"That's...me?" he asked, taking the camera once again.
"Yes, that's you, moron." John muttered.
"Don't call me a moron I have an IQ of 190." Sherlock boasted, puffing out his chest a little bit and looking proud of himself.
"That's nice, but you're still scared of a camera." John pointed out. "So look at the angel, that's not normal is it?" John pointed out.
"Not in any house I've seen." Sherlock decided.
"And you live in the weirdest place I've ever seen, so it makes sense. Something I don't know, transported me here, and I need to find out who so I can go home." John decided. Sherlock sighed, as if deciding whether or not to take John seriously.
"Whom." Sherlock muttered, making John stop.
"I'm sorry?" John asked.
"You need to find out whom, so you can go home." Sherlock corrected, making John want to slam his face into the table.
"Sorry, my mistake." He muttered. Sherlock smiled proudly, as if he lived for people admitting he was right and they were wrong.
"So, what now?" Sherlock asked.
"I have no idea; I've got nowhere to go and can't get home, so I guess I'm staying here until I find somewhere else."
"Well, if you need a place to stay I could probably smuggle you into my master's barn." Sherlock shrugged.
"Your...what?"
"I'm a servant, as I said the only thing I'm good at is violin and intelligence, but that doesn't get me anywhere except this place on Fridays and weekends, and it's not like it pays well." Sherlock shrugged.
"No, it's okay, I think I could probably find somewhere else..."
"This bar closed you know, at around one o'clock, and I don't think you want to sleep in the street with this week's rotting dead." Sherlock pointed out, and he was irritatingly right.
"Why are they dead?" John asked, remembering the bodies piled up in the streets.
"Do you live under a rock or something? They're dead because of the plague, there's no cure, you're telling me you've never heard of the plague?"
"Well, I have, but only in history books, there's a cure, some bloke found it back in the 1600's." John pointed out.
"Now you're messing with me officially. It is the 1600's, 1665." Sherlock pointed out. John's jaw dropped, but that had to be fake, he was obviously lying.
"There is no way I was teleported from 2015 to 1665, there's no way." John decided with a laugh. Sherlock sighed, pulling the full mug from out of John's reach.
"You know what, you really do need some sleep, let's go, and you're going a little bit..." Sherlock waved his finger around his head, the universal kindergarten sign of crazy, and got up out of his chair.
"I'm not crazy, if anything all you lot are!" John debated, not moving from his seat.
"Ask anyone here, it's Mr. 2015 or the entire town of people with their heads screwed on right." Sherlock pointed out. "And they already proved the world is going to end in 2012, so sorry to break it to you."
"Oh yes, how could I forget, I was one of the few survivors, after the aliens came down." John muttered.
"Aliens? Is that where you got that camera?" Sherlock asked, looking worried.
"No it's not... oh my god I am surrounded by idiots." John decided.
"Come on John, let's just go." Sherlock decided, grabbing John's arm and trying to pull him out of the seat. John reluctantly got out of the seat, but shook Sherlock's hand away, not wanting this guy to get the wrong message.
"How about I just check into a hotel or something?" John suggested.
"I thought you didn't have any money." Sherlock pointed out.
"Well, I don't, but you know, I could maybe find some?" John shrugged.
"Impossible, if you're thinking of pickpocketing the victims then you're likely to get arrested or hit with an angry family member, I've tried." Sherlock debated.
"I wasn't thinking of doing that, it's ghastly." John assured, making Sherlock roll his eyes.
"You are so cute and innocent. Obviously you don't want to survive." Sherlock decided.
"I thought I just said I would... wait, cute?" John asked, but Sherlock just smiled, turning away to walk away towards the door. John was torn between sitting here and waiting to be kicked out and following this flirtatious stranger. But he was right; John had no money, no other friends, and no place to stay than on the streets. He just groaned, running after Sherlock's retreating back as he walked out the door, violin case in hand.

The walk to the barn was relatively long, walking through the town and through long dirt roads, deserted for the night. The crickets were chirping and the moon was shining, but it was a nice warm night, a nice night for a long walk apparently. It was so different from the present day town, even though John didn't live in a city the air was clogged up by the smog and distant lights of the cities, the noise and constant hum of life blocking out the peaceful silence. But when he looked up here the stars were bright, shining undisturbed, John bet if he lay down and concentrated he could count them all. Sherlock walked slightly ahead, and dispute the warm weather pulled on an old looking trench coat, pulling up the collar unnecessarily.
"You're awfully quiet." He decided, slowing his walking pace to be side by side with John.
"Just, confused I suppose." John shrugged, which was an understatement. He was trapped with a bunch of lunatics claiming it was the 1600's, and even worse he was going to sleep in a barn provided by this weirdo flirt.
"Are you really from 2015?" Sherlock asked after a while.
"Are you really from 1665?" John asked.
"Answering a question with a question doesn't usually answer anything." Sherlock decided with a small smile, making John look at the dirt road in front of him.
"Yes, I'm from 2015, I would give you proof but I've got none." John muttered.
"And yes, I am really from 1665, that's the date, June 8th, 1665." Sherlock decided. "Ask anyone."
"That doesn't make sense though, how could I be zapped back centuries?" John asked.
"You said you saw an angel stature, maybe it had something to do with it." Sherlock suggested.
"Angels statues in my day don't send people back in time, they're statues, they don't move." John debated.
"I think we have a whole new version of normal, I'd like to say anything is possible wouldn't you?" he asked.
"Not everything is possible, we still can't cure cancer, can't fly, can't breathe underwater." John pointed out.
"Are there aliens?" Sherlock asked. John laughed quietly, but it was clearly heard since there was no background noise to cover it up.
"No, not yet at least, but there is definitely other galaxies up there, you only have to look up to see that." John decided, craning his head to see the stars shining above them.
"Tell me something I wouldn't believe, from the future I mean." Sherlock decided, stuffing the hand that wasn't holding the violin in his pocket and looking thoughtfully at John. John thought for a moment, he didn't know how to explain the internet, and TV wasn't the most amazing thing in the world, not really.
"Well, I honestly don't know, we have cars, wheeled vehicles that move us around, internet, which is like all the information in the world the size of your palm, you can talk to people in things you put in your ears, and they reach across the entire world. Oh, and those colonies Britain has right now, they revolt and form their own nation, becoming the most powerful."
"The 13 colonies? Those farmers couldn't beat our armies." Sherlock said with a laugh.
"Well I guess you won't be alive to see it anyway." John shrugged.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked.
"What are you, eighteen?" John asked.
"Almost."
"It doesn't happen until 1776, maybe if you live really long you'll see it." John decided. "And don't tell anyone, I don't want to mess anything up."
"And how do I know I can trust you?" he asked.
"I guess you don't, but I'm not lying." John shrugged. That answer seemed to satisfy Sherlock for some reason, he nodded and was silent. It was such a nice night John was sort of upset when Sherlock turned into a dirt driveway, lit with oil lamps hanging from fancy iron poles.
"Home sweet home." He muttered, opening up a small gate and leading the two inside. It was a very nice place, more like a small town than anything. There were numerous buildings, all in the shadow of a mansion that seemed to stretch taller than the trees in front of it. There were also a couple of barns, rolling pastures, some huts and a smoke house dotted along the perimeter.
"That's where I live." Sherlock announced, nodding at the small hut, the windows dark and the smoke stack empty. "And this, is where you will be." He decided, walking up to the red barn and pulling open a thin wooden door. When John walked in it smelled really bad, like wet hay and animal poop, typical barn smell apparently. There were hay bales stacked so high they touched the ceiling, bags and bags of numerous animal foods, and stalls on either side of the entire thing. In those stalls were all sorts of animals, horses, cows, goats, even a couple of sheep and a donkey. All of them stuck their heads over the fences in the hope that Sherlock and John were here to feed them. Sherlock went behind the piles of hay, pulling over a wooden ladder and starting to climb up it. Once his feet had disappeared onto the loft John followed, worried the ladder wouldn't hold his weight, but he made it to the top without incident. It opened up to a slanted roof wooden loft, with numerous bags of spare food piled in the corner. The floor was covered in hay and buzzing bugs, but compared to sleeping outside with the sheet-wrapped dead it was a suite. Sherlock was in the process of lighting an oil lamp, sparking a match and lighting the wick, bathing the place in dim firelight, making his pale skin glow in a warm sort of way.
"I know it's not much, but it'll do for now." Sherlock shrugged, dragging over some of the bags of food in a bed sort of arrangement.
"I really couldn't ask for more, this is very generous of you." John decided, standing awkwardly by the railing overhanging the rest of the barn.
"Oh it's not really mine to rent out, if they find you in here you'll probably end up in prison, or Mr. Hudson will just shoot you." Sherlock shrugged.
"Wait what?" John asked immediately.
"He's a bit of a trouble maker that one, Mrs. Hudson is the nicer one, but she's got a temper as well."
"And he'll get away with... shooting me?" John asked with disbelief.
"Of course, you're trespassing." Sherlock said obviously.
"Of course, murder is legal." John muttered, but Sherlock didn't hear him as he dragged over a bag of goat feed.
"I don't have a blanket on hand, but I'm sure you'll do fine, it's quite warm out, if you really need one I could always give you my coat." Sherlock decided, gesturing to the trench coat.
"No, I'm fine, thank you though." John decided, thankful he had stumbled across the nicest stranger in that entire bar.
"My pleasure John, it always feels nice to do a public service once in a while, mix it up." he pursed his lips after the last word, making a popping sound that John could never manage even if he tried. John smiled at him, a thankful smile, which was returned instantly, and they made eye contact that John sort of got lost in. Those emerald green eyes, reflecting the firelight, it was a bit of a challenge to simply look away. But soon he realized that his eyes were getting glassy and he was probably staring extremely creepily at Sherlock, so he cleared his throat and faked a yawn, a poor excuse to look at the floor instead.
"I'm getting pretty tired, time travel takes a lot out of you apparently." John decided with a forced little laugh.
"Yes, I'll leave you to it, sleep well Mr. Watson." Sherlock decided, picking up the violin case from where he dropped it on the floor and started descending down the ladder with a smile.
"Good night." John called after a little while, but all he heard was a little chuckle right before the door closed. John sighed, looking around his new temporary home and sighing. It was definitely more than he could hope for, but compared to his fluffy bed loaded with warm blankets and soft pillows, a couple of bags of animal food were a bit dull. The darkness was a little bit unsettling, and even though there were movements from the animals below him he felt completely alone. But never the less he was tired, that hadn't been a lie, so he took off his windbreaker and lay down on the food bags, which crunched and shifted under his weight. He used his jacket for a thin blanket, which didn't do much against the cold but would hopeful keep the annoying bugs from landing on him. John left the oil lamp lit; he didn't really want to be alone in the darkness in this strange place. But after a while of jumping at shadows and turning random goat bleats into murderous growls, he finally drifted to sleep.