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Chapter Text

Reader, if this was to be a regular autobiography, I would have recorded in detail the events of all my insignificant existence. But this is not to be a regular autobiography. I am only bound to invoke Memory when I know her responses will possess some degree of interest. Suffice it to say that I had once been a member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, an army doctor stationed at the front of Afghanistan, in whose insalubrious times was laid waste by Jezail bullet, and in whose insalubrious climes took deathly ill of it. I was invalided home, given a meager pension, and cut loose of it. Reader, when one's whole life has been regimented, to be suddenly set 'free' into one's own volition is as like to a ship being slipped of its moorings. For some time, I was indeed unmoored, friendless, with only a dreary rented bedsit I could I'll afford, and no means to pursue my occupation. Who would hire a doctor who could only walk by means of a cane and whose dominant hand often ceased to function?

It was chance that led me back into the path of a former school fellow; I quite literally thumped into him on the street.

"John? John Watson?" The portly, nigh unrecognizable fellow cried after a standard round of apologies. "Stamford! I'm Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together." He took in my cane and much reduced stature (for let me reiterate, Reader, that I had taken ill with tropical fever and had yet to recover my vigor). "Good Lord, dear chap, last I heard you'd joined the Army and gone off to be shot. What happened?"

I shrugged a little, thumping my cane. "I got shot." He looked so distressed that I cried, "But come! The sight of a friendly face in this great cesspool of a city is a pleasant sight indeed." And as such reunions are not suited for street corners, we set off for lunch.

I recounted some of my adventures as we walked, limited by my slow, thumping pace, and upon reaching my conclusion, Stamford cried, "Poor devil! What are you up to now?"

I sighed. "I am in need of either new lodgings or a new servitude, for I find that I am no longer fit to be a surgeon." Here I showed him the tremble in my dominant hand. "And yet I have spent all my energies on becoming one. Tell me, dear fellow, how does one change their station at our stage of life?"

But here, Stanford's eye caught a gleam, and indeed he smiled at me. "That's a strange thing," said he, "for I too trained to be a surgeon. Instead, I now teach."

"You now teach!" cried I, rather amazed that that course of action had eluded me. "Where do you teach?"

"At Bart's." He grinned at my grin, for that was where we were schooled. "Ah yes, the bright young things! Lord how I hate them." We shared a chuckle.

After a moment I mused, "This does seem a feasible end, but what do people do to get a new place?"

"That's another strange thing," Stamford replied, "for this very morning a fellow who was working in the chemical laboratory up at Bart's used almost the same expression to me. He was bemoaning to himself how he could not find a tutor for his ward who was ...well, who was compitent. Let's just say that that was the sentiment he intended to convey."

"By Jove!" I cried. "If he really wants a tutor for his ward, I am the man for him."

Stamford gave me a rather significant glance over his coffee cup. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes yet. Perhaps you may not care to place yourself in his employ."

"Why, what do you know about him?"

"Oh, I don't mean to imply anything villainous, only that he is a little queer in his ideas and habits. As far as I know, he is a decent enough fellow."

"Is there any chance I could meet him today?" I asked, facing the cool realities of business.

Here Stamford's face twisted. "I'm afraid not. He has just gone abroad this morning. He comes and goes like that, quite the scientist. He did leave me his address though; if you would like, I would happily write you a letter of recommendation."

I mulled my new future in my coffee cup for a moment. If this queer creature was in fact often abroad, then my being able to temper his peculiarities may not mean that much. If anything, if the position was not, in fact, suitable, I could look for another and have the fruits of experience to bolster me. "What of Mr. Holmes' ward? My would-be pupil?"

"I understand the boy's name is Wiggins, but I could not tell you his first name. He is ten or eleven, I believe."

"Did Mr. Holmes discuss salary with you?"

"He did, in fact. I think he rather hoped that as a teacher myself, I'd be willing to take the post, but barring that, that I would pick someone for him. He said £60 per annum, But!" he countered when he saw my proto-protest, "this would include room and board. You would not be beset for rent and meals."

Reader, I was receiving a pension of £210 per annum, but my finances had already reached such an alarming state due to the unexpected expense of London living that the prospect of free room and board was very appealing to me.

"Where would this position be? Does Mr. Holmes keep a house in London?"
Here Stamford looked a little sheepish. "Ah, no. Holmes keeps a manor house called Thornfield, about a day's coach ride from London."

Thinking of my numerous gambling stubs and their contribution to the state of my pocketbook, I rather thought the isolation might do me some good. I smiled to Stamford and agreed.
•••

Stamford's testimonial to my character as a doctor and a scholar accordingly dispatched wanted a full month for a reply. I had indeed despaired that Mr. Holmes had found me wanting, but I eventually did receive the gentleman's reply fixing that date fortnight as the date to assume my post as tutor in his house. Given that the time taken by post had not been accounted for, I was due to take up my position three days thence. My box was corded, my possessions few, and the carrier was due in half an hour to call me into my new life.

Stamford had called upon me one last time before I took leave of London to give me a few more particulars regarding my new employer. "You mustn't blame me if you and Holmes do not get on," he pleaded.

"If he's often abroad, then like as not, his manner will have nothing to do with me. And if we do not get on; it will be easy enough to part company," I reasoned. "But tell me, Stamford, is there something about this fellow that I ought to know? You do seem to be pressing the point."

Stamford held out his hands in supplication. "It is difficult to explain. He's a cold fish, and a right bit too scientific for my tastes. He has a kind of passion for definite facts and exact knowledge."

I cocked my head, at a loss to see why this could be seen as a fault.

"It is possible to take a thing too far," he explained, "but here, you will have to make your own impression then. Look! Your coach is here. Do keep in contact, and don't let Sherlock Holmes run rough trod over you!"

Chapter Text

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play; and when I draw up the curtain this time, reader, you must fancy you see a room in the George Inn at Millcote. It is now eight o'clock, and outside it is quite dark, though a fine fire and an oil lamp illumen the room. Upon reaching the George Inn, I asked at the front desk if anyone was waiting for Dr. Watson, to which the innkeeper replied there was not. I was obliged to leave my trunk with the hostler, and asked to be shown into a private room. After the space of a quarter hour, I began to feel very uneasy. Contingencies and fancies jockied for space in my mind: Mr. Holmes' letter to his housekeeper went astray, Mr. Holmes forgot to notify his housekeeper, Mr. Holmes recanted his offer, Mr. Holmes' housekeeper resented the intrusion and sought to sabatoge me, and on and on. Down, imagination!

At last, a waiter appeared in the door. "Dr. Watson?" I nodded. "Person here waiting for you."

I rose stiffly from my seat, cane clattering, and gathered my umbrella. Outside, lit by the lamps of the town and the inn, stood an old man and a one-horse car. "Is this your luggage then?" He asked gruffly, pointing to the trunk in the hall, eye on my cane. I affirmed that it was; the old man strapped my trunk to the back, we climbed in, and were off.

The slow pace irked me. I was already stiff from the initial coach ride, and by now I was gone tired. However, sleep in such an indefensible place in the company of a stranger was not possible. On and on the drive dragged on, and I bent my thoughts to my pupil. Given the plainness of the car and the servant, I doubted Mr. Holmes led a very stately life. Then again, such rustication might be the impetus behind his frequent traveling. I had no idea what sort of care my pupil received. On one hand I was rather pleased to not face some overbearing, child-worshipping busy-body who would balk at any restraints against the perfect character of her darling boy. I did not go so far as to hope my new pupil would like me, for such sentimental clap-trap means very little in the end, but I did rather hope that we would reach some sort of understanding. At most, I hoped that he would prove less intractable than my own former self.

At last the coach-house light of Thornfield grew visible. The car passed through gate and under trees, and at last stopped beside a side door. A maid in plain dress appeared, who, while the driver saw to my trunk, showed me inside. My leg had stiffened most painfully during the course of the long, cold ride, and to be frank, Reader, the numerous stairs were an agony. We passed through dark halls whose vault like air hinted at a grand scale hidden beyond our little circle of candlelight. The corridors were richly appointed with old wood walls and portraits whose eyes seems to track our progress into the keep. My guide was disinclined to prattle, indeed she said not a word but yawned twice. The only sound was the thumping of my cane on the hardwood. She finally led me into a lady's parlor, where a cheerful fire and the light of a candle showed a stout matron in a widow's cap. She was seated comfortably near the fire with a lapful of knitting, and a supremely content housecat sprawled on the rug by her feet. As I entered the room, the older woman set aside her knitting and stood to greet me.

"How do you do, Dr. Watson? I'm Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper. I'm afraid you must have had such a tedious drive, here, you must by dreadfully cold, do come sit by the fire. Leah, bring up some tea and a few sandwiches. Here are the keys. Oh you must be hungry doctor, I'm sure you've been on the road all day."

I sank into one of the high backed chairs that flanked the fireplace with a grateful sigh. Mrs. Hudson kept up a warm swell of chatter that seemed to require no reply, and then tea was served. I had been so filled with nerves that I had disdained the thought of food that day, so I was quite appreciative of the simple fare. After the repast, though, and with the heat of a good fire on my face, I begged leave to retire. The day's travel had exhausted me. Mrs. Hudson took her candle and showed me to my room.

•••

I woke the next morning with a sudden wariness, and it took me a moment to understand my unfamiliar surroundings. Once my mind caught up with my fighting arm, though, I sank back to my pillow with a sigh. I could scarcely recall when I had last slept so uninterrupted. It felt strange to greet the light of day without the grit of no sleep in my limbs. Early morning sunshine glowed through white chintz curtains, lighting up a more sumptuously decorated room than I had ever been in in my life. The light of a single candle had done no justice to the wallpaper, or the Turkish carpet, or the carvings on the four poster bed and wardrobe. I rose and went to the window, but the gardens were barren with the coming winter. Mr. Holmes may not have held with livery, but his home was nothing less than a county seat. The generations of money and power seemed etched in the very walls.

Once dressed, I sought breakfast, though I knew of only one room beyond my bed chamber. Luckily, I found Mrs. Hudson seated in her fireside chair. "Oh bless me, you're an early riser! Just like my late husband, I see you're the can-do type." She then called for breakfast, but before the servant, Leah, could fetch it, we were joined by two others.

My charge, Billie, was a boy of nine, kept in care by a nurse named Molly Hooper. Billie was fair-haired and grey-eyed, and he stared at me with much suspicion for the whole of breakfast. Miss Hooper was so shy and meek that she would barely meet my eye. Mrs. Hudson filled our silence with gentle prattle. At last, Billie's mouth opened and the broadest Cockney accent spilled forth, but its contents were what struck me, "What kind of doctor is a soldier?"

Molly looked so terrified that I feared for Mrs. Hudson's china. She whispered, "Billie!"

But indeed, I was rather impressed by his pronouncement and replied, "I was an army doctor. How did you know about the soldiering?"

Billie looked confused for a moment, then shrugged and said, "Dunno. I see it, is all. So have you killed anyone?" Molly again sought to quell her charge, to no avail that I could see.

Here I thought it fit to slip on a little of the cloak of authority, "Yes I have." I held that pause for a breath. "But I have also saved people, too."

Here the boy perked up and showed a more real interest. "Really? I saved Mr. Holmes, too!" But at that, Molly set her tea cup down with a clack, and Billie finally showed some contrition. "Whoops, I'm not supposed to talk about that." I looked to Molly for an explanation, but she still avoided my eye.

"So how did you come into the care of Mr. Holmes, then, Billie?" I asked.

Billie pulled a sour face. "It's all tied up in stuff I can't talk about...but it doesn't matter anyway, because he lied! When he asked if I wanted to come live with him, I said yes because I wanted to live with him, not get left behind in this big empty pl--" Here Molly physically clapped a hand over his mouth and whispered something (some sort of threat given Billie's expression). When she sat back, calm and demure again, Billie squirmed a little then asked sweetly, "It's awful the weather we've been having, isn't it?"

I hid my smile in my tea cup.