(Notes: this is the Beginning for a story I've been telling out-of-order. The moments come as they may, and I write them as inspired, then become so eager to see them in print that I bounce about like a ping-pong ball. Bear with me please, Kind Reader, as I hope it is a pleasant tale in all. And please bear with my OC, as she means only the best, entering this already established world.
Also- I suppose I should state here that this is canon divergent; would have to be if there's an OC involved, correct? The events take place after A Scandal in Belgravia, and this timeline also concurrently includes The Hounds of Baskerville. The Reichenbach Fall is somewhere in the nebulous future, and Sherlock has not yet rescued The Woman from the terrorist cell that plans to execute her.
I, of course, don't have any claim to the BBC Sherlock world, and am entirely enamoured by its every detail, as provided by the many Artists involved in its creation. All credit to them, and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I never in my life dreamed Sherlock Holmes could capture my imagination so!
Also thanks to my very special Beta {known in some precincts as TheBannedAuthor} for her advice, support & timely contribution of an idea which helped get this beginning finally crystallized. Love you forever, my dear! She actually wrote a little story that serves as a prologue to this tale and hopefully she'll publish it here one day.
And with that all being said...hoping you ENJOY!)
John had planned the evening with careful attention to the details that would make it go as smoothly as possible. Tickets for a production of "Twelfth Night", being performed in Stratford, East London. Fairly far off West End, granted, but John had heard some good things about it and the seats were very reasonably priced. He also knew the biggest spanner in the works would be Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had asked simply for a "night out with my boys" when John had inquired what she would like for her birthday, and he was determined not to disappoint her. Of course he'd had very little—well frankly, NO—help from Sherlock; as usual, he couldn't have been bothered with mundane details, and every time John had asked for his opinion about the plans, he either got a terse response or none at all. So be it. At the very least, John had resolved that Sherlock would be fully participating in the evening's festivities.
John knew, as well, that any best-laid plans could swiftly go astray where Sherlock was involved. Accordingly, he's arranged for the three of them to dine at Angelo's, where the owner's debt of gratitude to Holmes would guarantee prompt seating and service, thus ensuring they wouldn't be late for the theatre. Hopefully. If Sherlock didn't hang them up too long before departure from 221B. John, trying not to sound as irritated as he actually felt, shouted up the stairs, "Sherlock, curtain's at 7:30, if we hope to get some dinner first we really need to leave now."
The actress playing Viola looked so familiar; John could swear he'd seen her before. She actually seemed like someone he should recognize. As the lights came up for interval, he rapidly paged through the programme. She was listed as the understudy for Viola, and a member of the Ensemble. He continued looking, till he spotted her picture next to her biography. "Tessa DeMauro, American in London, enjoying the greatest adventure of her life in Shakespeare's own City, makes her first appearance with our Company. She holds a BFA in Acting from Emerson College in Boston, with additional training at RADA. Her previous roles include Shakespeare's Juliet, Beatrice & Lady Anne (Richard III), the title role in Mary of Scotland, Shen Te in The Good Woman of Setzuan, and Euripides' Medea, as well as numerous appearances in regional & summer stock productions throughout New England."
John muttered under his breath "Tessa DeMauro, Tessa DeMauro, I know I know her, but where do I know her from?" He shook his head, perplexed; it was right in the tip of his tongue; something to do with his time in Afghanistan—and then he had it. He'd served with her fiancée; he'd met Tessa several times at social events designed to network family members of servicemen scheduled for tours of duty. But with that recollection, came something more. Hal Barnes had been killed in service only two weeks before he was set to stand down from deployment. The memory sobered John immediately.
Mrs. Hudson, seated between "her boys" was chatting in a sort of stream of consciousness—regarding her impressions of the show and other performances she'd seen and the people she'd seen them with— and Sherlock looked like he was listening, but John could tell he really wasn't hearing a word their landlady was saying. He had that look he got when his mind was far away, striving to work out a complex problem or trying to remember a very relevant bit of data that could point him in the direction needed to solve a case. He began to leaf through his programme as well, stopping at a particular page, then nodding his head as though he'd found what he'd been looking for. Mrs. Hudson continued on, oblivious to their not quite listening to her.
When she paused for breath (or perhaps having finally run out of things to say) John was quick to get a word in. "Turns out I know the actress playing Viola; I served….", but before he could finish, Sherlock ran right over him, "Well, we didn't actually meet her, but I remember her as well."
John drew a complete blank, not unusual when Sherlock expected him to remember something he hadn't paid too close attention to in the first place.
Sherlock went on, exhibiting his usual impatience with what he considered to be John's faulty memory. "The clerk from ASDA, when that idiot was trying to make a fraudulent return? The chainsaw, John."
John took a beat, as this part did sound familiar, then the memory came to mind, "But she wasn't an American…."
"Well, obviously she is. That is quite surprising, her accent at the store was impeccable. I'd have placed her in Chelsea for certain." Sherlock nodded his head again, acknowledging the young woman's skill in actually fooling him. That was a rarity, and rarer still for him to admit it to anyone but himself. "Which begs the question: just why the charade?"
The house lights began to flicker, warning patrons to return to their seats for the commencement of the second act, putting an end to their conversation.
As the final applause wound down, people began gathering their belongings, programmes and such, preparing to leave the theatre. Mrs. Hudson was chattering excitedly about how wonderful she thought the production was, and how surprising it was to see an American actress carry off the role so well. Sherlock stood, staring at the empty stage, seeming unaware of the conversation beside him; he was clearly thinking something through, but what it could be was a mystery to John. Eventually Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson "Wouldn't you like to meet that young woman—the American actress? It seems John knows her. I'll bet she'd love to see a familiar face, and we'd all have the opportunity to tell her what a brilliant job she did." He then looked to his friend "Well, John, what do you think? You heard Mrs. Hudson, and what a special birthday treat it would be to see backstage and meet one of the leads."
Momentarily dumbfounded by Sherlock's uncharacteristic request, John quickly realized—in the face of Sherlock's very forced smile—that there had to be an ulterior motive lurking behind his enthusiastic suggestion. But Mrs. Hudson grew immediately more excited at the thought of meeting the actress, so John knew their course was set. Damn Sherlock for throwing this in his lap and expecting him to make it happen, with no preparation.
So just how was he going to make this happen? The theatre had quickly emptied, so that their little party was the last of the audience left in the hall. Ushers had begun to move across the aisles, picking up discarded programmes and debris, and setting right those seats left down. He supposed he could start with one of them. He walked up the aisle, picking out one he thought looked least likely to think he was a stalker type, while turning the Watson charm up to full volume. He cleared his throat before saying,"Excuse me, miss."
Clearly middle-aged, the woman looked up, and John could see his use of the flattering "miss" rather than "ma'am" had not had its intended effect. Great start John, he thought, before he continued, "I wonder if you could help me."
The woman raised a brow, looking at him a bit warily, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Yes?" she replied, flatly.
John tuned back to see Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock still standing in their row of seats, watching him with high expectation. He looked back to the usher, "Well, you see," he paused, wagering that some hesitance might disarm her a bit, "my friends and I were hoping to get in touch with one of the performers. She's an old friend of mine," John grimaced inwardly at the blatant exaggeration, "and we came tonight not even knowing she was in the play. Is there any chance you could get a message back to her?"
"Really?" she replied, "Don't you think you could come up with something more original?" She tsk'ed pointedly and turned to resume collecting programmes.
"No, really," John declared, taking a few steps into the row where she was working, "Haven't seen her in a few years, she was engaged to a friend of mine, I was just hoping to catch up a bit." He paused, and then added with emphasis, "Really."
The woman heaved a sigh and shook her head. "Alright, I suppose I can check—if she's still here." She pursed her lips in exaggerated agitation. "And which lovely is it you'll be wanting to," she framed the next in air quotes "be 'catching up a bit' with?"
"Um…Ms. DeMauro, if it wouldn't be too much trouble". John shot her what he hoped was his most grateful expression. She shook her head dubiously, "And who should I shall is calling?"
"John Watson….um, tell her Dr. John Watson". It occurred to him suddenly that Tessa just might not remember him. Too late to worry about that he supposed; nothing ventured, after all, nothing gained.
"You and your friends, go wait out in the vestibule. I'll be out shortly to let you know what's what." Muttering under her breath, she walked to the front of the theatre, going through the exit door to the left of the stage.
Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were moving in John's direction. "We're to wait in the lobby," he told them. "She'll let us know shortly if Tessa can see us."
Waiting in the deserted lobby, John began to wonder if the usher had even really spoken to the actress, when he heard his name being called. He turned to face the voice, and found Tessa walking towards him, smiling, an arm extended to greet him. She appeared to be carrying a terra-cotta planter containing tulips in the other. He took a few steps towards her, and she treated him to an amiable (albeit one-armed) embrace. Her cheek against his, she said warmly "Oh John, this is a marvelous surprise!" She moved back to look him in the eyes. "I had no idea you were back, let alone living in London."
"Well yes," he replied, glad to see she was comfortable in greeting him, "a couple years now." John had remembered her as young, pretty and vivacious, as Hal had squired her about those military functions; standing before him now, he saw she had grown into a woman's beauty, laced with confidence. This maturity needn't surprise him, he told himself, reckoning she'd been through much in the intervening years.
He found himself meeting her lively smile with a grin of his own. "But look at you, making it big on the London stage. Can we expect to see more of this in the future?"
"Your mouth to God's ears, John." she responded, a happy grin lighting her whole face, "This has been a huge break for me, and I'm loving every minute of it!" Tessa glanced over at Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, flashing them a friendly smile, then turning back to John. "But you are going to introduce me to your friends?"
"Yes, right" he replied, motioning slightly for them to join him. "Tessa DeMauro, I'd like you to meet a very dear woman and the reason we're even here tonight, Martha Hudson." He paused, then remembering, added "We're actually here to celebrate her birthday."
Tessa immediately extended her free hand to Mrs. Hudson, telling her she was glad to meet her and wishing her all the best for her birthday.
Sherlock had hung back a moment or two, observing the three, their heads inclined towards one another, before joining in. "Perhaps Ms. DeMauro might care to join us for a birthday toast in Mrs. Hudson's honor?" He tilted his head slightly in greeting, as Tessa turned her attention towards him. John noticed her eyes widen just a touch and her quick intake of breath, though he couldn't be sure it was recognition that dawned on her face, or something else. She bit her lip and smiled at his friend, and John was suddenly certain that it was a case of something else. He shook his head, smiling himself, sure that despite Sherlock's unerring observational skills, he was likely to have missed the meaning behind Tessa's subtle cues.
"And this is my, uh… "John paused; even with their years of working and living together, he always found introducing Sherlock as "his" anything was slightly uncomfortable, "my friend and flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock extended his hand to her, formal and stiff as John had seen him do on countless occasions when social niceties were called for. "A pleasure, Ms. DeMauro," he said as his hand encompassed hers, "Thoroughly enjoyed your performance." The corners of Sherlock's mouth crept upward just a bit; in this case, however, John could see his smile was genuine.
Tessa looked down a moment, seeming humbled by the compliment, then looked back at Sherlock, boldly meeting his firm gaze. "Why thank you, Mr. Holmes, that's very kind of you to say so." Her eyes lingered on Sherlock's a few moments more, as though she was waiting for a further response. When none came, she turned back to John, who broke the silence.
John nodded at Tessa, "A birthday toast sounds like just the thing right now. Can you recommend something close by?" She bit her lip, concentrating a moment, then answered, "Yes, there's a cozy little place about a block over. We could walk there in about five minutes." Tessa looked over to Mrs. Hudson, wanting to be sure she was up for the short stroll.
In the absence of any further comment from Sherlock or the women, John made the final call, "Then I guess that's the plan. Tessa, would you lead the way?"
"I'd be delighted." She started toward the double doors, and John slipped ahead to hold one open for her and the others. Always the gentleman, John offered to carry the pot for Tessa, and she gratefully handed it to him. It wasn't as heavy as he'd expected, the terra-cotta turning out to be a plastic replica. He moved to walk at Tessa's side, and they began to chat affably, catching up on recent events. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson followed quietly behind, she occasionally commenting on sights along the way, Sherlock maintaining his usual circumspect demeanor.
( to be continued...)