So, I recently got hooked into this amazing serial and fandom and realized I ship Watson and Holmes together. The problem is that I'm really uncomfortable with writing a romance between two male characters. So, instead, following my mom's advice, John Watson is going to become Jean H. Watson. Please, give this a chance.
A Study In Pink
Gunfire. Bullets hitting the sand. Six soldiers; four men, two women. Unrelenting sun. A gasp of pain. Panic as one of them fell over with a bullet in his chest. Another one bent over him, trying to stem the bleeding. The sound of two more bullets hitting their mark. Another strangled cry of pain. Then, "Jean!"
The sound of someone screaming my name woke me up and I found myself in a light sweat, sitting upright as my hands fumbled for my gun. It wasn't there. Of course, it was in my desk. It was a dream. I wasn't in the desert, I wasn't trying to dodge snipers. I was in a small pensioned flat. In London. Away from the war. Safe and sound. And useless.
Not for the first time since I'd come to the house (I loathed calling it a 'home'), I found myself glaring at the walking cane that rested against the desk. I hated it here, I decided. Hated the monotony, the endless routine, hated it all. What was I supposed to do with the rest of my life? It was one of the things I considered putting in the blog I was supposed to write, but the words never came quite right, no matter how long I stared at the blank screen of my laptop, only the words 'The Personal Blog Of Dr Jean H. Watson' written across the top.
Later, though, when I was at my therapist, I knew the lack of words wasn't the problem. "So, how's your blog going?" The dark woman asked and I lied without thinking. "Yeah, good. Very good." It was no use. Ella raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You haven't written a word, have you?" She asked, while she quickly scribbled something onto her notepad. Instinctively, I found myself saying accusingly, "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." "And you just read my writing upside-down," she countered. "See, what I mean?" I guess I had the decency to blush lightly. Meanwhile, Ella sighed. "Jean, you're a soldier, a born fighter. It's what helped you get so far ahead in the army as a woman. So, it will take you time to adjust to civilian life. But, I promise you, writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help." My embarrassed smile had faded away. Now, I gazed back at my therapist in despair, knowing she would never understand the reason for my depression, and unable to explain it to her, because, really, what kind of person enjoyed the thrill of living so dangerously? But, I couldn't stop the words escaping my mouth. "Nothing ever happens to me."
The park was mostly empty in the afternoon, which was precisely why I chose that time to go for a walk, instead of in the morning or evening like normal people would do. I didn't need everyone's constant staring and undisguised curiosity, all of it directed towards the cane in my right hand (which I shouldn't even have needed, according to my therapist, because the bullet had done no lasting damage and apparently the limp was psychosomatic). The angry thoughts forced me to walk at an even brisker pace, my hair swirling around my face in the wind. I almost didn't hear my name called out.
"Jean? Jean Watson?" I turned around in surprise to see a stout man with a congenial face and a pleased smile hurry towards me. "Stamford, Mike Stamford." He held out a hand as I placed the face and name. "We were at Bart's together, remember?" "Mike, goodness, yes. Yeah, I remember." "I know," he grinned, gesturing at himself. "I got fat." "No, not at all…" I stopped when Mike raised a teasing eyebrow. "Well, okay, yes, you did," I huffed, laughing. "So, what's been happening with you?" He asked. "Last I heard, you were somewhere abroad, getting shot at." His eyes then focused on the cane and he seemed to put two and two together. "Oh…" "Yeah, I got shot," I laughed bitterly. The awkward silence lasted for a few seconds. I hadn't seen Mike even once in the years since I'd graduated, or anyone else from back then, really. Joining the army did that to a person. But all the same, I was starved for some company, so when Mike finally offered coffee and idle chit-chat in a bid to break the sudden ice, I couldn't refuse.
"So, what're your plans? Staying in London till you get yourself sorted?" I scoffed, all while pretending to be oblivious to the concerned gaze Mike had trained on me. "I couldn't afford London on an army pension, Mike." "But you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," he added shrewdly. "That's not the Jean Watson I used to know." "Well, I'm not," I finished bluntly. Another awkward silence.
I shifted the cup of coffee to my right hand. At the same time, my gaze fell on my left, shaking uncontrollably, and I curled my fingers into a fist to stop it.
"So, why not get a flat share, since I'm sure you're probably still too stubborn to ask Harry for help?" I didn't bother arguing with the last part of his sentence; he was right. Instead, I smiled indulgently and rolled my eyes. "Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" It wasn't self-pitying, just the truth; no one would want to share living space with someone who couldn't walk right and couldn't help around the house. Mike understood that, surely. But, when I looked around at him again, he had a strange, knowing smile on his face. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today," he mused and I frowned. "Who was the first?" I asked curiously and he chuckled. "If you don't mind having a guy for a flatmate, I think I might be able to find you one right now."
"Bit different from our day," I couldn't help but laugh, as I limped into the lab behind Mike. There was already a young man in there, bent over some equipment with a pipette in his hand, though he looked older to be a student. He looked around my age, in fact. Teacher, maybe? Or doctor? "Oh you have no idea," Mike was saying, when the man looked up at us. Giving me a quick look over, he said, "Mike, can I use your phone?" As Mike answered, I raked my eyes over him as well. Tall, really tall, pale, smooth skin, contrasting with the mop of long black curls on his head and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. In short, a very good looking man. I bet some of the students found it difficult to concentrate in his classes, if he were, in fact, a teacher. I bit back a reminiscent smile as old memories of shared giggles, teasing smiles and whispered confessions among close friends about crushes and dates, all made a foggy reappearance in my thoughts. "Well, mine's in my coat, sorry," Mike was apologizing and it brought me back to the present. "Here, you can use mine," I offered, my left hand bringing out the phone Harry had gifted me and holding it out. "This is an old friend of mine, Jean Watson," Mike informed him.
The man blinked at me, before getting up to take it. "Thanks," he said, before turning away and rapidly typing something on it. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" For a second, I was confused. Then, he looked up at me expectantly. "Sorry?" Was all I could get out before he repeated, "Which was it- Afghanistan or Iraq?" Shooting a confused glance at Mike, who was smiling smugly, for some reason, I stammered, "Afghanistan. But how did you…?" I was interrupted again, this time by a pretty woman carrying two cups of coffee. She was definitely a doctor, going by her lab coat and the air of professionalism, even though she had a small flirtatiously hopeful smile as she approached the dark-haired man. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you… what happened to the lipstick? Your mouth looks too small now." Molly sighed helplessly and left the room again. "How do you feel about the violin?" It took me another few seconds to realise he was still talking to me. "The violin?" I repeated in confusion. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He flashed me a charming smile that probably would have rendered me a bit speechless, if I hadn't started to find him a tad bit presumptuous. "Who said anything about flatmates?" I asked testily. "I did," he replied easily. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't that difficult a leap."
I was starting to doubt the man's mental faculties now, in spite of the fact that he hadn't said anything factually wrong. Meanwhile, he wrapped a scarf around his neck, returned my phone and kept talking. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He began walking towards the door. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." As I caught sight of Mike's stifled smile, I felt a surge of… annoyance? Curiosity? Interest? "Is that it?" I demanded, causing the man to turn back towards her. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" He frowned, like he actually couldn't see anything wrong with the situation. "Problem?" He asked and I rolled my eyes. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name," I told him.
The man stared at me with a small smirk and leaned on the door. Abruptly, I got the feeling that I was being X-rayed, as intense grey eyes focused on me like a laser. "I know you're an Army doctor, you were at a very high position, in spite of being a woman, which earned you that much more respect from both your superiors and colleagues and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." I shifted awkwardly, but not daring to move much under a scrutinising stare. The man's smirk widened into a real smile. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He leaned a little closer, like he was sharing a secret and said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." With a click of the tongue, a mischievous wink and a parting word to Mike, he turned on his heel and left.
For half a minute, I was stunned. When I was able to move, I looked towards Mike only to find him watching me with a hopeful and pleased look. "Yeah, he's always like that," he affirmed. I caught the unsaid message: Give it a shot, please. It will be good for you.
I glanced at my phone, pulling out the messaging app, and read the last message sent: If brother has green ladder, arrest him. SH.
As I stared at the screen in bewilderment, a small smile graced my lips and several thoughts came to mind.
What was a riding crop doing in a mortuary?
The man was most definitely neither doctor nor teacher, but someone working with the police force.
I had already made up my mind to meet him the next day before he gave me the address and
If Mike was right about him being just that way all the time, then life with Sherlock Holmes could be very interesting.
Review guys, please. They really do give me the motivation to write. Compliments, criticisms, suggestions, whatever you want.