Chapter Text
Later, John would reflect on how different his life would have been if he hadn’t sat down to a decidedly overcooked meal at the Pensione Bertolini on a certain spring evening in 1923.
He’d been feeling peevish, at the start of dinner. Of course, when hadn’t John felt peevish lately? Mrs. Hudson, John’s elderly cousin and current traveling companion, had lured him away from England with the promise of adventure. And now here he was, supposedly in Florence—and yet they’d arrived the previous morning at a lodging house with a cockney proprietress, and around him were nothing but English faces staring distastefully at their food and discussing English events. After traveling all the way to Italy, he’d expected to see Italy, dammit. And to top it all off, John’s leg had been lanced with much more pain than usual due to the exhaustion and stress of the trip. He rubbed the offending limb surreptitiously under the table, almost dropping his fork when Mrs. Hudson leaned closer to him and murmured, “Feeling all right, dear?”
“Of course, Mrs. H,” John answered quickly. He loved the older lady, but he didn’t want to talk about his imaginary pain with her. Instead, he straightened his back and stabbed the cutlet on his plate with particularly bad grace. Christ, he was only thirty-one, and he acted like some old man. Perhaps he ought to grow a mustache to hide the surly cast to his upper lip that was doubtless becoming permanent.
“I’m so sorry this hasn’t been what you hoped for, John,” Mrs. Hudson twittered nervously at his side. “If only it hadn’t been so wet today, we could’ve gone out and seen—well, something. Oh, and I did expect better of the food.” She stared down at her own cutlet sadly, poking it with her fork. “I think this meat has been used for soup.”
John took a deep breath. For his cousin’s sake, he needed to put a brighter face on. “Florence is a fine city, despite the foul weather,” he corrected as gently as his mood would allow. “And I’m sure this pensione is fine too, despite the—” He gestured vaguely instead of finishing the thought, aware of the curiosity with which the other people at their table were hanging onto his words. He didn’t much care about offending them, honestly, but there was no need to go out of his way in the effort.
The round table at which John and his cousin sat was currently playing host to five other travelers, who’d all fixed the newcomers with looks of varying interest when they’d first sat down. The most unsettling of them was the man directly across from John, an empty chair at his left. He had a patrician nose, thin, gingerish hair, and eyes that swept over the doctor quickly in assessment and dismissal. He was listening to their conversation now, his mouth curled into a faint, downward sneer. Luckily, he was mostly blocked from view by a vase of gaudy fake flowers that had probably been manufactured before the war.
“But are you certain it will do, John?” Mrs. Hudson asked again, wringing her napkin between her hands. “Are you sure you’ll be comfortable? I did promise your mother to look after you, and you’re such a good young man to come abroad with me, what with the shock and your leg—”
“Damn my leg!” John muttered to himself, realizing a second too late that he’d said it out loud. “Sorry, sorry,” he apologized to his cousin hastily. “I’m just tired is all, Mrs. H. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
Mrs. Hudson didn’t look entirely convinced by this—but she did, mercifully, allow the subject to drop, leaving John to his tasteless meat and his thoughts.
The problem, the doctor had been informed by numerous knowledgeable individuals, was that he’d been irreparably traumatized by the war.
And yes, that was certainly true. Just last night, in fact, he’d dreamt about gas and helplessness and death, about the whistle of shells as they fell, about barbed wire and dirt that had turned muddy from the blood of men he’d tried desperately to save. It was absolutely true that John Watson’s memories of the Great War were monstrous and unyielding.
But as monstrous as life in the trenches had been, it had been in color—the brown of the mud, the red of hasty surgeries performed in cramped tents, the green of fatigues, the black of starry skies, the yellows of chlorine gas and dehydrated piss. And life since then—life in the years since the end of the world had ended and Europe had begun putting itself back together again—had passed in front of John’s eyes in nothing but shades of gray.
Admittedly, he’d spent a significant portion of that time coming back from the brink of death. He’d had the abysmal luck, he’d been informed later, to be severely wounded just three days before the Armistice. Then, of course, the infection in his ruddy wound had gone septic. It was a miracle that he’d survived at all to be shipped home. What did it matter, he’d told himself many times, that the tremor in his hand meant he couldn’t be a surgeon anymore? What did it matter that the weakness in his leg was a fantasy that his idiot brain insisted on believing wholeheartedly? What did it matter that he was broken? Everyone who had lived through that nightmare was broken—and honestly, he was one of the lucky ones, because he could’ve been broken in so many worse ways.
That didn’t change the fact that John wasn’t always sure that he was glad to be alive.
But he was surviving. What else was there to do, after all? He’d eventually been released from hospital, and he’d gone back to live with his practical mother and intractable younger sister in Windy Corner, their family home. A few years had passed colorlessly, and then his widowed cousin had asked John to come see Italy with her. Harriet and Mrs. Watson had both considered this a wonderful idea, although Harriet had been mad as a bull at the fact that she was being left behind because of school. The next letter he wrote, John would inform his sister that she had absolutely nothing to be jealous of, considering the limp tone of the trip thus far.
John had just come to this conclusion and was brooding over it into the remains of his meal when a door across the dining room banged open. Startled from his thoughts, John looked up to see a scowling man with an abundance of dark curls charge through it.
The general conversation at the three tables in the pensione’s large dining room froze at this interruption, but the sounds of forks scraping and strained civilities resumed once the newcomer had made his way to the other side of John’s fake flowers. The man yanked out the single empty chair at John’s table and collapsed into it dramatically. His eyes, which were light and cold, raked over the table’s occupants without settling.
The person to the newcomer’s left, the man who had sneered at John, was staring at the stranger disapprovingly. “You’re late,” he snapped.
The newcomer set his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “I was busy,” he muttered. His voice, conflicting with the strange youthfulness of his features, was a dark baritone, measured and rich.
The older man unfolded the newcomer’s napkin with a snap and spread it over his lap.
The younger man twitched his lips down at the napkin, then pulled a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat.
The older one plucked the cigarette from his hand and dumped it into his water glass. When the younger whipped toward him with a glare, he simply sniffed primly, his hands folded in his lap.
The cigarette sank to the bottom of the glass.
The cockney proprietress of the pensione, who had sidled up behind them during this nonverbal spat, chose this moment to clear her throat. “Should I bring you a plate, sir?” she asked the newcomer. Her tone was ripe with disapproval, although whether that was due to his tardiness or to the fact that there was now a cigarette in her good water glass, John couldn’t say.
Despite the obvious hostility, the young man craned around and gave her a wide, insincere smile. “Coffee,” he demanded. “Two sugars, no milk.”
“Really, Sherlock!” his companion protested as the proprietress left in a huff. John frowned. He knew he shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but he couldn’t help agreeing with this particular disapproval. The newcomer—Sherlock—looked much too pale and thin to not be taking the meal.
As if sensing John’s dissatisfaction, the remarkable eyes flicked toward him again. This time, they didn’t graze over him and move on: instead, they focused. The gaze was intense, wintery, but full of the heat of intelligence. John held the man’s eyes in surprise, his breath caught while his lungs expanded.
A look of slight confusion pleated the man’s brow. The expression passed quickly, however. Turning back to his brother—for they must be brothers, John had decided, based on their familiarity—the young man growled, “This place is insufferable, Mycroft.” To John’s surprise, he was speaking French. “If I’d wanted a picture of Queen Victoria over my bed, I would’ve stayed in England.”
John almost snorted. The sentiment coincided precisely with what he'd been thinking earlier.
The older brother, however, did not seem to be amused. “Need I remind you that you’re the one who got us thrown out of our last accommodations?” he responded coolly in the same language.
“It’s hardly my fault that the owner had four mistresses and was evading taxes,” Sherlock spat back, his lower lip starting to stick out in a genuine pout.
His brother seemed to take a breath to calm himself at this point. He scraped some mushy peas onto his fork and ate them, making a show of chewing. He dabbed his lips. “Perhaps not,” he finally replied, “and yet I’m not the one who decided to inform the entire occupancy of that fact at tea.”
John’s eyes had widened as this conversation developed, and he knew that he wasn’t keeping the fact that he was eavesdropping off of his face—but he couldn’t help it. Who was this young man, with his rumbling voice, his ridiculously sharp cheekbones, his insolence, his casual accusations of polygamy?
The server came back with Sherlock’s coffee at that moment, and he chose to start drinking it rather than reply. Apparently, a ceasefire had been called between the brothers.
Oddly enough, this silence was what finally loosened the tongues of John’s other tablemates for the meal. They suddenly seemed determined to convey the fact that, although the two gentlemen on that side of the table were very strange and possibly French, the other occupants of the Pensione Bertolini were decent, well-behaved British souls. Mrs. Hudson found herself being offered advice on all sides about the most pleasant Florentine tourist destinations, and John was truly happy to see her respond with liveliness and cheer. He couldn’t help, however, keeping an ear tuned for the next words of the younger man—the wild one.
They finally came when his coffee cup was empty and replaced on its saucer, and they were spoken softly. “You can’t expect me to work in these conditions, Mycroft. I don’t even have a window. I feel like I’m in prison.”
The elder brother, the one called Mycroft, sighed. “I told you, Sherlock: all of the rooms overlooking the river were already occupied. Perhaps if I hadn’t had to find us a new hotel on such short notice—”
“Don’t pretend you couldn’t get me a better room if you really tried,” the other interrupted, sitting back from his empty place setting. “Don’t pretend this isn’t just spite.” He’d been pleading, but now the tone was one of bitter resignation.
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, and when he answered, it was level and cold. “As flattered as I am that you’ve clung to your childhood belief in my omnipotence, dear brother, I have neither the inclination nor the ability to remedy your discomfort at present. Be grateful for what you have; be grateful that we are still here.”
That seemed unnecessarily harsh to John. He didn’t know these men, and it was true that the younger one had been acting like a certain type of spoiled brat—what with the pout, and refusing to eat and all—but there was something about him that had had John sitting up and taking notice from the minute he’d walked in.
The doctor cleared his throat. “You could have my room,” he said in English. He understood French well enough, but he’d be the first to admit that his accent was appalling. He saw no reason to make this more embarrassing for himself than it already was.
Their argument interrupted, the two men turned to stare at him. The younger one’s lips parted in surprise.
Well, there was no backing down from this now. Straightening his shoulders, John addressed himself gently to the latecomer. “We can switch,” he explained. “My room is much too large for me, and it has a window with a very nice view of the river. You should take it.”
“I assure you, that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft answered before his brother could respond. He was staring at John with the type of expression that he’d likely turn on the bottom of his shoes.
“All right,” John agreed easily, trying not to let his hackles rise. He didn’t much like the older brother, but that didn’t mean he’d force the issue. He shifted his attention and met Sherlock’s eyes again. “But the offer stands, should you change your mind.”
He turned his focus back to pushing around the remnants of the pudding that they’d been served for dessert on his plate, but he couldn’t help notice that the younger brother was still turned toward him, staring.
Keeping his chin ducked, John smiled.
***
After dinner, John found himself sitting in the pensione’s parlor, in an over-stuffed armchair the color of a ripe tomato. He’d poured a brandy for himself and opened a British newspaper that was on one of the side tables, disappointed to find that it was an issue from three days ago that he’d already read. Still, it wasn’t like he had anything else to occupy his time. Even Mrs. Hudson didn’t require his company. She was across the room, engaged in a lively conversation with an elderly lady named Mrs. Turner.
John was just turning to the last page, having reminded himself of the previous week’s current events and planning to examine the personal ads out of boredom, when a deep voice broke his concentration. “You meant it.”
Startled, John blinked up at the young man from dinner, who was standing in front of him with his spine straight and his hands clasped behind his back, watching John’s face with a look of intense scrutiny.
“Yes, of course.” John paused. “Would you like to switch? Your brother didn’t seem to approve of the idea.”
The man looked at him seriously. “He can’t stop me right now. He’s in his bath.”
John’s mouth fell open, and he couldn’t keep a small huff of amusement from escaping. The idea of that pretentious man with suds in his hair was—well. He found himself rising to his feet, grabbing his cane only as an afterthought from where it leaned against the chair’s side. “All right,” he agreed. “Let me just move my things, and we’ll get you all set.”
When they got to the hallway outside of John’s (former) bedroom, however, he paused in shock. Both sides of his door were already piled with objects—papers, books, suits, suitcases, a silk dressing gown, a microscope, beakers, a violin case—and was that a human skull? “Is this all yours?” he gasped.
“Well, I’ll obviously tidy it up once I get in,” was his companion's only response. He sounded slightly flustered.
“Right.” Clearing his throat, John pulled out his key and unlocked the door. He hobbled inside, calling, “It’ll just take a minute,” over his shoulder.
The man followed him in anyway, his sharp gaze scanning the large bedchamber, including the window overlooking what was actually a spectacular vista of the Arno river.
In comparison to his new acquaintance’s glut of possessions, John mused, it was almost embarrassing how few things he had: just one suitcase that was quickly repacked. But he was traveling, he reminded himself. After the army, he always traveled light. Not everybody took an authentic human skull wherever they went.
“Do you need help carting all this in?” he asked once he was out in the hallway again, suitcase in one hand, cane in the other. He gestured at the young man’s piles of miscellany.
John’s strange new acquaintance tilted his head. “That won’t be necessary, doctor,” he rumbled. “You’re just down the hall. You’ll find the key to your room in its door.”
John shifted on the balls of his feet. “All right, then.” Wait—doctor? “How did you—”
Before he could finish the sentence, however, the door had been closed in his face.
***
Well.
That had been…
Well.
John paced up and down his new bedroom, his thoughts muddled and inarticulate, amusement warring with chagrin and curiosity.
John’s new room was small, but it was also homely and serviceable, so he couldn’t really complain on that front. There was, indeed, an exceedingly large portrait of Queen Victoria where a window should have been—but the bed wasn’t too soft, and he had his own WC, so, Christ, how could he complain? And he was also closer to Mrs. Hudson now, who'd initially been upset that they'd been lodged so far apart.
After John had settled in, it hadn’t taken him long to realize that all that was left of the room’s former tenant was a piece of paper on the desk, blank but for a large question mark drawn right in the center. Bemused, John had traced his finger over the lines, noting the force and precision of impact. It reminded him of the way the man moved—all chaos and accuracy at once.
What an absurd person he was, that young man. Sherlock. Why had he drawn a question mark and left it here? What was he questioning? And why did it make John feel as if worms were wriggling low in his belly?
Shaking his head, John flipped the paper over and went to bed.