The Science of Deduction

Oxford, 1881

If you had told Nigel Griffin's teachers at Saint Saviour's that the child clowning around in class, mumbling under his breath at their 'over-reaction' to his pranks, would find himself at Oxford, let alone pursuing a Masters in Chemistry, they'd have outright laughed in your face. Such was his reputation… and he'd made a masterful art out of appearing less intelligent than he was. It didn't do to seem intelligent on the rough and ready streets of his youth. His siblings certainly hadn't seen the use of all that learning, and his uniform had made him stand out from the other children on his road like a sore, rather easy-to-tease, thumb. So it was that even though he had taken to Graham's Law as easily as his brother had 'abc', Griffin had never once tooted his own intellectual horn.

In a place such as Oxford, where genius was as common as toffy-nosed gits with nothing but money and breeding to recommend them, it was probably just as well that he continued to keep such things to himself. He had never been top of the class anyway and there was always someone better than you somewhere out there, no matter how highly you thought of yourself.

Perhaps that was why he was having his doubts. The deadline was fast approaching for research applications, and while his was bloody amazing – an endless source of fascination that he wanted to continue with every fibre of his being – he couldn't help but feel as though he were somehow lacking. That with all these geniuses to choose from, spoilt for choice, they would surely only turn him down: and what was the point in building up all of one's hopes, just to have them crushed again?

Then, of course, there was the question of what he would do if he was accepted. How would he fund his post? Could he afford the rent? Was it really worth it, when with his education, he could sweep into a good, solid company and live up to his family's expectations? Oh they never said anything outright, his mother was always proud of him, but it lingered there, unsaid, every time he went home: when was he going to grow up, get a job, settle down and provide for them? When was he going to supersede his brother and take his father's place? Why the bloody hell did he even have to?! All he wanted was to explore the scientific world, make some contribution to humanity's ever-expanding knowledge, to civilisation's progress. So that one day, one day people wouldn't have to live in slums and squalor, wondering where their next meal was coming from.

He sighed irritably at the thoughts spewing round like noxious gasses in his head, and had to put the conical glass down for a moment so he didn't royally screw up the experiment. Immediately his eyes landed on the toff who'd been curiously occupying his laboratory from time to time with the most bizarre array of tests known to man. He'd seen smoke and ash, dirt and semen, what looked to be teeth from skulls and today's bizarre topic of analysis? Blood, it seemed… which was decidedly more commonplace than his earlier subjects.

Griffin might've felt more charitable towards this rather unusual lab partner if it wasn't for the fact that his presence was a constant reminder of his place here at Oxford. He didn't have any fancy connections, he hadn't wowed his lecturers in his first year or wined and dined them in his third; he didn't suck up to them, nor shine with especial brilliance. So, he would forever remain the poor relation, the St Saviour's boy who owed everything to luck and the good will of others, who shouldn't even be cluttering up these hallowed medieval halls with his uncouth, deplorably common blood.

Who else would they foist this lunatic from the medical and biological sciences department onto? Who else would put up with the peculiar stenches of fermenting results, the still-dirty equipment left absent-mindedly here, there, and everywhere – the never-ending silence and disdain with which the interloper clearly held him?

Nigel had been so miffed when he'd been told of this new arrival that he had refused to talk to him at all that first day. A trend that had thenceforth continued, regardless of the fact that Griffin had soon gotten over the fact he'd been thrust upon him and determined not to hold it against the man. So it was literally weeks before he'd asked around about him and discovered the toff had a name: James Watson. The college bar was rife, once he'd started digging, with stories of his… singularities.

Stories of how he had gotten kicked out of a medical degree in Scotland – some said Glasgow, others Edinburgh – for his methods of post-mortem analysis, of how he had excelled in toxicology and botany, and a myriad of other topics but not the ones he was here for – namely that same medical degree which had eluded him north of the border. Not to mention his side hobby in the chemistry lab… though his bowling in the Sunday leagues earned him a fair amount of praise despite all that.

The chemist considered him a moment, intent upon the reaction he was creating with a clear solution of blood and water – adding a dash of white powder, then acid. Watson was sporting whiskers, which twitched at the first signs of metamorphosis, his dark eyes zeroing in with delight, and observing intensely for his hoped-for outcome as he stirred four times. Seriously, Griffin understood a passion for what you did, but never before had he witnessed such unadulterated, gluttonous pleasure at being right as he had before James Watson had appropriated half his lab.

Then Nigel realised that the solution had turned a dull chestnut colour throughout, and noticeable clumps of brown dust had settled to the base.

"Huh," he uttered without realising, alerting Watson's absorbed gaze to the fact that, his interest piqued, he had leant over for a closer look. His eyes flicked briefly towards Griffin, before continuing to absorb the effects and extent of the change.

"Do you have something to say Mr…" the voice was everything Nigel had expected it to be – restrained, respectable, arrogant… smug. He didn't even look towards him for as much as a second.

"Griffin," Nigel managed to keep out any hint that might've crept into his voice of his discomfort with being judged and found wanting. Returning to his work, he tried to ignore the fact that the intruder had just pointed out he had absolutely no idea who he was, let alone cared.

"Well Mr Griffin?" he prompted, finishing the notes in his book.

Nigel glanced up, slightly annoyed by the continued interruption. "Well what?"

"You were on the precipice of a revelation I think," he put down his pencil and gave him his full attention, the corners of his eyes clearly crinkling with a paternalistic amusement.

Griffin wasn't sure he appreciated the mockery, and he certainly wasn't too sure that engaging with Watson, finally, after all this time, was a particularly good idea. "Yeah… I realised I should be getting on with my experiment."

The look on the other man's face was presumably one of surprise – his brows knotted slightly as his sharp eyes assessed him, intrigued: "Interesting."

"What?" Nigel stopped everything a little warily, feeling like a butterfly about to be pinned to a specimen board.

Watson dropped the stop watch he'd been fiddling with onto his notebook and braced two hands on the lab-table, with Griffin watching his every move, right down to the tilt of his head. "You've actually been paying attention to my work?"

"Err…" he was flummoxed for a minute, unsure of what he might say, and determined not to come off like a first year – but he couldn't exactly lie. Truth was that, peculiar as Watson's experiments often were, they had, on occasion, completely seized Nigel's interest from his own project until there was some satisfying conclusion drawn. It was Watson's slightly condescending smile that managed to break a coherent answer out of him, "you mean your faffing about with blood and re-agents like a sixth-former with his first real project?"

The jovial bark of laughter was the last thing he'd expected to hear, but Nigel's relief expressed itself in the beginnings of a smile nonetheless.

"Indeed – the methodology is remarkably simple I will give you that, but no less complex. Tell me, Mr Griffin, what do your senses discern from my faffing about, as you put it?"

He narrowed eyes at him, wondering what game the man was playing, what form of dominance he hoped to reassert upon him, because the answer was so obvious it hurt. "Well no doubt you were formulating some test for the presence of blood… the white crystals… no doubt a tungstate… probably sodium – and an acetic acid – reacting to the iron in the haemoglobin."

The shock on Watson's face was momentarily evident, though he covered it quickly with a growing smirk, "Well this is a pleasant surprise. Finally, someone actually capable of understanding what I am attempting to achieve! You're quite right Griffin, to the letter – I've been researching it for days and this is the first time I've hit on anything quite so perfect." His eyes were alive with the success, his smile suddenly warm and inviting.

"How come?" he dared to ask, and to his great satisfaction Watson never missed a beat in his reply.

"Ah, you see we have had no test that worked on dried blood traces as it did wet. This I tested on fresh blood when I came in today – with the same results as this, here, which was dried before I combined it in the water," he breathed in proudly, "Such a delicate little test – its rather deserving of being so absolutely bloody brilliant."

Griffin's brows were raised, trying to abate the urge to roll the eyes beneath as he nodded in amazement at the man.

"No doubt you see the significance of this discovery of mine?"

He smirked a little, "Well the laundry women will be pleased."

Watson eyed him for a moment, as if figuring out what he meant, and then the pleasure dropped almost as quickly as it had ever appeared, more than just a little put out, "Hang the washerwomen, this is the most practical medico-legal discovery in years. Had this test been invented before today, there are hundreds of men now walking the earth who would long ago have paid the penalty of their crimes."

Nigel was impressed, and it showed, despite himself, "You mean, prove the stains on the suspect's clothes are traces of blood and not mud?"

"Just so," he sniffed proudly, eying the chemist out of the corner of his eye and surprised at just how appreciative he was of someone to share this with. After all, even Druitt found it a terrible bore and kept asking why it was so necessary to bury his head in a lab than go out for a round of drinks – and John at least appreciated his intelligence, unlike the rest of his college. Sadly Miss Magnus, who would have undoubtedly beamed with congratulations at his success, was on holiday with her illustrious father in the Scottish Highlands. A holiday, he knew, that was little more than a veiled excuse for expeditionary research into her new most favourite topic: comparing human and animal physiology.

Believing this to be the end of the topic, not to mention being slightly put off by the man's apparent hubris, Nigel quietly returned to his work and let him be. Mr Watson apparently thought to do the same. He could hear him tinker and shift some of the equipment about, and then he did something Griffin could hardly have expected, clearing his throat he announced out of the blue: "You should definitely continue."

"What?"

One side of his mouth lifted to a smile at the reaction, and the typically working-class abruptness with which it had been said, "With your studies."

At this Griffin stopped what he was doing – again – rather annoyed, and put his hands on the desk as he straightened himself to his full height, "And what exactly makes you think I was eve-"

"It's written all over you my dear chap," he looked back, all but grinning now as he received permission to exercise the fascinating deductive techniques Dr Bell had taught him, "You've been distracted all day, and keep sighing unconsciously at intervals as though you are thinking on a matter which exasperates you, yet your experiment appears to be going well. You do not direct your frustration onto it at all. You're a bachelor, and I'd wager a rather confirmed one at that from the amount of time you spend at your studies. Your collar and cuffs have been professionally starched, and sometimes you wear crumpled shirts which a female eye would have demanded be seen to… little marks of daily wear and scruffiness about your personal attire which having a significant other might give you reason to remedy. So I would be surprised indeed to find that there was, currently at least, a woman in your life…"

"Hey," Griffin grumbled, slightly taken aback.

Watson of course, continued regardless, "So, if it's not women-troubles, a man of your age and lower-class background," Nigel regarded him warily, very ready to hit him for being so rude, "it must be a matter of money, or your career… and what could be the most frustrating thing to a third year student at this time in the academic calendar, but to decide upon the matter of his future." He paused barely long enough to raise a thick eyebrow at him, catching his breath before continuing, "I might've said you were stuck between the prospects of two employers, but you're clearly onto something quite extraordinary – you'll forgive me, but I snuck a glance at your notes out of curiosity the other day. A man with such dedication to his studies rarely finds satisfaction in the cut and thrust of industry, he thrives in the world of academics and researchers, where his work is given meaning and purpose beyond its financial worth. Therefore, you are at a quandary of whether or not to step into the world, and obtain for yourself a respectable if mundane place in it, or remain here, where your ambitions might yet be realised."

The chemist stood stunned, reeling from the equal turns of insult and compliment that he'd just been paid by a man who did not know him at all, who'd spoken to him for the first time barely ten minutes ago, and had yet, remarkably, hit the nail on the head. Good God, how long had this man been studying him, from across the room, and making such terrifyingly accurate assumptions?

"If you want my advice, Mr Griffin," Watson added with a warm, slightly smug twist of a smile, "I would continue your studies." Picking up his hat from the side, he was clearly taking a break, maybe even finished for the day. Nigel still didn't quite know what to say and so watched him go, pronouncing clearly as he left: "Else I'm afraid you will be doing the world a disservice."

DISCLAIMERS:

I have pinched mercilessly from Arthur Conan Doyle's A Study in Scarlet, from whence comes the chapter title The Science of Deduction, as any Sherlock Holmes fan might have easily picked out. :) But I thought it was appropriate so I'm not going to apologise for a bit of healthy re-appropriation! As usual I do not own anything remotely relating to Sherlock aside from the books on my shelf. Likewise with Sanctuary and its characters, which are owned by the guys who own them… I'm just playing.

Author's Note:

Oooh the historical-ness, so my pretties, I was thinking about Griffo and thought – he sounds like a Londoner, and a common one at that, so how does he end up at Oxford? Answer: he's a bright lad and someone realises it, his parents are all about the self-improvement, and manage to get him into a free Grammar school, from whence he manages to get to university.

Saint Saviours was one such free grammar school in Victorian London, located in Southwalk which is south of the river, and not so shiny, and posh, as the west end.

Rather appropriately the word "toff" was slang which originated in Victorian Oxford.

Totally see Watson as a cricket player (I have no idea why)… and John, weirdly enough (those long limbs maybe?)… Griffin I can imagine is more of a Ruggers player. All completely amateur of course!

And Griffin is totally the Watson to Watson's Sherlock… totally, because nice John is just too relaxed and friendly. Well, Griffin and probably Conan Doyle himself, turned into one big fictional malaise. Anyway!

As you can probably tell I do not hold to the maxim that the Five met each other concurrently and the instant they met they formed the Five so… yeah, hopefully you'll find these pre-source-blood forays interesting.

And for anyone following Vienna in Springtime – consider this an apology for the delay in updating! :S