Young Writers Society

The clock had ticked around all through the night as it neared 4:30, Sherlock was looking out the kitchen window to the sunrise. Emily had never made it home the night before and he was trying not to be concerned with it. She usually was late to dinner. Maybe rolling in at 2 am and sleeping on the couch for 30 minutes before taking him to work.

But she would never cut it this close.

He looked down at the series of text between him and the Mechanic. John Mason or whatever. Nothing that he would have bothered to remember unless he cared.

Which he did.

The message he sent was simple: "Hey, can I get a ride to work?"

But if he went in the car with Mason, then he would have to explain why Emily wasn't there, and he would have to rely on the man for a ride home too. Having to rely on people meant having to reveal details of his life, which didn't even exist.

"Sure."

That's all the little blip on the screen said. Sherlock re-read it until the car rolled up to the shoulder near the front door, and the bell rang along with the sound of whatever radio station was on. He picked up the small backpack plastered with American flags, cringing as it slung over his shoulder, and stepped out the door.

"Hey Holmes. Why'd you need a ride today?"

"Emily is just out working late and she didn't make it home. I don't want to be a bother, so really I can just walk."

Mason opened the side door of the small truck, leaving his hand on Sherlock's shoulder while the detective slipped inside. He should have known how to interpret the motion, but a lot of reasons occurred to him.

“Walk? Arthur, it’s at least five miles to the shopping center and dangerous road all the way. It’s not bothering me to make sure you get there without getting hurt, I wouldn’t let that happen.

Once they started down the road, the regular questions started.

"Where does your roommate work, again?"

He knew for sure that he had never told Mason what Emily did for a living.

"She's a hunter."

"So like a game guide? I didn't think much besides fish were in at the moment?"

"Murderers are always in season."

Sherlock could almost seem the piece of chewing gum go down Mason’s throat as he heard the phrase. That should have been something that Sherlock was predicting but in his mind the description of Emily’s work had sounded like any other joke. It should have been something that Mason just laughed at and brushed off, before continuing with a statement about wanting the real, serious answer.

“Would your roommate happen to be Emily O’Brien?”

His eyes narrowed and glared towards Mason with the mention of her name.

“How do you know her last name?”

“I’m just asking if a town rumor is true. That the famous O’Brien who got kicked for sleeping with too many bosses’ daughters had returned to her little old home town. Because if she is that one, that gives me even more reason to want to meet her.”

It didn’t occur to Sherlock why Emily might be well known in her home town or even that this was her home town. He never questioned her about the life that had happened before she came to the Triangle.

Why had she run to her aunt?

Why had she taken the contracts?

Why had she brought him to her world?

“Sorry if that was too much of a question or stepping over the line. But I thought you would be more aware of her importance to us.”

“Who is ‘us’?”

“The rebels. Both of organized revolutions or others who hold things against the high wizard council.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

Sherlock really hadn’t been around for that long but the mentions of revolutions still happening warmed his heart a bit. Europe in the late 1800s had meant that everyone was constantly plotting against each other. And the arms dealers that he remembered were certainly more violent than the ones Emily went after now.

The familiar silence that came with all of the conversations he tried in came over them.

“You know you don’t have to call me by my last name. We’re friends. It’s not necessary if you want to keep calling me Mason, but I’d really prefer John.”

“I’d prefer to call you ‘John’, as well. I’m just used to referring to everyone as their last names.”

“Family upbringing style?”

“Something like that.”

Mason - no, John - pulled up beside the door of the Save-a-Lot and flipped the locks.

"You know, maybe we should go out some time, off the clock."

"What do you mean?"

"You know, a date?"

"Oh."

Sherlock looked down at his work boots and tried to process the situation.

"Unless I've been picking up the signals wrong and I'm not your type."

The words got stuck in his throat as he tried not to let any tears happen, "No, I just..."

"Just what?"

"Just no one has uh ever asked me out before."

"So, you're not experienced with this. So what? Do you want to go or not?"

He thought about Emily and how she would make him decline, for his own safety or whatever the reason. And yes, in one side of his head, the logic told him that it would be best to brush John off.

“I’d love to go out.”

“Is this afternoon after your shift good? I mean, I’m picking you up anyways but is tonight okay?”

“Yeah.”

“And remember, Arthur, my name is John. Please call me that.”

The truck turned away and Sherlock began dragging the graffiti covered carts from the bottom basin of the parking lot.