The barley has not yet been harvested, and won't be until it manages to dry out from this downpour. Saturated, they hang their heads despondently, the kernels sharp against Y/N's calves.
Sherlock has to push the barley aside to peer at the ground, looking---for once---like a cartoon detective from a Victorian novel, and Y/N makes an effort to chuckle to herself---
---but the sound is immediately snatched away by the rain.
She would be lying to herself if she claimed not to be a little frightened.
At Mr Morghan's farmhouse, the light from the kitchen had cast bright shadows on the gravel driveway and pruned front garden setting Y/N's heart at ease.
However, those lights are but specks now, like the mouth of some dark tunnel that has swallowed her and Sherlock whole.
Everywhere she points her torch, eyes glow back at her.
Somewhere, a roe deer barks and, startled, she clutches Sherlock's hand tighter.
Wearing the same exhilarated expression that suffuses his face when hurtling through London after a criminal, he throws a reassuring smile back at her, tugging her legs into step with his. "Okay?"
"Yeah. It's just spooky---"
Suddenly, the tracks leave the barley, veering off into a thicket of woodland.
Something rustles in the bushes and Y/N turns, dragging Sherlock with her.
"There! Under the trees!"
In the torchlight, huddled and shivering, several pairs of eyes stare back at them, rain dripping from their fuzzy shorn wool.
Y/N's relief is fleeting, her satisfied grin falling to a frown. She opens her mouth to ask how they will tackle their next challenge---getting the sheep home---but Sherlock is already snapping some branches purposefully, forming a path through the foliage.
Standing behind the animals and holding out his arms, he manages to persuade the ewes to emerge from the bushes with a series of complicated clicks and meaningful whistles.
A little taken aback---and, perhaps, in awe---Y/N blinks, then tries to copy his movements. Wobbling in the mud, she clutches the extended branch of a young oak as though it were a steadying hand and finds her footing. Then inch by tentative inch, she manages to help herd the sheep back the way they came.
Flushed out of their hiding place, the ewes blink at them through the rain, and Sherlock frowns, bending down to peer a little further under the hedge.
Sure enough, the two lambs remain, cowardly crouching up against the slick trunk, their wool streaked with lichen.
Sherlock gives another purposeful whistle, shouting his commands through the rain, and even when Y/N joins in the two lambs won't budge.
"We'll have to carry them," he yells, his fringe flat to his forehead and dripping. It runs down his furrowed brows and onto his collar, which he flips up again, the wool sagging with water.
Y/N watches helplessly as he ducks under the hedge. She glances at the parent sheep, expecting them to go hurtling off into the inky night without his watchful eye---
---but they're hesitating, reluctant to abandon their babies. They watch inquiringly, assessing the man in the long coat's intent, then, deeming him helpful, they stand dutifully by, only moving to nudge their way from the edge of the flock to the warmer, more secure centre.
In the prickly hedgerow, the lambs allow Sherlock to get admirably close, his movements calculated and steady. It is only when he extends a hand, his fingertips brushing a pussy-willow-like tail, that they make a break for it.
Ducking under a branch, they run headlong into an ancient birch trunk and turn back towards Sherlock, momentarily confused.
In one swift movement, he grabs them expertly as they pass his right leg and hauls them up, one under each arm.
The lambs protest as their dainty feet leave the ground, wriggling alarmedly---
---but he manages to keep hold of them as though they were nothing more than two sacks of potatoes.
Standing, he shakes his hair to rid it of twigs---looking rather like a wet dog---and shows Y/N how to take one of the poor sopping creatures in her arms.
Listening attentively, she supports the lamb's little pink belly with her forearms, letting his spindly legs dangle either side.
The lamb attempts to run at first, flailing in the air, bleating plaintively, but soon settles as its sodden wool meets the warmth of Y/N's chest.
Sherlock smiles, stepping back to grin at her with pride. "You're a natural."
Cradling its little body tighter, she walks with Sherlock back over the heath, whooping and herding the adult sheep as they go. It's difficult to see where they're going but Sherlock seems to remember the terrain and aims straight for the glowing little windows of Mr Morghan's farmhouse, weaving around trees and ditches like a bat through its woodlands.
Every now and again, the lamb whinnies despondently in her arms, his mother answering with an encouraging shout from upfront. Reassured, it nuzzles its little head back under Y/N's chin, his velvety ear flicking away a droplet of rain as though it were an irritating fly.
It seems to have grown quite attached to her, and looks about its surroundings unsurely as she places it gently down amongst the dusty dry straw of the barn. With a little encouragement, it ventures away from her arms and over to its mother who greets it with a firm licking, its tail wagging at the affection.