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Sherlock Holmes would remember January 28th and 29th of 2010 for the rest of his life, if he had any say in matters. Not because something bad had happened, but because something life-changing had happened. It wouldn’t occur to him until much later what this thing was, for the moment the present demanded his attention.
He had a case, one he’d been following and eager to put his hands on, so there was no time to waste. Of course, in his typical excitement, he completely forgot about John Watson. He was literally halfway out the door of Baker Street when he remembered the stocky, sturdy ex-Army surgeon sitting upstairs in the sitting-room looking a bit lost, maybe a bit angry. It was an unusually loud shout that got the detective’s attention and he froze, ears tuned back to the flat he’d just run out of, perhaps a bit recklessly.
“Damn my leg!” There was so much anger, so much…hate in those three words. Oh. Oh, John. John Watson. John Hamish Watson. Discharged captain of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, seen plenty of action, more than he possibly cared to remember, dismissed from service for an injury that had left his life in ruins. Who was John Watson now? What kind of man could he be? If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was good at, it was sneaking around. Closing the front door quietly, he crept back up the stairs to 221B, and stood just out of sight of the door, listening. He hid on the stairs going up to the second bedroom when Mrs Hudson bustled out of the flat and went downstairs after reminding Sherlock’s potential flatmate that she’s “Not your housekeeper!”
Sherlock had deduced every useful thing about the unremarkable soldier, who wasn’t so unremarkable if you looked close enough, but he had missed one thing. The bullet that had sent John Watson home to England had ruined his life. He couldn’t work as a surgeon, it wasn’t easy to find someone willing to take a returned veteran surviving on a meagre pension like his with his laundry-list of problems, he had no reliable income and would probably be forced to leave London eventually when he couldn’t afford to live there anymore. Couldn’t afford to live in London, couldn’t stand to live anywhere else. He had no network, very few friends, family that either didn’t or wouldn’t speak to him (that was a problem Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to dig too far into, he was too well-acquainted with rocky family relations), and no clear future or purpose. Sherlock couldn’t imagine being that lost, not again. He had been there once, a very long time ago, and he didn’t want to go back. The idea of it happening to someone else was heart-breaking. And emotions were not at all Sherlock’s comfort-zone, he despised them. Emotions made people unstable, unreliable. Order and clarity were how he functioned.
You have a chance here, Holmes. He left the stairs and crept into the doorway, observing the lonely, broken, friendless Army doctor. Do not mess this up. You have one chance to give this man a new life, a real purpose. Treat him well and he will do anything for you. He wasn’t sure where that last bit came from, but the inconsiderate detective knew it was true. He pulled his gloves from his pocket and quietly pulled them on, glancing at Watson.
“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”
“Yes.” He got to his feet and turned towards Sherlock as he came back into the room again. If he had taken the soldier by surprise, Sherlock wouldn’t have known it except for a quick flicker across the man’s eyes. Grey eyes? Brown? Or were they blue? Did that matter? Sherlock didn’t care for things like that. He wasn’t supposed to care for things like that.
“Any good?”
“Very good.” Not just “very good”, but one of the best. Sherlock wasn’t an idiot.
“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.” He couldn’t hide a smirk. He had baited his hook and cast it, now he had to wait for that nibble. It was coming, he could see it in the way Watson stood.
“Mmm, yes.”
“Bit of trouble too, I bet.” Just a wild guess. The man had been stationed in one of the hottest war zones in the world until just recently, Sherlock had a pretty fair idea the things he’d seen.
“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.” Watson’s voice dropped low and he got quiet again. This was a man who had seen friends die before his eyes, possibly under his hands in the heat of engagement. This was where he had to be careful about his bait.
“Wanna see some more?” He asked, putting just enough of an invitation to be something better, something more behind those words. He wasn’t interested in reminding Watson of the battle-field he probably didn’t want to remember, but Sherlock did know that the soldier was an adrenaline-junkie, and he was more than willing to offer Watson a purpose. He also wanted to rid him of that limp he had. It was almost completely psychosomatic, and he had a good idea how to put that pain out of the man’s head for good.
“Oh God, yes.” The look in Watson’s eyes would have alarmed anyone else, but Sherlock just gave him a crooked half-grin. Hooked good and ready to reel in. Time to get moving, there was a case to solve and a serial killer to catch. Couldn’t do that standing around, now, could they? Sherlock spun on his heel and lead John out of the room and down the stairs.
“Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ll skip the tea,” John called out as he followed Sherlock down. “Off out.” No idea where they were going, what kind of trouble might be out there, just following his instincts and the madman in front of him.
“Both of you?” Mrs Hudson emerged from her little flat and stood by the stairs, a bit puzzled that Sherlock was not only not gone, but that he had somehow convinced John Watson to follow him. Sherlock had almost reached the front door but he turned and walked back towards her.
“Impossible suicides? Four of them?” He tried so hard not to smile, “There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!” He took her by the shoulders and kissed her noisily on the cheek.
“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” She scolded, smacking him on the hip for good measure. She did that sometimes. She couldn’t help but smile, though, as he turned away and headed for the front door again.
“Who cares about decent?” He did an impromptu twirl in the hallway, “The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” Giddy, Sherlock stepped out onto the street and hailed an approaching black cab. “Taxi!” The taxi pulled up alongside and he and John got in, then the car drove off again and headed for Brixton. It was the beginning of something. Sherlock wasn’t certain what, exactly, but it was definitely something he was looking forward to.