Wall of Disclaimers is up. Sorry that I haven't been posting. Lots of stuff to deal with.
John pulled on the jumper absent mindedly. He wasn't sure what to wear. It was supposed to be his great homecoming but it didn't feel that way. First of all, there was no one there to greet him. In all the movies there was always a happy family to share hugs with or a girlfriend to loop around the waist. Not for him.
He stood on platform seven watching the train he got off of load with fresh passengers. They were probably headed off to the neighboring city. It was a military town. Pretty much everyone had a family member in the army. You couldn't walk down the street without seeing the jolly red, white, and blue flag wave over some returning veteran's rejoicing household.
And he was alone. But he didn't mind.
He was back in London. The capital. It felt the same as always. The sky was still the steam filled gray that permeated the air. It was the same cobblestone waltz floating over the cobblestone streets. There was a man playing a strange brass instrument in the corner and playing the sweet tune. He was there every day. John knew this because he had always stopped at this station during college. That man had been there at six sharp every morning and left promptly at nine every night for the past ten years. The carriages were pulled by the same old horses. People milled about with their faces directed at their newspapers or watches. It was the city where everyone shut everyone else out. A few people bumped into him, almost knocking over his cane, as he passed. They didn't so much as apologize. But, that was the way of the city. Everyone kept to themselves.
John claimed his luggage and called a carriage. It was one of those cheap hansom cabs, but he couldn't afford better. He asked them to bring him to the nearest hostel. That happened to be two block away so John wasn't sure why he bothered.
Inside his little room, John unpacked the items in his little valise. There were a few jackets, pants and shirts, but nothing of civilian wear. He would have to go shopping. Then there was the little book of names and numbers he had collected during his tours. The ones who couldn't call back were marked in red. Then there was a little coffee tin that held his toilet set. The combs and razors had been engraved with "J.H. Watson" and were a gift from his parents. All that was left was a crumpled map of London, his browning, and a small gilded box that contained a medal. It was the Medal of Honor.
A sound came from the door. When John opened it, he wasn't surprised to see a wisp of brown hair rounding the corner. Kids these days, always looking for a laugh. He pondered for a second whether to yell that he was packing heat and wouldn't hesitate to shoot anyone bothering him. John decided against it. He did the same when he was a kid and if memory served they would get worse when they got home. John closed the door and went back inside.
He propped up his cane on the firm, narrow bunk and admired his surroundings. The walls had a navy and white stripe pattern that appeared to be yellowing, if you could see the yellow from under the soot. There was only a narrow bed and enough floor space to put a small suitcase vertically on the floor and not trip over it. That was if you were very careful. The only light in the room came from the tungsten light that hung precariously by a red wire from the ceiling. It only gave off a thin light from under the dust that covered everything.
John opened the restroom door to take a look at the restroom. He soon wished he hadn't The tiles were a molting grey. And, there seemed to be a dull green sludge oozing from the cracks between the tiles. The shower curtain was torn in several places and made of a flimsy material. John noted that there was no soap or towels. He would have to go buy some too.
John's eyes popped out of his head when he ran into an old friend. They talked and did the typical "how are you?" routine. Not much to talk about. He did mention something about one of his students being a bloody genius. John had a brief conversation with the fellow. He was a bit strange. That was all.
Passing the check–in desk, the concierge, if the pimply teen could be called that, informed him a messenger girl had a letter for him. When asked about her whereabouts of said girl all he got was a shrug. The only reason the boy had noticed was because she was a "babe".
"That," John thought, "was too much information."
John was back in his room unpacking his new towels and soap. Finally, after a long sweaty train ride he could take a bath. Or at least a shower. The residue of sweat stuck to his skin. It clung uncomfortably and the coarse fabric of his shirts made him even more uncomfortable.
Yes, a long steamy shower would be great. He was in the process of removing his shirt when a loud knock came from the door. It persisted for another five minutes while he tried to undress and hoped it would go away. With a sigh, John went to answer it wrapped in the new bathrobe. The shower could wait.
"How may I help you?" A shy girl stood in the door way. She had a dark brown head of hair and she seemed to be the embodiment of little and is something since John is only 170 cm. But, her eyes were huge. They probably just wide in surprise. Why, it wasn't everyday you knocked on some stranger's door while they persistently ignored you and opened up irritated in a bathrobe. Yes, not every day. She managed to mutter something before thrusting a letter in his hand. All he caught was the tail end of "have a very nice day, sir." which was by no means informative.
John sat on his bed with a sigh. He took a quick glance at the envelope. It was unmarked save the seal which was sealed with an ornate "M". He didn't know anyone with that initial. Except for his Great Aunt Marcy, but she had been dead for two decades, God rest her cranky soul. The girl was probably new and just bad at her job. He weighed the issue for a second before settling on the shower.
"If it was important the girl would have told me so." Right?
On his way to the shower for the second time that day, a knock came from the door.
"Great! The girl realized she got the wrong room," he thought. John plucked the letter from the bed. Time to face the same girl in a bathrobe, again. Really, this was frustrating.
He took a deep breath as he opened the door and launched into the response he had composed.
"Okay, miss, I have no idea why you gave me this letter but you shouldn't have run off and this is just plain frustrating that I can't have peace so would you please…go…away…"
John noticed as he looked down that the shoes were made of patent leather and size fifteen. The girl had worn the typical oxfords like many student carriers and she couldn't have had feet that big. Not if her father was Bigfoot and her mother was a giant. He was pretty sure she was more likely related to a unicorn than Bigfoot. He looked up and saw a smartly dressed soldier, with two others flanking him.
"Good afternoon, sir. Sorry about that. I assumed you were the messenger girl that was bothering me."
The soldier's eyes took in John's robe and the letter in his hand.
"Are you John Hamish Watson, son of James Charles Watson?" The solder's tone was gruff. Clearly, he didn't want to be there. The others fidgeted nervously.
"Well, I can think of a million places I'd rather be and things I'd rather be doing, namely in my shower rinsing shampoo out of my hair," John thought. "But, no, you called me, so don't get all high and mighty. And that's Captain John Hamish Watson to you."
The soldier grimaced and continued, "Captain, you have been summoned to The Capitol." John's brain processed that. When someone in the capital referred to THE Capitol, they meant the towering building formally known as Buckingham palace.
"Buckingham palace?" This was a summon from Buckingham PALACE. Who summoned him and more relevant was WHY?
"Yes." The soldier seemed rather annoyed that John had repeated the question. Then, John laughed. For the first time, the soldiers' faces showed something other than complete and utter contempt. They showed complete and utter bewilderment.
"This is rich. You were probably sent by Mike. No, he has no sense of humor." John chuckled. "Maybe it was Murray. We were army buddies. No, actually, this prank sounds like something Harry would do." He was clutching his stomach. This was hilarious. An elaborate prank. He brushed a tear from his eye.
"Sorry, boys, I'm just normal John Watson. No reason to be wanted by her Majesty's service. You've got the wrong bloke. John's common. I think there's another one down the hall." He was about to close the door when one stopped it with his foot.
"Our orders are to remove you from these premises and transport you to the Capitol."
John stared at him.
"Using force if necessary," a soldier, who looked younger, added.
"Now?"
"Affirmative."
"Damn."