Title: Joined by Music
Author(s): Starluff
Rating: G
Character(s)/Pairings: Watson and Holmes, non slash. Written for Watson's Woes JWP music prompt: Sarasate: Homage à Rossini
Summary: A recently discharged Watson stops to listen to a violinist, playing in the street... non-slash.
Warnings: None (I think...)
Word Count: 1969
Author's Notes: My muse has been quite generous lately, it seems. My third fic in one week! I wrote most of this just yesterday, adding that last bit and editing today. I don't know how to feel about it; I don't want to give anything away, but the situation that the two are in is quite serious and shouldn't be downplayed... and here I am, downplaying it. I reconciled myself, saying that it is just some writing practice and shouldn't be taken seriously. Not my finest work, by far, but there you go; I always feel that way about my stories. Slightly fluffy and completely light-hearted. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! (For though I am currently quite anxious about it and filled with self-doubt, I did enjoy writing it a good deal!)
25/Aug edit: Some minor changes.
The music was beautiful.
Watson sighed in pleasure as he closed his eyes, chin in palm and elbow on knee as he sat on the sidewalk. It was the best music he had heard in a long time. Watson's smile turned a shade bitter; that was a misleading sentence, though not strictly false. It implied that he had heard music recently. A more truthful sentence would be: he had not heard music in a long time; in fact, he could not remember the last time he had done so. Five years ago? Ten? Regardless, he was greatly enjoying himself; he had almost forgotten why people spend so much money going to concerts, listening to such sounds that caressed the ears and thrilled the soul, making one forget about the problems of life, if only for a little while.
And Watson had plenty of problems. So he would rather listen for now.
He marveled at how people could simply pass by, ignoring this wonderful sound. Surely, no appointment was worth more than this! But then, the unengaged cannot liken themselves to the engaged, so perhaps he could not judge them so. Ah well, their loss.
Some stopped and listened. Not for long, but they listened all the same. Then they tossed a coin or some such amount of money and then were on their merry way. Even if Watson had something to do, he didn't think he would so callously walk away from so generous an offering. Watson couldn't remember ever being so grateful about anything than he did now, for those two hours. Two hours of pure musical bliss; an escape from reality.
The music stopped. Watson was jolted back to reality and craned his neck to look at the violinist who had given him such enjoyment these two hours past, wondering whether he would continue on with another piece, or whether he was done for the day. Evidently he was done, as the man picked up the case and proceeded to put the violin away. The crowd of some half a dozen people clapped appreciatively and more coins clinked their way into the upturned top hat, before dispersing to the four winds. For himself, Watson wanted to thank the man personally (and at eye level, if at all possible), so he tried to get up – but 'try' and 'do' are not necessarily the same.
The 'reality' that Watson had temporarily escaped from included his leg wound. Said wound had not been at all happy lately to being out in the elements for such an extended period of time and without adequate protection. His two hours of comfort had made the foolish doctor forget this part of his reality; so now, as Watson tried to get up off the sidewalk, the memory of its existence came back with a pain as sharp as knife in his thigh, making him gasp and reluctantly go back down. Watson rubbed at the darned thing, trying to decide whether it would be best to let it rest for a moment or to struggle through the pain and just get up.
While he was thinking this, a hand entered his vision and a voice made itself known through his musing, "Do you need help?" Looking up, Watson was surprised to see the violinist. It was not that he thought that the man would be ungentlemanly and leave a suffering person alone, but that throughout the entire time, the man hadn't shown any awareness of anything besides his violin; not when coins blessed his upturned hat or when he got a round of applause. His eyes, which had been either closed or vacant the entire time (Watson hadn't even noticed their gray color), now looked down upon him, making himself seem more human and current than he had just a few minutes prior.
Watson paused to consider, then shook his head, "No; not at the moment, at least. The pain should pass," by that he meant lessen to a more tolerable level, "in a moment. Thank you all the same."
The gray-eyed man nodded in understanding and, to Watson's surprise, sat down next to him. Watson decided that this was a good chance to show his gratitude without having to get a crick in his neck. "Allow me to thank you, my good man, for that excellent performance. I wish I had something to give you in return-"
"Nonsense!" The violinist exclaimed with a passion that surprised Watson, "I am glad to have given you such enjoyment; I did not think that a man such as yourself would have such high regard for the finer arts. I admit I was only planning on playing for an hour or so but your attention encouraged me to continue. Besides, it's not like I have anywhere else to be at the moment." This last was grumbled with annoyance, as if there was a story behind his words.
Watson could never resist ambiguous stories and pressed for more details, "Why ever not?"
"Because, good doctor, I, like you, have no place to stay." Said in the tone of voice of one who has accepted his lot in life.
Despite claiming to be in the same proverbial boat as him, Watson still felt his cheeks flush and his hand clench in embarrassment. It was true, the ex-soldier was homeless, as the man had said...
Wait, how had he known he was homeless? Or perhaps, more importantly, how had he known that he was a doctor?
Watson voiced the question, turning to the man beside him on the sidewalk. The man laughed good-naturedly and said, "It is... well, let us call it a hobby of mine at the moment. It used to be my profession, and I would have called it so had we been having this conversation a week prior; but, alas, we are having it in current times and thus, it is not to be.
"You see, I am something of a professional when it comes to deductions; I excel at it and it brought no meager wage, as a matter of fact."
Conceited fellow, isn't he? Watson thought with a wry, amused smile. "If it was so profitable, why are you out of here on the streets with this hapless and homeless veteran, and not in some cozy abode?" Watson challenged.
"Ah," the conceited violinist's face fell just a bit, just for a moment, in some form of disappointment or annoyance; Watson would chance to say both. "That was most unfortunate. I do not understand why the landlady could make such a fuss over a trifle but that was exactly what happened. You see, I pay my rent with more regularity and generosity than anyone else in the blasted place, yet the honorable landlady simply, and I quote, 'would not, could not (italics and all), take anymore' of my hobby. What is so deplorable about studying the world around us, I ask you?"
"'Studying the world' in what way, might I ask?" Watson asked, his smile not changed a mite.
"Through chemistry," the man replied with an affected sniff, "I am in the habit of conducting experiments, you see, to aid me in my practice. Why, just recently, I discovered a fool-proof way of testing for blood!"
"A test for blood?" This incredulously. "Why would a man ever need to test for blood?"
The man frowned in apparent annoyance at Watson's obtuseness. "Why? Why, you ask? I'll tell you why, to bring men to justice! Criminal cases are continually hinging upon that one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or clothes are examined, and brownish stains discovered upon them. Are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rust stains, or fruit stains, or what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many an expert, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holmes' test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."
"Indeed," Watson murmured, marveling at how the man had managed to rattle all that out quite so rapidly, in the heights of passion and pride, and not be breathless; the doctor himself felt a bit on his behalf.
"But you asked for the way I came about deciphering you are were an army medico, discharged from the army due to a leg wound by way of those infamous jezail bullets, and have now spent all your month's pension on gambling. Am I wrong on any account?" The shocked, open-mouthed look Watson adopted gave the man far too much pride to be considered decent. "Good to know I haven't lost any of my acuteness of mind in this week past on the streets; truth be told, it has been quite profitable. I've never had as much time to observe the luckless lower class and I've learned a few interesting tidbits, and gained a few friends who can be of use to me in the future. But I ramble incessantly; this information has given me a grand idea. You seem to be a more tolerable man than most, my good doctor, and so I have a suggestion for you.
"You are still getting your monthly pension, I presume? Very good. How would you like to go halves with me on a suite? I've found a very promising one in Baker Street, with a far more charming landlady than I have had prior experience with. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"
"Well, no; I smoke strong 'ships myself. But you see-"
"How about my fore-mentioned love of chemistry? It got me thrown out of my previous lodgings, so you should give careful consideration before making any decisions."
"But I-"
"I also get bouts of depression that, I've been told, is quite disconcerting. On such occasions, I advise you to simply ignore me; I'll be quite alright. Yes, I think that is it, mainly. What of you? No man is without fault and I have a right to know of yours before we make any decisions."
"Would you calm down and listen for a moment?!" Watson exclaimed exasperatedly. The doctor now quieted and avoided the man's gaze, fully chagrined, "I- well, as you've deduced already, I've gambled all my money away. I haven't a penny to my name. I fully appreciate your offer but-"
"Nonsense!" - for the second time - "And do not worry your pride about it; I don't give charity. I am here to make an investment. See, I believe I have some amount of money coming my way shortly; so while I might be able to pay the full rent this month if I scrimp and save accordingly, I doubt I will be able to do so continually. I need a fellow-lodger to help alleviate the monetary pressure, and most people would rather die, apparently, than lodge with an introvert such as myself. But you are a highly tolerable fellow," such high praise, Watson thought dryly, "and perhaps just desperate enough to lodge with me! What say you, old chap?"
"I say – I say that it is all very sudden but I don't think I have much of a choice," Watson said honestly.
Holmes grinned broadly, though whether it was because Watson accepted, or because he had no choice, the doctor couldn't tell. "Excellent! Why wait tomorrow? You are as free as I am; let's go now! Bring your meager belongings and I will bring mine, and perhaps we can both have a roof above our heads tonight."
Thus saying, the man picked up his Stradivarius and took off with a quick, long legged walk that Watson was hard pressed to follow. But follow he did, trying to wrap his head around the events that had just transpired.