InsaneJournal

Who: Severus Snape and Sherlock Holmes
When: Novemberish
Where: The graveyard
What: Visiting the grave of Tobias Snape
Rating/Warning: Low/Mentions of graveyards, abusive fathers, dead (NPC) characters
Status: Complete


To those that knew him at least moderately well--though those who knew him at all were typically little more than acquaintances--Sherlock Holmes had a habit of turning up in the most random, theoretically unlikely places. The freezer of a butcher’s shop, for example, or a honest-to-goodness whorehouse--though he never visited either establishment for, ahem, the pork. It was always something far more morbid, even for his line of work. He was a biological anthropologist. He studied death.

So it wasn’t completely unreasonable that he might, on occasion, visit a cemetery. But on his hands and knees, what could he be doing? He clearly wasn’t praying, as he pulled up fistfuls of grass.

Severus hadn’t been to the memorial service. He’d heard that his father was gone, but hadn’t bothered to go to the service or visit his mother after. Now he was regretting it if only a little bit. He’d wanted to see the dead man’s face in that coffin, wanted to spit in the grave as they lowered the casket. Of course, Romana would have frowned at such actions, and they would have confused Daisy. So, Severus abstained.

Though, today he was at the graveyard, searching for his bastard of a father’s grave. He turned around a large tree and saw the other man down on the ground, pulling up the grass. Severus glanced around, and then back to the other man. “I think they have lawnmowers for that.”

Sherlock looked up, craning his neck and quinting to take in the face of the man who was standing over him. The backlight from the sun made it difficult to see him clearly, but he could make out a prominent nose and lean neck. He rolled back onto his heels, dropping a handful of soil into a Ziploc bag marked Non-Denominational with black marker. “It’s the dirt I need. Or have they made advancements in lawnmower technology of which I should be aware?”

“Roto Tillers.” Severus suggested. He couldn’t hide his curiosity, though, and took a step closer to the other man on the ground. There was something about the other man that made him think--well, that made him think of himself a bit. Not just the physical similarities, though there were some of those, but the darkness, the snark. It reminded him of himself in the dreams. “...what are you doing?” He asked, unable to stop himself.

With a bit sigh, Sherlock closed the bag. There was a little sweat on his brow from the work, which was more exerting than it looked. “You see how this cemetery is divided into sections, according to religious belief: Catholic, Methodist, Presbyterian… Why, there’s even an area devoted to the Jewish faith.” It might have started like a question, but it sounded far more like a statement by the end. “I’m collecting samples to document the range of differences among the graveside activities.”

“Differences among gravesite activities?” Severus asked, glancing around to the different sections of the graveyard. “...how many people visit, what sorts of offerings they bring, that sort of thing?” He was trying to understand, mostly out of curiosity.

“Who smokes, who doesn’t. What brands. Gum, mints, also by brand.” He shrugged and rose to his feet, pulling up a satchel with him, where he inserted the bags of dirt. He pointed to a far-off quadrant. “I found large traces of ice cream over there…”

“Ice cream?” Severus asked, a smirk tugging up the corner of his mouth as he turned to look. “What does that have to do with denomination?” He wondered if this man was some sort of profiler.

“It means large groups of children and lax parenting,” Sherlock replied. As for the religion of the people involved, he did not divulge. For the first time, he really looked at the man who had paused to talk with him--looked him up and down. “Here to see your father?”

Severus paused. He’d rather underestimated the man who was digging around in the dirt. “I am.” He said. “How did you know?” There were probably telltale signs. He wasn’t carrying flowers, for one. His age? For another. The angry look on his face. He was in his work clothes, this was just a quick stop before heading to his lab.

The lack of flowers had been a piece of the puzzle. Sherlock had ruled out that the deceased was the man’s spouse or otherwise lover right off the bat. His expression was more angry than morose. The footsteps he was leaving in the dirt were heavy. Estranged father, apparently. Still, Sherlock knew the best way to begin an investigation, however small, was frequently with a specific question. Here to see your father? Yes.</i> Case closed.

Sherlock was also pretty close to determined if the man was in the scientific or medical profession, but he’d require a few more minutes. For not, he continued to pack his things. “Lucky hunch.”

“I don’t believe in luck.” Unless, of course, one was talking about Felix Felicis. But that was magically generated luck. And for the most part, that sort of magic didn’t exist in this world. Severus slipped his hands into his pockets, and wondered if this was a Dreamer. One of the others who may or may not have special powers or abilities, may be able to read his mind or his history.

Sherlock did believe in luck. How else to explain the unexplainable forces? Well, how else to explain the unexplainable forces when the general population’s intelligence wasn’t strong enough to power a small light bulb. This fellow, however, was clearly not an average man. “I took a guess,” he added. “And you confirmed it.”

“Yes, well. I will admit I am here to see his grave. To affirm that he’s dead and buried. I don’t think anyone can blame me for that.” Severus responded. He turned his eyes away from the other man and took a look across the graveyard. He wasn’t entirely sure where his father’s headstone would be, he was wandering almost aimlessly.

“You didn’t go to the funeral, then,” Sherlock said, rather than questioned. More often than not, he seemed to have no concept of when he ought not say something, though the man was giving no indication that this was a private matter. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be chatting.

"No. I hated the man." Severus said. He figured that the other would have another lucky guess as to why, but spared him the trouble. "He was abusive, alcoholic, a right bastard. The world's better off without him in it."

“Then why bother to visit two months… no, not quite two months later?” Sherlock was putting the other pieces together now: the direction the man had been walking, the fresh samples he had taken at the grave marked Snape--though it still didn’t have a final headstone. The funeral had been very poorly attended.

“With the holidays approaching, I figured I should at least make an appearance. To smooth things over with my mother.” Severus was now convinced that this man had some sort of power. There was something he did better than anyone else, perhaps unlike anyone else, that gave him knowledge he might not otherwise have.

Sherlock did think of himself as having powers, though that thought was usually followed by musings on the stupidity of the general population. But as far as this “case” went, he wasn’t trying to prove anything--this was closer to conversation, for him. But even he knew it was time to let the Snape man do what he’d come to do. “Well…” he said. “Good luck. Even if you don’t believe in it.”

“Thank you.” Severus said. “And… with your dirt.” He said, nodding his head to the dirt that the other man was collecting. Then he slipped his hands back into his pockets, and started off toward the fresh grave that was his father’s.