Chapter Text
A Study in Grey
Chapter 1: A Near Miss
Harrison J. Watson knew death very well.
From the age of 16, Harrison was an invaluable member of the British army. From undergoing junior army training aged 16, to training with the Prince of Wales’s Own Regiment of Yorkshire specializing in infantry.
After 2 years’ service, gaining rank as Lance Corporal, he found companionship with the rugged but overly positive Pvt. Simon Holden.
Holden was a year older than Harrison; he was much taller with surprisingly fair skin compared to Harrison’s own darker complexion. Holden’s uniform always lay flaccidly over him, always ill-fitting in some way.
In light infantry training they stuck together during drills practice, and at night shared an electric lamp as they both read their respective books.
Harrison had spent his days training, and his nights studying, each night Holden turned to him and said, “I don’t know why you bother these sorts of things, as long as we stick to the army we won’t have to worry about no grades or nothin’! I swear it. I mean one day I’m gonna win a medal for my hard work, and I’ll bet you no one will be bothering me about what grades I got.” Harrison would laugh with a chary smile at his wonderfully dim-witted friend.
Following the Bosnian War, the two decided to undergo a Landmine Defusal specialisation course due to the large number of Landmines used in the conflict. The two had mapped out the date they started training for months, buzzing with a childlike wonder which seemed misplaced and inappropriate in their given situation.
“I’ve seen so many movies with this in,” Simon exclaimed, twisting his face into his same cheerful smile.
“I doubt it’s like the movies Holdon,” snarked Watson, teasing his friend’s childish nature.
The field was filled with several blank landmines dotted around. Each individual was given a mine to ‘diffuse’. Most of the mines had been disabled from many years prior, now duds used for training operations, each one looking unique in its signage.
As usual, Holden and Watson set next to each other, around 3 meters apart at their mines, in a race to diffuse their bomb first. Watson rigorously took in every word that the instructor advised, mapping out each instruction in his head on the most efficient way to diffuse the mine, he looked over at his colleague, who was almost red from excitement, eyes wide wistfully reading each old label on the sides of the machine.
After 30 minutes, the training officer outreached his hand, and screamed a loud “THREE, TWO, ONE” and shot a loud blasting starting pistol into the air.
Watson turned over to his mine and focused on the task at hand. He placed his hands down onto the bomb, but time seemed to draw still. He heard 3 blaring beeps coming from his left. He turned his head over, to see his friends twisted wide-eyed expression looking down at his own device. Simon’s panicked eye’s locked onto the device, as the outer shell burst open. Shards of metal launched into the air, as the detonation created a deafening sound and a glaring light from the centre.
The moment only lasted half a second but felt like several minutes had gone by for Harrison.
He found himself, 3 meters away from his original spot, laying sideways on the ground, a searing pain coming from the left side of his body. His vision blurred, he looked around wearily, slightly deafened from the sound. Focusing his vision, he saw the pieces of debris left from the mine spread all around the field. Next to the largest piece, lay a dark crimson, figure, sprawled out across the floor. Pieces of white bone stuck out from the silhouette around skin charred black from the heat, scraps of bloodied grey shrapnel piercing large parts of the skin. The face that was turned to Watson, still held those wistfully wide eyes his friend adorned before; now lifeless and holding an eery presence.
Watson stared deeply into those wide eyes with dread-
“Harrison, are you feeling alright?”. Watson looked up, his eyes dry from staring at the floor, now lifting to meet the kind eyes of his therapist. She repeated, “We can end the session early if you aren’t feeling up to it this week.”
Harrison stuttered on his words, attempting to snap back into reality, “I.. Think that would be best... Just not feeling too well that’s all.”
She looked at him with a concerned, but polite smile, “We’ll just have to book in a time for next week then.”
When she gathered her notebook and pen to write down the date, she grabbed a large pamphlet from her desk beside her. Her tone changed to being more direct and firmer, “Now, Harrison, as I was walking through the union recently, and I came across a list of different clubs and activities. I believe it would be beneficial for you to maybe try a couple out; it may give you the motivation to start attending lectures again.”
She handed the pamphlet to him, which Watson took hesitantly. He smiled to her and grabbed his cane which propped up on his chair, and prepared to leave the office.
On his bus journey home, his eyes averted from viewing the early evening mist, turning his attention to the folded pamphlet in his pocket. He flicked through the different offerings that the university had. “Baking club… Fencing society… Debate society…” None of the offerings seemed particularly interesting to him, so he closed the pamphlet with a bitterness and disappointed look.
As he arrived at his stop, walking slowly towards his accommodation door, labelled “221B”. The flat was old, so old it resembled that of a Tudor house with white painted brick and a thick outline around the roof and rim of the house. He entered the building, sighing as he looked at the stairs he had to walk, as his flatmate had insisted that a three-story apartment meant for a more ‘homely’ living space.
He made his way upstairs, clutching his cane and the splintering banister for support on the crooked stairs. As he arrived at the top, Watson observed around his kitchen and living room space. The right of the kitchen countertop was filled with unclean pans, half-used food packets and stains on the table. Whereas, to the left there was not a single piece of dust or forgotten stain to be seen. He lay his cane down by the corner of the sofa, as well as lazily throwing the pamphlet down beside it, and made his way over to the right of the kitchen.
“Harrison?” Yelled a voice with a thick posh London accent from the room to his right. Opening the door, stood Michael, a rather sheepish looking boy with pale skin that almost matched his light blond hair. Fiddling with his glasses, he frowned a frustrated expression, “You finally doing your dishes?”. Watson nodded, with a blank expression. “Good, now actually put the crap away when you’ve cleaned,” exclaimed Michael, slamming the door behind him.
Harrison stared down at the pile of dishes. Plates upon plates piled up, almost a weeks’ worth of packet ramen and tin-can dishes. The pile just lay there, stagnant. Untouched. He continued to stare as the thoughts in his head piled up like the plates before him, each thought added layers of emotions, feelings and memories which he couldn’t make sense of. His eyes wide, he stared at the pile but unfocused until the plates lots their shape, becoming blobs of colour in his vision.
Suddenly, Harrison felt a tap on his shoulder. He jumped slightly but calmed as he saw the person behind him.
“You alright? I called you like three times from downstairs did you not hear me?” joked a girl with kind eyes and thick long black hair over her face almost covering a familiar smile. She spoke with a slight Yorkshire accent, like Harrison’s own, but spoke more clearly and with bubbling emotion.
Harrison, now blinking away his previous thoughts, replied to her, “Hudson! Sorry I was just about to clean stuff. I thought you were coming in earlier.”
“No, we agreed I’d come in late last week remember. I had a late lecture and need to get things sorted at my own place, not nearly as bad as this though,” she said in a joking manor.
Hudson Lau came to Watson’s flat every Saturday to help clean. As a second-year nursing student, caring was in her blood, especially as she was aware of the help her friend needed in the past months. She fiddled with the rabbit necklace around her neck which matched Watson’s bracelet, symbolising their 16 years of friendship, though one of the ears on Hudson’s bunny had snapped off during a physical altercation at a bar 1 month prior.
She tied up her hair, now playfully shoving Watson to the side, looking at the monstrous pile before her.
“Jesus Christ Harris, why can’t you just clean up as you go along?” She looked back at her friend, but gazing into his sunken eyes and unbrushed curly hair, she held her tongue, inhibiting her brash humour.
Going to grab a sponge she had placed in a bucket beside the sofa, she noticed the pamphlet laying crumpled up on the side. “What’s this?” she questioned, examining the cover, “Oh, I haven’t seen one of these since fresher’s week, have they updated the list?” She flicked through the pages of the booklet, glancing over each of the options checking meticulously for any new clubs which would pique her interest. When landing on a page, she paused, reading the contents with squinted eyes, intrigued. “Ghost hunting society” she read aloud with an element of sarcastic flare in her voice, “I’m sure that’s fun.”
Watson’s attention was immediately grasped, turning towards Hudson, scurrying to read the excerpt. Ripping the pamphlet from her grasp, his eyes widened, darting from left to right methodically taking in all the information the small page had to offer.
“They meet each Saturday outside the Weston Library,” Watson exclaimed. “They even have all the equipment and anything!” His eyes lit up for the first time in months.
“Tch. Like the ‘equipment’ we used to make?” Hudson snickered.
Watson stumbled over his words from talking so quickly, “No no like, they have everything. EMF detectors, audio recorders, all the high-tech stuff. Not like our stick bundles or flickering candles, like this stuff can catch real evidence.”
Hudson stared blankly, her face twisted into a sceptical smile, “But that’s just not... real, is it?”
Harrison looked up from the pamphlet, his wide expression turning sour with a furrowed brow defending himself, “well, yeah. I think so anyway. We didn’t catch any convincing evidence with our stuff, but we had some pretty spooky stuff happen to us, didn’t we? Like you saw that tall shadow man and I got poked a number of times!” He looked at Hudson’s face, still twisted into a jeering smile. His excitement shattered, realising her scepticism.
He spoke, now more quietly, “Well, it just seems like fun anyway, good way to meet people.”
“Are you going then?” Hudson remarked, surprised at her friend’s sudden spark of passion, “alright, well let me know if you find any ghosts then,” she mocked.
Harrison faced away from her, hiding his frustrated expression, and returned to his bedroom after wishing his friend a bitter goodbye, making up an excuse about lecture notes to be away from her.
He sat at his desk, filled with barely used stationary and old biscuit and crisps wrappers. Pushing the clutter to the side, he looked at the pamphlet again. “7:30, every Saturday,” he read to himself, contemplating.
To help him think, he rummaged through his drawers, picking out a cassette labelled “ghost mix” with a small sketch of a ghost next to it. Putting on his headphones, he closed his eyes a sighed a deep placid breath, nodding his head to the melodies of the electric guitar and drumbeat. He tapped his fingers rhythmically to the music, noticing every change in tone, pitch and melody of the song. He let himself become fully encased within the music, his suffocating thoughts melting away with each minute that went by.
Unconversant with the time soaring by around him, he was snapped out of his trance, with the distant sound of Hudson calling a “see you later,” which was begrudgingly unreturned by Watson.
Glancing at the time, he sighed, returning to his bed. He let himself sink into the familiarity of his sheets that had held him for most of his time in the semester. Blinking his eyes, he was quickly wisped off to sleep.
Blinking, as the sun shone blazingly into his iris, Harrison turned away from his window to face his nightstand.
‘2.30pm’ the time read. The time quickly passed from 3pm, to 4pm, to 4:30 all whilst Harrison lay still, staring at the ceiling, thinking, occasionally turning to adjust the pins and needles in his arms. Each moment he lay there, his mind thought about getting up, but the mental exhaustion of lifting himself up and starting the dreary task of making an evening breakfast felt too overbearing to handle.
Then, at 5:36, with a laboured grunt, Harrison sat up from his bedsheets and dragged himself out of his room over to the kitchen. He made himself a rather lacklustre cup of coffee, and a piece of microwaved toast to match. Returning to his desk in his room, he caught a glimpse of an old torn photo behind a large book. In the picture, he saw himself in his old army uniform, with his arm wrapped around his familiar friend. The friend, adorning same uniform, stared at Watson, with those large piercing eyes. Watson stared back for a second, before quickly turning the picture frame over, holding a bitter taste in his mouth, clutching the circular dog-tag around his neck.
Harrison put on his glasses and left his room, turning towards the bathroom where he began to wash the dreary thoughts and restlessness from his face, brushing his teeth with a tattered toothbrush and a hefty amount of mouthwash.
He gazed wearily into his reflection, counting every freckle and blemish sprinkled across his damp face.
His brown curly hair falling upon his brow as he repeatedly attempted to style his hair but never seemed to get it perfect. Who was he trying to impress anyway? Ghosts?
He chuckled to himself sarcastically, changing into his freshest mustard “Oxford” hoodie he got from his first day at the University.
Glancing to a clock again, the time read 7:00. His eyes widened, with a panicked expression. With a double take he rushed out of the bathroom, darting into his room, almost tripping on the carpet.
He began packing all his valuables into his bag, a digital camera, cassette, keys, notepad and whatever pens he could find. He opened every cupboard, every drawer, looking and searching at a frantic pace. ‘Where is it, where is it?!’ he muttered under his breath.
After 5 minutes of almost tipping out his entire wardrobe, his eyes lit up; his old video recorder now lay in his hands. Taking a couple seconds to glance at it, he shoved it into his messenger bag and darted out the door like a crazed animal.
Harrison knew that the buses were too unpredictable, so he rushed past the bus stop, crossing each road as if it were an empty car-less pavement.
Running on adrenaline, he mapped out the quickest and most efficient route to get to the university, bolting left and right like a rabbit being chased by a fierce predator.
He crossed every road carelessly, only rushing across when it looked vaguely empty or appeared to be in stand-still traffic, barely looking left and right to check for cars passing.
His pace quickening by the second, taking no chance to focus on his surroundings.
He turned the last corner, darting ahead, eyes focused on the gate in front of him, taking 5 steps across the hazy road.
Watson’s breath abruptly went sharp - without time to process, he was jolted forward from a sudden sharp force on his back.
His bag flew off his shoulder onto the pavement, with himself shortly following, skidding across the gravel. Watson’s clenched eyes opened sharply, turning his head to the left seeing a large double decker bus driving away from where he was sat.
He stared out at the street, unable to process his thoughts, a haze covering his eyes, nose twitching, breathing heavily.
He did not know how he avoided the bus, but wasn’t sure that he fully did, as a wave of uncertainty and fuzziness covered his body.
Harrison looked down at his grazed hand, seeing two faded blurry palms, until they eventually merged into one fleshy mess.
He took another glance at the road, seeing the far-off sight of roadkill towards his right, it seemed to be a bunny, but he couldn’t be sure of it; that could have been him if he didn’t narrowly avoid the vehicle, he thought.
He looked around wearily, no witnesses. No people. Just him in his vast loneliness and trepidation.
Harrison leant towards his bag, slowly grabbing and hoisting it over his slumped shoulder.
Still shaken up, he slowly picked himself up, head throbbing and a line of blood trickling down his nose.
Watson looked into his bag, and picked up his prized item, the edges of recorder were slightly smashed in, with a slight crack on the screen. A sigh of relief came from his mouth, before it quickly turned sharp, realising the time he had wasted with this altercation with the double decker bus.
Now picking up the pace again, he ran through the side gates into the university campus, approaching the Weston Library.
In the distance, Harrison saw a group of maybe 18 to 25 people stood outside the library, each with thick coats on and large bags full of equipment. To the side of them was a tall man in his early 30’s wearing a long leather jacket with leather gloves to match. He wore a bowler hat covering the balding spot on his head, with a thick greying beard. Harrison would have thought of him to be a comical caricature of a “ghost hunter”, until he surveyed the serious expression on the man’s face.
The gentleman glanced down at his watch, and looked up again, “7:25… we will be starting in 5 minutes. You might as well start mingling with one another,” he said begrudgingly.
Harrison’s eyes examined everyone, all with the same uniform, same equipment and same uninviting expression on their face. His attention wandered over to a man on the right, towards the end of the huddle of people. He also wore a jacket which was different to the rest, his was more muted and tattered, with lace embellishments along the rims as well as a cape-feature around the shoulders. The rest of his clothes looked fashionable but dated, and too classy for the occasion, with an embroidered waistcoat over a cotton shirt adorning a red ascot. The coat made the man look larger and more intimidating but hung flaccidly over his tall but frail body.
Watson walked over, now getting a glimpse of the man’s face. He looked to be around his own age, perhaps younger but with a handsome maturity that showed on his vague expression. His dark hair was neatly combed into a side-part, with long sideburns crawling down by his ears. His skin was deathly pale and blemished, with moles around his eyes adding to the sort of youthful quality of him.
He looked towards Watson’s direction with his piercing grey eyes, almost inviting him in with his strong but detached gaze.
Harrison approached the strange man with a shy warmth.
“Hey there! I’m Harrison Watson, I came in late and noticed you were all alone,” he greeted, smiling, reaching out his hand. The man seemed to step back and pause, staring blanky at Watson with a confounded face, as if Harrison had just wished death on his mother.
After a moment, the man’s eyes softened and met Watson’s own as he smiled with an astute lip.
He very hesitantly shook Harrison’s hand with a cold loose grasp, introducing himself assertively, “Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to meet you.”