Work Text:
September, 1906
The bloom of Spring comes with a torrential downpour and tempestuous wind in London town, to which I have come on the back of a tour in Egypt, serving with His Majesty’s forces as a medic and seeing the homeland of my mother’s family. I return wounded, left leg mangled in a scuffle between some officers and villagers. I was only there to assist people, but the moment I went in to help the injured I got trampled.
Clutched tight in my hand is my mother’s memory, that precious copy of The Strand that so defined our lives and our love - the simplistic joy of a boy and his mother delving into literature together through Arthur Conan Doyle’s most delightful and whimsical Sherlock Holmes. I found no more of her in the place from whence she had come than I had in those pages, gaining only a limp and a deep distaste for sand. I squeeze it once more before slipping the precious magazine into my travelling case.
It is Holmes’ path that I seek to follow now, after my search for meaning in my mother’s homeland, in military service, in medicine, I have found but none. So to joys of simpler times I return, now as a resident of Baker Street - Basil of Baker Street, Esquire. (I have never been entirely sure what, precisely, an esquire may be, though I know with certainty that I am it.)
Admittedly, I am to take up residence at 61 Baker Street, rather than 221B, but perfection is a journey, not a starting point. The townhouse is a three-story residence in Marylebone near Westminster. I have lodgings on the third floor, and the house is kept by one Mistress Possibelf. I knock on the smart, black door with its chrome knocker, and a tall woman (almost as tall as I) with a severe braid of steel hair and a discerning brow opens the door, leaning lightly upon an elegantly twisted cane.
“Ah, Mr Grimm-Pitch, I presume?” She says in her deep and resonant voice.
“Yes, Basil is fine, and shall I similarly presume you are Mistress Possibelf?”
The woman’s brow softens and a small tweak of her mouth that isn’t quite a smile lifts her cheek as she turns slowly, impossibly gracefully and moves into the house, gesturing for me to follow. (Seriously, I am not entirely sure the woman has legs - she seems to glide as if on wheels despite the cane gently swinging by her left leg.)
“Your lodgings are on the third floor, Mr Grimm-Pitch. The second is taken by another lodger I suspect you’ll meet directly, named Mr Snow.”
I’m distracted as we move up the narrow stairs, my trunk and violin case awkwardly trailed behind me, by the smell of smoke that seems to be permeating from above.
”GOT IT!” Shouts a broad coarse voice full of Northern vowels.
Down the staircase barrels a chaotic storm of bronze. “Oh hello. Just got in from Egypt?”
I’m stunned. Both by the bizarrely accurate guess, and also by the stunning beauty of the man before me. Tawny skin, blue eyes, bronze curls. My eyes catch on his moles. Three on his right cheek, two below his left ear, one over his left eye. I realise I’ve just been staring and sputter.
“How on earth did you know that?”
“Doesn’t matter, we gotta go Baz.”
Again I’m sent reeling.
“How do you know my name?”
“Are you listening?! The game is on feet, mate. Drop your bags, we’re going.”
He shoves past me and shouts up the stairs “Hurry up, we got shit to do!”
What in the name of the Lord is going on? The game is on feet? I arrive to my new life, trekking in the wake of the Great Detective and the first thing I hear is a mangling of his famous proclamation?!
I look to Ms Possibelf and she wears an inscrutable look, lip curved in what could be a smile on any other face. “And now you have met Mr Snow. I believe he expects you to follow.”
“Of all possible absurdities, what in the name of Circe is he doing?”
“Mr Snow is something of a….” Possibelf pauses. “…a Chosen One, you might say. He’s always off on heroic adventures.”
Her tone is mocking as she says the words, mouth still in that damnable curl.
“Worst Chosen One ever chosen.” I mutter as I limp quickly up the stairs to drop my bags and follow the splendid moron.
-
I find Snow impatiently bouncing on his toes on the corner of the street.
“Baz, mate! You’re here. Finally. Come on, Pen’s waiting on us.”
Bewildered at his apparent sense of camaraderie with me I follow, leg aching in the damp breeze.
“Denshawai Incident?” He says, nodding to my leg in question.
“Egypt, my name, and my leg? How did you know?”
Snow frowns confused at me as though I’ve just asked whether it’s raining, while the misting drops fall on us and cling to his fat copper curls.
“It’s obvious, innit?”
I glare at him.
“You’re tanned as fuck which doesn’t happen in bloody England and you smell like cedar and bergamot, both common in North African regions, and the mud on your shoes is red like desert sand. You’re injured, which could’ve happened anywhere, but with the scent and the tan and the fact you’re a doctor, I’d guess you were serving in Egypt and got injured in action. The limp says you’re around three months into recovery, and the Denshawai incident happened in June.”
He says all this in a tone of confusion - like how wouldn’t I know how he knew all this.
“How do you know I’m a doctor?”
“Your waistcoat has an indent from where you usually stick your stethoscope.” He waves to my chest and I look down. “Not many folk carry a stethoscope. But you could be a safe cracker I guess. Also you seem kind of an up yourself dick which is a very doctory thing.”
I gawp at him. “And my name? How’d you know that.”
“Preliminary, my dear Basilton.”
“It’s elementary, you nitwit!”
Snow grins.
“How did you know?!” I’m irritated now.
“Um, mate. It’s written on your briefcase.”
Fuck.
“Anyway, we gotta get going. Penny reckons some bloke’s been offed but none of the other coppers ever take her seriously cause she’s a girl and they’re dickheads. Let’s go.”
“What? Offed? As in dead?”
“Yeah?”
“What is it you do?”
Again, he looks at me like I’m asking stupid questions.
“I’m a detective, ain’t I?”
Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out…
“Are you eating ham? From your pocket?”
“Yeah. Want some?” He holds out a piece of the sweaty meat and I recoil.
“I’ve got scones in the other pocket if you’re a sweet tooth?” He mumbles through a mouthful of it.
Good Lord this man is a cretin. He cannot possibly be a brilliant detective working with London’s finest.
Suddenly, forcefully, I am thrust back to my mother’s study:
“Sherlock Holmes - HIS LIMITS
- Knowledge of Literature – nil. (But I am well versed in literature!)
- Knowledge of Philosophy – nil. (I read philosophy for fun.)
- Knowledge of Astronomy – nil. (I always was a night owl.)
- Knowledge of Politics – Feeble. (Learned the intricacies of political debate at my mother’s knee.)
- Knowledge of Botany – Variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening. (…to be honest I don’t like gardening either.)
- Knowledge of Geology – Practical, but limited. Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks, has shown me splashes upon his trousers, and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them. (Snow knew the mud on my shoes was from desert sand!)
- Knowledge of Chemistry – Profound. (I am very good at this.)
- Knowledge of Anatomy – Accurate, but unsystematic. (Anatomy has to be systematic!)
- Knowledge of Sensational Literature – Immense. He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century. (…well, I prefer the classics.)
- Plays the violin well. (Ding, ding, ding - winner.)
- Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman. (Hmm…I suppose chess is a war game? I’m good at that. Does that count? Probably not…)
- Has a good practical knowledge of British law.”
Oh no. The list doesn’t lie.
I’m not Holmes.
I’m Watson.
I’m the fucking sidekick.
“Baz, mate? We gotta go. Murder calls.”
We? Sweet Circe, am I to be relegated to the role of plucky associate to this crass pocket-ham devouring degenerate of a faulty Holmes simulacrum?
Fuck it. At least sidekicks get to follow so I can stare at his arse.
“Tallyho, the game is afoot. Which is the correct quote, you idiot.”
Snow shoots me a broad goofy grin, crumbs and butter from the scone he’s moved on to around his mouth, before turning to march down the street.
And we’re off.