Scenes from A Courtship
30-Day OTP Challenge
By jd517
Sherlock and its characters, storylines and related ideas belong to the BBC and Hartswood Studios. I own nothing but my imagination.
A New Beginning
January 2013
John fingered his moustache nervously as he passed through the sliding doors into the surgery. A new tic, acquired along with the new mac, the new shirt, the new job. And the new moustache. All part of the "New and Improved" John Watson. One who would not sit in his sad and empty rooms, wallowing in his grief. His year was up – even a widow wasn't expected to mourn longer than that. Time to move on. Forward.
He shook his head and swiped his hand briefly across his upper lip. Scratchy. Not fully grown in but well on its way. Right. You've got this, Watson. Not the hardest thing you ever did.
You invaded Afghanistan.
His breath caught in surprise. Damn. It was like Sherlock was right there, beside him. Reading his mind and taking the piss. It felt like a punch in the gut. Still.
He straightened his back, pulling himself up to his full height. Lifted his head, taking refuge in the military posture drummed into him so long ago. Captain Watson, reporting for duty, Sir.
Eyes front and center, he quickly took in the reception area, the waiting patients, the bog-standard chairs and magazines. He took a deep breath, registering the unpleasant but oh so familiar faux lemon smell of antiseptic spray. Your common or garden NHS surgery, just like all the ones he'd manned before. Though this time he wasn't here for locum duty, he reminded himself. This was the real deal.
It was then that he saw her - just a glimpse of the busy woman behind the desk, but enough to stop him in his tracks.
She looked like an angel, if you believed in that sort of thing. Achingly beautiful, but something even more than that. Every cliché of the blushing English rose – all apple-blossom complexion and bouncy blonde curls and cerulean eyes – but also a certain set to her shoulders that radiated both professionalism and personality, and a firmness of chin that implied fierce loyalty. She gave him a once over that implied that she could read his mind and know his every secret in an instant.
And then she smiled. And it was like he was immediately wrapped in a warm embrace. A smile that reached beyond her mouth to her eyes, her face, her whole self - radiating grace and compassion and the fellowship of a kindred spirit. And as he struggled to compose his own face into a smile in response, she winked. Friendly, and the slightest bit saucy. Daring and delightful. And he felt the ice around his heart begin to thaw.
"John! Good to see you, man. Welcome!"
A jovial clap on the shoulder forced John to tear his eyes away from her.
"David. Er. Thanks. Good to be here." He shook the offered hand mechanically, forcing himself to smile at Dr. Blessen who'd hired him nearly on the spot after an interview at the PCT offices less than a week ago.
"We're thrilled to have you join us, really thrilled. We were in a quite a bind when Percy retired at the same time as Helen took her maternity leave. Finding someone ready to start on such short notice was really a miracle."
John shifted on his feet uncomfortably; knowing the ache in his leg was psychosomatic didn't make it hurt less. And he wasn't sure how to respond to David's welcome. Every coherent thought seemed to have flown out of his head at the sight of that beautiful receptionist, and he still hadn't recovered completely. He smiled weakly.
"Let's get you sorted, then, shall we? Your consulting room is along here, across from mine. We'll just drop in on Ian and Anna, and then our Mary will get you started on your list."
John nodded and followed. "After you then, David." His new colleague's arm on his shoulder prevented him from looking back at the reception desk to see what had happened to the blonde.
X
He sighed and closed the door as David left. It had been a whirlwind tour, a blur really, and he hoped he could at least remember where the critical places, like the loo and the supplies cupboard, were located. He was fairly certain he'd never find the phlebotomist again without a trail of breadcrumbs. His heart clenched and he swallowed hard at the memory – the package of breadcrumbs delivered to Mrs. Hudson THAT day. The day they'd searched for and somehow improbably found those poor children, poisoned by sweets and terrorized by Moriarty.
He shook his head as if to shake the memory out. Slowly he removed his coat and found a hanger for it on a peg behind his door. He smoothed his hand over the navy gabardine sleeve. It had been something of a splurge, that mac. A present to himself in honor of the new job.
Never underestimate the advantage of a good coat and a short friend . . .
He chuckled wryly at the voice in his head. Well one out of two wasn't bad.
He took a seat at the desk, glancing at the computer, the pencils, the lab request forms and the box of nitrile gloves. Right. Time to start.
He was just picking up the receiver on the telephone when he heard a firm knock on the door.
"Yes? Come . . . come through."
The door opened and SHE came in, bumping the door with her hip to hold it open, a shapely hip, he noticed, clad in slim, navy trousers. She turned as she entered, revealing that she carried a steaming mug.
"Tea, Dr. Watson?" she asked brightly, with another broad smile, her lips a perfect match to her cherry-red cardigan. "I'm afraid we're out of sugar at the mo, but it's hot." She crossed the room and set the mug beside him on the desk.
He looked up to thank her and was transfixed, utterly transfixed, at the sight of her. Christ. A man could drown in those eyes and count himself a lucky bastard.
She looked at him, expectantly, a warm smile on her lips and one eyebrow cocked, questioning him, looking down at him seated at his desk.
Shit. Where were his manners? He scrambled to his feet.
"I . . er . .yeah. Um." He raised the mug and took a sip of the tea, mainly to cover up his inability to speak. Temporary he hoped. "Yeah. I don't take sugar, thanks." Damn. He sounded like a fool.
"I'm Mary, Mary Morstan. Practice Manager." She perched on the edge of his desk, looking him up and down, visually taking his measure.
"Oh, right. I'm Dr. Watson. I mean John. John." His voice trailed off.
Her eyes crinkled as she smothered a giggle.
John shook his head. "Right. You knew that. Of course you did." He huffed a small breath that was almost but not quite a laugh.
She pursed her lips and grinned. "Name on the door gave it away. As did the NHS paperwork. And Dave's various emails - 'New physician starting Monday. Name's John Watson.' That sort of thing."
"Right. So where do I start, Miss Morstan?"
"How about with calling me Mary? Nearly everybody does."
"Mary it is then." He managed a small smile at this, and hoped her little grin meant she was pleased with it.
"Really pretty simple procedure here, you'll find. I'll announce the patients, give you a chance to pull up their notes on your computer, let you know what brings them in today, that sort of thing. I'll take it easy on you to start – leave the heavy lifting to Dave and Ian today 'til you get your bearings. Sound good?"
He cleared his throat. "Yeah. Fine. Right. Ta." He nodded his head.
"I'll be off, then. I'm extension 22 – just call if you need me for anything."
If only you knew. I'll need you for everything, John mused to himself, a blush creeping across his face.
She stood in the doorway, waiting, and he knew he was supposed to say something.
He followed her to the door. "Mary. It's . . it's been nice meeting you. Thanks." He took her hand in his, intending a warm but professional handshake. The only even vaguely proper way to touch a colleague, especially one he'd only just met.
It was then that he felt it.
His world had tipped off its axis that gut-wrenching instant at Bart's when he'd realized what Sherlock was doing. Everything had come to a screeching halt and remained there, in stasis, for twelve long months.
But now, right at this moment, holding a small, cool hand in his, he felt the slightest nudge towards normality. Perhaps it wasn't spinning properly, not yet. It was, however, a shove in the right direction. And it was all down to her.
He held the shake a beat too long, and then added his left hand, effectively trapping her hand between both of his. It was electric, magnetic. Surely science, if not Sherlock, would be able to explain why he couldn't bear to release her hand.
She saved him the need by withdrawing her hand on her own, winking again. "I'd best go back to my desk. Wouldn't want the patients to mutiny."
"Right, of course."
"I'll see you shortly then. With your first patient?" She added, to clarify, apparently sensing his confusion at her words.
He could only nod.
This was turning out to be more of a new beginning than he'd expected.
Author's Notes:
For the day one prompt – holding hands.
In my head canon, surgery chief Dr. David Blessen is the hapless usher whom Sherlock aggressively questions about his previous relationship with Mary in The Sign of Three and fellow doctors Anna and Ian are the parents of the bloodthirsty page-boy.