acafanmom, you made people look at me funny. "Who is this 変な外人 taking photos of … what is she taking photos of? A traffic light?!"
Ah, I'm just teasing. You know that anything goes in Tokyo.
You said you have good memories of Meguro Station, so here you go. I went walking in the Institute for Nature Study this morning, and took this photo for you. I've added a few others taken in the neighbourhood. You might recognize some of them.
Jizō statues at Daien-ji, the Meguro temple that was the flash point of the fire that burned one third of old Edo and killed nearly 18 000 people in 1772:
The Institute for Nature Study: it looks like trees against a clear autumn sky, but it's actually a reflection in the pond that I flipped upside down.
Meguro Fudōson in spring and winter (the tents in preparation for New Year crowds), a plant at the temple in summer and that same plant in winter. Remember how they wrap plants to protect them against the cold?
That infamous love hotel:
Textures and roofs, all taken at smaller temples in Meguro:
I hope the trip down memory lane was a good one, and that you're feeling better today. Incense was lit at Meguro Fudōson for you and everybody who's feeling down and missing the greatest city in the world.
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I'm working on a fairly significant (monstrous?) Johnlock AU based on a plot bunny deliciously dangled in front of me by acafanmon. I'm calling it Cowboylock (well, she is, so I titled the GoogleDoc as such) - it's an AU in the 1890s American West with John as a widowed doctor come to America to start over and Sherlock as a privileged son who's embarrassed his family and who's been sent to America until things "blow over" back home. He's still Sherlock, still a detective, and is using his soil knowledge to help break a cattle rustling ring when he's injured and brought to John's ranch. In the HP world where I first experienced fandom, many readers shun stories which place our British heroes in the States, I have no idea if anyone will read a Johnlock AU set in 1890s Wyoming, but am forging ahead anyway and am considering posting chapter by chapter as a WIP. Here's a snippet - Mrs. Hudson is John's housekeeper and Sherlock, laid up at John's house for a couple weeks until his broken leg heals enough to move him, deduces her.
ooOoo
Sherlock was eying Mrs. Hudson with something between interest and suspicion when John slipped out of the room. He’d need to take care with his time – he’d have to check on Sherlock several times a day and still manage to get all his work done. He was already concerned about the amount of swelling around the ankle – it should have been iced earlier, but there was nothing for it.
He made the tea and steeped it strong, added a touch of milk to one cup, and carried them both back to the room. Sherlock was sitting up with pillows plumped behind his back and Mrs. Hudson was standing near the foot of the bed, mouth agape, staring at him.
“How do you know those things?” she asked. She whirled around to face John. “Mr. Watson– why would you tell him about Carl?”
“No – Mrs. Hudson – please….” John hurried over and took her hands in his. “I didn’t tell him a thing – he guessed is all. Did the same thing to me last night.”
She looked at him, then nodded and blew out a breath.
“I’m sorry. Of course you didn’t say anything.” She chanced a glance at Sherlock, who looked a bit smug and not at all concerned that he had upset his host’s housekeeper.
“Look at her!” he said, sweeping an arm to the side at the room in general and Mrs. Hudson in particular. “Store-bought dress, hands only just getting accustomed to this kind of work. East Coast accent. No wedding ring. It’s as plain as the nose on my face, John. She’s lost her husband, her money and fallen in social status in the….”
“Mrs. Hudson was widowed less than a year ago, Mr. Holmes,” John said, glaring at his guest and cutting him off mid-stream. “She was gracious enough to come to work for me when I needed someone to look after things here. She’s indispensable to this household and I will not tolerate your rudeness.”
“But – ”
“I think you should apologize to Mrs. Hudson.”
“I’m not a child – and I certainly meant no harm.” Sherlock looked like he was teetering on the edge of a sulk. John glared. Sherlock looked at the wall behind the bed.
“Mrs. Hudson – my apologies. It was … unkind …of me to point out that your husband might have been involved in unsavory activities. However, I was simply – ”
“Thank you – apology accepted,” stated Mrs. Hudson in a hurry. She turned so her back was to Sherlock and gave John the look – the look that meant she wasn’t about to cede the upper hand to this man.
John approached Sherlock’s bed and scooted the chair closer with his foot.
“Milk?” he asked.
“A touch,” answered Sherlock. He looked suspicious when John pressed a cup into his hand, but immediately put the cup to his lips and sipped. John watched his eyes close in pleasure.
“You should eat something too – I know you won’t be too hungry, but perhaps some toast and eggs?”
Mrs. Hudson came in with a second plate for John, and he took it from her with a polite “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” She smiled at him, looked side-long at Sherlock, then left the room.
“You’re observant,” John said as Sherlock ignored the food on his place and drank his tea. “More than observant.”
Sherlock shrugged. “The tea is good. The best I’ve had in some time.” He blew on the surface of the cup and looked at John again. “Thank you.”
John laughed. “You reduce Mrs. Hudson nearly to tears then thank me for a good cuppa.
“It’s a very good cuppa.”
“So – how did you … ?” He waved his hand back toward the kitchen.
“Oh – that?” Sherlock lifted one shoulder casually. “I’ve already explained, haven’t I? Connecticut accent, well-tailored, store-bought clothing. No ring but she tried twisting it anyway – as if she were long accustomed to doing so. Working here – clearly lowering of social class. So – husband gone and she’s taken off the ring. She’s ashamed.”
John realized he was gaping, but Sherlock seemed quite matter-of-fact.
“I like her,” said Sherlock. He held out his cup to John. “And I’d like more tea.”
John stood and gestured to the plate. “Eat something,” he said.
Sherlock frowned at the plate, sighed and picked up a triangle of toast.
