AN:Yes so genderswapping territory. I was looking for some stories in this trope, and I felt like there was just something missing, so I wanted to try my hand. I will warn you this first installment is pretty close to the actual episode, so if it becomes tedious to read I apologise. In later parts I will begin to diverge more and more in order to keep up with my characters' story arcs. Thanks for reading, and as always feed back is marvellous.
Oh yes and there will be a few minor characters that I end up swapping as well. But it's mostly Jane.
Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock and the Characters from the BBC. Just the plot bunny.
Ps Unbeta-ed
Oh and if you haven't read the first part I recommend you do. (The Colour of Light Part I) It's not necessary though.
A Study in Colour
"Please, call me Martin," Doctor Ella says with an easy smile. He looks up at her through his fringe, his eyes twinkling. "You've been coming to me for over a month now I think we're on first name terms."
"No I prefer Doctor Ella, thanks. More professional," Jane says, clenching her left hand attempting to cut off the traitorous tremor. His smile widens, but it neglects to reach his eyes this time.
"Has there been any change?" Doctor Ella asks, the same as he always does. Jane tries to remember.
"I think I saw the red of an apple the other day," she says frowning. "But I can't remember if I did, or if it's just because I know what colour apples are."
"Don't worry about it. Your vision will go back to normal once you let these sessions do their job," he says, but not unkindly. She still fumes at this, however, and he decides to change the subject.
"So last week you were saying something about a bit of therapy you've had in the past?"
"Well it was just a few sessions at the VA hospital before I was discharged. Walking me through coping skills, and all that…" she trails off her eyes narrowing as he begins to scribble on his notepad.
"And how's that working for you?" Doctor Ella says with a hint of cheek. Her eyes snap up to his. "You're reading my writing upside down again aren't you?"
"You just wrote 'still has trust issues.'"
He huffs a laugh, and sets down his pen. "Have you given any thought to my suggestion?"
"What that diary thing? Yeah I suppose…"
"You haven't written a word have you?" he smirks.
"No. It's a bit of a bother what with my hand and all. Concentrated and repetitive motions are hard to sustain for too long," she replies like a text book entry on nerve damage. It keeps the bitterness at bay.
"Ah yes. Like holding a pen or a scalpel, correct?"
Jane gives a pained smile, smoothing her hand over the top of her hair that was pulled back into a neat bun. "Yes. Hence why I am a retired surgeon as well as a soldier. Guns and surgical tools; accuracy's apparently important for such things," she says wryly and glances at the clock anxious to leave already.
"All right then. How about a blog? Typing would be easier." Jane looks at him sceptically. "Jane, you're a soldier and it's going to take you a while to adjust to being back in the real world. I think writing about your daily life, and what happens to you will honestly help."
"What, you mean like the groceries I picked up at Tesco's, or how long the line was at the bank where I cash my pension check?" she snorts. "Nothing happens to me."
"Trust me," Doctor Ella says, his grin almost Cheshire-like. She answers with a leveling glare. "No really. Here stand up," he says getting to his feet. Jane complies warily, but his open and honest face is what eventually causes her to go along with him.
"All right. What's this about?"
"It's an exercise in trust," he says, his expression self-assured. He's a cocky one, she can tell; still young and not weighted down by convention, but maybe a little new-age is good now and again. "Close your eyes."
Raising her chin slightly she obeys even if it's only to avoid being contrary. "What, you want me to fall back or something?"
"No nothing like that," Doctor Ella's voice suddenly sounds in her ear very close, and it makes her jump. Without really thinking about it, her senses go on high alert, tracking his every move with her hearing alone. She tries her hardest not to tense when she feels his hands settle on her shoulders from behind. "We can't make any headway if you don't learn to trust me, Jane."
"I do trust you," she says lamely.
"You don't trust anybody, Jane. My guess would be you haven't for quite some time, now." He brushes his thumbs back and forth over the crests of her shoulders. She forces her breathing to remain steady. "You know you should get out there more. Find people your age to be around that aren't old Army mates. It'll help ease the reintegration process of civilian life…"
He suddenly pulls the hair pins out of her bun and her eyes fly open. She tries to turn around, but he grips her by the shoulders, staying her.
"Doctor Ella," she says in a low voice.
"Please, I insist you call me Martin. I want you to think of me as more of a friend than your Doctor." He massages the back of her neck and down to her shoulders, his fingers brushing over the scar over her scapula. Cold fury settles in her stomach making her mouth taste sour.
"Martin," she says in a small voice. She forces herself to loosen under his ministrations.
"Yes that's it. I want to help you." His lips brush her ear.
In a blur of motion Jane seizes his wrist, twisting hard nearly hyper extending his elbow to the point of breaking. With a startled cry, she has him pinned on top of his desk, her elbow digging in between his shoulder blades. She tweaks his arm painfully to get his attention.
"Listen to me very carefully, Martin," she snarls close to his face. "I don't know how many patients you've taken advantage of, but mark my words, it stops today. Is that clear?" She twists his arm again and he gives an undignified yelp before nodding furiously. "It is every medical professional's duty to protect their patients, and you sir have utterly trampled that promise. As a soldier, I have promised to defend the weak, and I take my role very seriously. Now, after I break your arm," she strengthens her hold on him as he suddenly panics, "you are going to think about all the creative ways I could have upheld my promise, and after being exceedingly grateful at the fact that I am choosing not to follow through, you are going to hand your remaining patients over to a colleague, because I really don't think psychology is your calling. Do we have an agreement?"
"Y-yes. Of course. What ever you say. Just don't —"
Jane doesn't hear the rest of his pleading over the sound of his ulna snapping, because honestly, she's beyond caring.
She walks out of his office, her hands more steady than they've been in a long while. Maybe this therapy lark wasn't completely wasted. Who knows? She might start that blog after all.
…
She's half way across RussellSquarePark when it finally hits her that she should probably be concerned about that arrogant bastard pressing charges, but every time she thinks about his greasy fingers on the back of her neck, her worry is overwhelmed by rage.
She almost doesn't hear her name as it's called to her from behind.
"Jane? Jane Watson?" She whips around, her loose hair getting tangled in her face. A homely man with glasses trots up to her, breathing heavily from the mild exertion. "It's Mike! Stamford? We interned at Bart's together."
"Oh yes…of course," she shakes his hand.
"I know I got fat!" he grins. "You look really good though," he says, and for a moment she's instantly back on guard, but she soon lowers her defences when he adds: "I've got the wife to blame for my spare tyre."
He chuckles amiably, and Jane joins in. "No don't be silly. You're looking well too."
"Ta, for that, but you're too kind. Anyway. What have you been up to? Last I heard you were out there somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"
"Got shot," she deadpans.
"Oh well…" he trails off awkwardly, and clears his throat. "For that I think I should buy you a coffee, at least."
She wavers uncomfortably for a moment, but at the hopeful look on his face she allows it and accompanies him on a small park bench.
"What have you been up to recently? Still at Bart's?" she asks making small talk. God she hates small talk.
"Yes, but teaching now! Bright young things like we used to be. Hate them all!" he grins. "And you? Just in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"
"I can't afford London on an Army Pension," she scoffs.
"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Jane Watson I know."
"Well I'm not—" she snaps before balling her left fist in attempts to stifle the ludicrous tremor. Mike clears his throat awkwardly, and they sit there in silence for a few minutes sipping their respective coffees. Jane notices it's mild out today, and wishes abjectly she could see the colour of the sky. It must be so blue after so many recent days of grey. Hateful, hateful Grey…
"Couldn't Harry help?"
"She can't even help herself."
"Ah that's a shame. Well there must be something you can do. Get a flatshare maybe?"
"Come on," she guffaws. "Who would want me as their flatmate?"
"You know…you're the second person who's said that to me today." Mike gives an odd little smirk, and if she didn't know better, she would pass the roguish gleam in his eye off as something else. In spite of herself, her curiosity is piqued.
"Who was the first?"
…
The man with the unusual eyes currently using her phone to text is clearly an arrogant prat.
Who's quite possibly in love with himself.
It's this reason, and the dejected look on that girl's face (Molly was it?) that prevents Jane from backing out immediately. If anything, the last thing she needs is…complications where flatmates are concerned. But the man is clearly oblivious to the poor thing's advances, so she gathers that it probably won't be a problem. He hands the phone back to her, his eyes snapping up to hers (seriously what colour were they?) and even though his lips don't smile, the cleverness in their depths is akin to something of the sort.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he says.
"Sorry, what?"
"Your tour. Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did…?" She looks at Mike who just shakes his head.
"Can you pass me that bottle of acid there? It's just next to you," the man asks, smoothing over her question. Two favours in under three minutes, he is presumptuous isn't he? He looks at her expectantly, even though it's quite possible for him to reach it himself with his own lanky arms. She huffs.
"Which one?" There are several, all nondescript.
"The one with the green cap."
She balks, panic causing her to look up at him with wide eyes before she expertly reins it in. His eyebrow quirks in amusement and it's singularly the most irritating thing she's ever seen. She snatches the first bottle she comes to, not really caring in the end.
"Here," she says thrusting it out to him. He looks down at it, and takes it from her returning to his microscope. He drops a few units of liquid into the Petri dish, and leans over the eye pieces, two pools of light causing his irises to shine like a cat's.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
"Erm…what?"
"I play it. It helps me concentrate. Sometimes I go days on end without saying a word. Will that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looks up from the microscope and smiles smugly before typing something on his laptop.
Jane looks at Mike, and he shakes his head again raising his hands.
"Who said anything about flatmates?" she says not able to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
"I did. I was just telling Mike this morning that apparently I am a difficult man to flatshare with, and here he is just back from lunch with an old friend, obviously just home from military service in Afghanistan. Honesty, it wasn't that difficult a leap."
"How did you know about that?"
He looks up at her again with that false smile as if he's barely tolerating the presence of the lesser IQ's in the room, and with a flourish he gets to his feet swinging his great dark coat around him like a cape.
"How do you fancy Central London? I think between the two of us we can afford the flat I've picked out. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock."
"Do you have a penchant for not answering questions?" Jane says bristling. She hasn't even decided if she wants a flatmate yet. This all started out as a whim after all.
"Among other things," he says distractedly winding a scarf around his neck and making his way to the door. "Where did I put that riding crop? Ah, yes the Mortuary!" Mike sputters in horror at this, and in spite of everything, Jane actually laughs. The man looks back at her, surprise on his face and Jane can't help but be surprised too. It's been a long time since she's laughed.
"So that's it then?" she says, the grin still apparent in her voice.
"What is?"
"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
"We know nothing about each other. I don't know where it is, or even your name." He fixes his mercurial gaze on her again, and she thinks his eyes must be the colour of silver due to how strange they are.
"I know you're an invalided Army doctor home from Afghanistan needing a flatshare because you don't get on with your brother, who is quite possibly an alcoholic which is the reason you won't go to him for help. Most likely it's because his wife left him. And I know your therapist thinks your recent colour blindness is psychosomatic — quite correctly I'm afraid. Quite enough to go off of, wouldn't you agree?"
"How—?" she starts, but the words die in her throat.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." And with one last nod at Mike, the cheeky bastard winks at her and vanishes.