What We Want, and What We Need
Here goes nothing: RW of ACD's "The Sign of Four" in the contemporary BBC Sherlock. Very mildly possibly pre-slash. Somewhat omniscient narrator. I'm not really a creative writer—this all just sort of happened. Rating: T, I guess, since people are killed, and I can't really imagine anyone younger than that having any interest in it. Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mary Morstan, Jonathan Small, other incidentals. Standard acknowledgement that I have no rights to the characters and such described herein. Thanks to Estella May on and Michael and John IRL for beta-reading. Some of my readers thought I changed it too much from the original; others thought I didn't change it enough. Let me know what you think! I'll post new chapters every few days….
Chapter 1: In Which There are no Body Parts in the Milk
John Watson swung the grocery bags into the flat, going straight to the kitchen to put things away. "I've got milk, and I don't want you soaking any body parts in it this time," he called out to Sherlock, whom he'd thought he'd glimpsed standing in the common room as he moved past.
"Just this once," the woman replied. Then, noticing John's surprise, she hurried to explain, "Your landlady let me in. She said someone would be along shortly, and that you wouldn't mind my waiting. I'm Mary Morstan." She extended her hand as she introduced herself. John wiped his hand on his jumper and extended it, smiling. "John Watson. You're American? …The accent," he added, tilting his head a little to show that it was meant as an explanatory aside.
"I am," she admitted. "I have a …. situation, and my boss, Cecilia Forrester, suggested I consult with Mr. Holmes. Apparently, he's helped her in the past." She was dressed warmly, in a thick grey cabled jumper and a large scarf, but she was overburdened. In addition to the large satchel she seemed to use for a purse, she hugged a large book bag to her chest.
"Well, he might be along soon. Or he might not. Hard to say, really. You're welcome to wait. Can I get you something?" John gestured towards the couch at "wait" and the kitchen at "something," a little at sea, alone with a woman in his own flat.
"I'll have tea if you're making it. Thank you, Dr. Watson," she spoke simply as she sat down on the rumpled couch, placing her bags carefully beside her.
"How, um, how did you know that it's Doctor?" John called from the kitchen.
"Your landlady is very friendly."
"Oh, yes. Yes, she is. Milk and sugar? Have you been waiting long?"
"Yes, please, milk and sugar, since there are no body parts in the milk." He glanced up sharply at that, she noticed, and smiled slyly at him. "I've not been here too long, I don't think. I was looking at your books, anyway. I tend to judge people by their libraries. Professional hazard, I suppose."
John brought the tea over. "What profession is that?"
"Librarian, of course."
He tilted his head; That was a little on the nose, he thought. "Well, what do our books tell you about us?"
She put the mug down and walked around the room; he admired the way she approached the bookshelves as though they were museum exhibits. "There appear to be a few different collections here; eclectic, well-used, and ill-kempt, for the most part. A lot of true crime, some of it really, really old, over here. No Truman Capote, though, which seems odd to me. You should really take better care of your books. Some of this Victoriana is probably pretty valuable." She kept walking, bending over a little to peer at the volumes. "A varied reference collection on this side of the fireplace. This one here seems especially rare" – she touched a volume on poisons, written in German – "Gift is such an interesting false cognate - and over here there's a neat little pile of history, historical fiction, and some poetry. The Rumi is yours, Dr. Watson?" she asked, bringing the volume back to the couch.
John cleared his throat. "Please, call me John. And, yes, I quite like Rumi and Hafiz." He sipped his tea, anxiously.
"Interesting," she said. "Which poem's your favorite, John?" She handed him the volume, picked up her tea, and leaned against the arm of the couch, tucking her legs under her. He glanced at her, then flipped through the book, trying to decide whether or not to show her the one which was his real favorite. A bit racy, that one, and he was lately disturbed by how it made him think about Sherlock; maybe one of the drinking poems would be less awkward. Not that she seemed awkward. She just sat there, drinking tea and observing him.
They talked about poetry and weather and the differences between American and England. At some point, she pulled out a little ball of wool and some knitting needles; he brought out more tea, and relaxed into the couch. By the time Sherlock actually appeared, John was in the middle of a rather funny story about something that had happened at the clinic the previous week. She seemed comfortable in her corner of the couch, knitting and enjoying his story, laughing at all the right times, and John was mildly impressed with himself – and very impressed with Mary Morstan.