Chapter Text
Watson was tired-exhausted, and she wasn't sure if it was the effect of recovering from her wounds and illness, or the sudden adjustment she'd had to fight through the entire recovery as well. It was very well, she supposed, that she now lacked a profession, lacked employment, and lacked any connections to friends or family in the great city of London. She'd gravitated there, she supposed, because of the size, because it would be easier to slip through the crowd, unnoticed. She had been up at St. Bart's just a few short years ago, but she doubted anyone there would recognize her as the same medical student she once had been.
Her head throbbed, and her shoulder seemed to join sympathetically. Perhaps she was having a relapse. Perhaps the shoulder would pain her for the rest of her life. There was no need to discover which it was, or at least no need to attend to a physician, especially because she expect they'd all be like the last one she'd seen before being dropped off at the jetty in Portsmouth in the same donated clothes she was wearing that day. He'd been a supercilious red-faced man who'd peered over his spectacles at her, patronizingly scolded her for her "deception", and prescribed rest for her wounds and illness. Not particularly a spectacular feat of medical brilliance, Watson had stewed silently. It wasn't worth trying to explain that the dress she was wearing, the scuffed boots on her feet, and the stiff whalebone of her corset felt like more of a deception than her army uniform had ever been, not if she wanted to keep the word "asylum" off that man's lips.
Leaving the bank with her monthly withdrawal from her meager inheritance, Watson could not help but wonder if the asylum was in her future regardless. Her chances for employment were slim, with no references she could call upon, and very limited expertise that might be befitting to a woman. Perhaps, though, she considered, if a sympathetic ear could be plied with a carefully assembled fiction, it could afford her a little more comfort. The other alternative, removing herself from the city, where she'd be recognized and scrutinized daily, made her almost shudder to contemplate
The best way to sell a lie was to ground it in truth, Watson knew. So her letter had been grounded in some truth-the fate of her parents, at the very least, and the recent arrival on England's shores. She'd copied the letter so she could review the rest of her story on the steps of St. Bart's before her appointment, apparently having found the sympathetic ear she was barely expecting.
'Ah, yes,' said the sister when she'd been shown to the office. 'Ms. Watson. Thank you for coming, I'm Mildred Stamford, the head sister here.'
Stamford seemed surprisingly friendly, a real contrast to her predecessor, a tough matron who Watson never dared to cross. They briefly shook hands, before they were both startled by a large crash down the corridor. Stamford sighed, and gestured for Watson to take a seat.Watson did so, rehearsing her story in her head as she did.
'That would be Mr. Holmes,' she said. 'He works in the chemical laboratory, although he's not a medical man. He is either here at all hours for weeks at a time, or completely absent. I do not even want to fathom what he is studying today, last week I found him in the dissecting room, beating the subjects there with a stick.'
'Beating them?' Watson asked, breaking out of the rehearsal in surprise.
'He wanted to verify how far bruises may be produced after death, at least that's how it was explained to me. Heaven knows what his purposes are,' she muttered distractedly. 'You may want to avoid him if you take up employment here, Ms. Watson,' she added, before reviewing the letter that she'd left on the desk, presumably the one from Watson. Watson touched her purse where she knew her copy of the letter had been folded carefully, and began rehearsing the answers she wanted to provide again.
She'd been living abroad, Watson told Stamford, working as a nurse for a doctor in India near where her family had lived, until they died of enteric fever. Watson herself had been struck ill as well, and, with no remaining family in India, had been returned to London to live with an uncle, who she discovered, on arrival, had been killed in a carriage accident just a few weeks prior.
'That explains the lack of local references,' Stamford answered, neutrally, although Watson's stomach dropped a bit. Perhaps this ruse would not work. 'I don't see any reason you shouldn't be afforded a trial at the very least,' she added. 'Next Monday, eight in the morning.'
'Thank you for the opportunity,' Watson gasped, genuinely grateful, though having the opportunity made her question the wisdom of this plan again-the reality of trying to keep up the ruse for months or even years was starting to hit her as the next challenge. Before Stamford could answer, there was a shout from the adjoining room. Stamford closed her eyes and took a breath.
As Stamford was showing Watson out the door, ready to walk her back to the entrance, the shouts continued. 'I've found it!' a man cried, bursting out the door with enthusiasm as Stamford and Watson approached. 'I've found it! I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by hemoglobin, and by nothing else!'
Watson marveled at his enthusiasm and Stamford stared in exasperation, but was spared from responding by another sister who'd arrived, hurrying. Her arrival did not seem to phase Holmes, whose grey eyes remained fixed on Watson.
'You're needed on the ward, sister' she gasped. Stamford looked from Watson to Holmes, to the young, anxious sister, and made a quick decision.
'Mr. Holmes, would you be so kind as to ensure Miss Watson finds her way out?' she asked. Watson caught Holmes' eyes briefly, but glanced down, intrigued by his interest in her but uncomfortable with his steady gaze. She'd spent the long months of recovery since Afghanistan trying to escape notice, to shrink into the background and the scenery as much as possible. She couldn't imagine what would possible make this stranger so interested in him, but she did wish it didn't make her feel so self-conscious.
And Stamford was gone.
'Miss Watson,' Holmes said with a nod. 'A recent arrival from Afghanistan, it seems.'
'How on earth did you know that?' Watson gasped, looking up at him in astonishment.
'Never mind,' Holmes answered, with a slight chuckle to himself. 'The question now is about hemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?'
'It is interesting, chemically, no doubt,' Watson answered, instinctively, the words falling out of her mouth before she could catch herself. 'But practically-' she stopped, but her sudden horror that she was already failing in her plan went unnoticed to Holmes, who pulled her into his laboratory, with long low tables running through it, littered with test tubes, lamps, and bottles, strewn around with what seemed like little order. Watson was glad Holmes diverted his attention back to his experiment, and his eyes were no longer on her, though she realized, very quickly, that he was giving her a demostration, pricking his own finger to unleash a drop of blood and showing her enthusiastically the reaction when that drop was added to the reagent, as delighted as Watson had ever seen a man.
She didn't stop him as he continued to extol the virtues of his development, almost enraptured by his enthusiasm at the discovery, although she briefly wondered what would happen if someone were to find the two of them, alone in that laboratory, discussing chemistry, although the conversation quickly shifted to crime, and specifically, a series of murderers that would have been caught handily, with this new invention.
'You obviously don't mind the smell of strong tobacco,' Holmes said, as he stuck a plaster where he'd pricked his finger, seemingly having exhausted the list of criminals. The erratic conversation had silenced Watson for now; she really wasn't sure how they'd arrived at tobacco, and how he'd-very correctly-once again, guessed something about her.
'Experiments, like these-chemicals,' Holmes added. 'I often do them around the house as well. Would that annoy you?' Before Watson could answer, Holmes continued, each sentence more baffling to Watson than the last. 'Let me see—what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don’t open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I’ll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It’s just as well for us to know the worst of one another before we live together.'
'Mr. Holmes!' Watson exclaimed, more startled by each turn Holmes' thoughts had taken, all in a crescendo leading to the intention of living together? Feeling suddenly more vulnerable, Watson wished she'd still had a service revolver. 'I have no intentions of marrying-' she began sharply.
'Neither do I,' Holmes interrupted, quickly and firmly. Watson's voice died in her throat. 'I have my eye on a suite on Baker Street, and I was hoping to share the rooms with a fellow bachelor, it would suit us down to the ground. You do not mind the violin?
Watson swallowed and picked at the lacy hem of her sleeves, double checking to be sure she was still wearing the women's garments that had been foisted upon her, her confusion and alarm growing, though part of her stomach was doing flip-flops, perhaps daring to hope for a change in her circumstances. The violin though, 'It depends on the player,” she said, when she realized he was waiting for an answer, stumbling over her words, 'A well-played violin is a treat for the gods—a badly-played one—'
'Oh, that's all right,' Holmes exclaimed, holding his arms out in rapture. 'I think we may consider the thing as settled—that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you.'
Holmes did finally notice the profound shock on Watson's face as she stared at him, trying to follow his everything that had come at her so quickly, and work out how to respond to such a sudden offer. 'Surely, the pension that you are rightfully due for your military service is not coming, despite the injuries you sustained for your Queen and Country,' Holmes continued. Watson's stomach fell and she continued to pick at her sleeves. 'Leading to your discovery and return to England in the borrowed clothes of a kind woman a few inches shorter than yourself.'
Watson's eyes fell to her hem instinctively, and he was not wrong. 'I had been assured my predicament would not reach the papers,' she sighed. If this is what she'd come home to-the whispers everywhere she went, the questioning by doctors and scientists, the patronizing attitude of people who'd once considered her a colleague-the idea of being shut in an asylum wasn't as unpalatable as she'd originally thought.
'It did not,' Holmes assured her. 'Your military bearing is quite revealing, as well as your limp. The fact that the dress does not belong to you, well, was not hard to notice.'
Watson returned her gaze to Holmes, suspicious of his motives. Of course, he'd stated his desire to share rooms, but that hardly seemed appropriate unless she were to-her heart leapt at the thought, but she tried to suppress it. She'd had nearly a decade, more than she could have ever hoped for, and it was over, thanks to the ill-fated trip to Afghanistan. She could not hope, could not allow herself to dream of returning to what had been ripped from her.
'I could recommend my tailor if you'd like,' Holmes added, drawing a card case from his pocket. 'He does an excellent job on my own attire, and is positively the height of discretion.'
Watson had been so wrapped up in the eccentric questioning, and the burning grey eyes of Holmes that she hadn't looked over the rest of his lanky frame closely at first, but the smooth throat and the delicate features of Mr. Holmes were unmistakable. Holmes did not seem perturbed by Watson's silence as she worked it out.
Holmes held out a card.
'I'll tell him to expect you tomorrow,' Holmes said, firmly, as Watson took it, her fingers shaking gently. 'The address of the rooms is 221B Baker St. Shall we meet there tomorrow evening, say, seven?'
'Seven o'clock,' Watson agreed, still turning over the stunning turns of events the afternoon had taken. She thought she'd been lucky to be offered a job, just a few short hours ago, but what she was being offered instead was much more than she ever could have dreamed of.
'I never did properly introduce myself,' Holmes said, extending a hand towards Watson. 'Sherlock Holmes.'
Watson grasped it, firmly. 'Jane Watson,' she said, instinctively, born of months of repeating, of hearing it on the lips of the doctors, the nurses, the bankers, the hoteliers-
'I must assume that's not the name you used in the Army,' Holmes answered, slightly bemused.
'No,' Watson confirmed, a warm feeling spreading over his chest, finally letting the hope spill out. 'John. Dr. John Watson.'