As always, John Watson arrived perfectly on time. In this instance, however, that could not be attributed to his military promptness, but the miraculous occurrence of a train journey from Central London with no delays. Determined not to request assistance with his bag, he hauled it over his shoulder and stumbled over the gap between the train and the platform, wincing as his injured leg almost gave out under him despite the support of his cane. He knew full well that there was nothing wrong with asking a porter for assistance – after all, that was what they were paid for – but he couldn't stand the thought of being pitied.
"John! John Watson!"
He turned to see a rather short, stubby man approach him, who he recognised as Mike Stamford, the warzone journalist he had met in Afghanistan a few years before and the man who had first told him about The Gables, a writing retreat buried in the English countryside. "It'll be good for you," he'd said. "Get away from the world, get some R&R." John had told him that he sounded like his therapist. It was thanks to her that he had first taken up writing. He'd never been a huge reader, but as she had told him, fiction replaces reality with adventure. That was what he craved. He had been warned before he left for Afghanistan that readjusting to civilian life would be incredibly difficult, but no amount of warning could have prepared him for the torture of a return to a life of suffocating monotony.
Mike Stamford approached him and shook his hand. "How was your journey?"
"Fine, thank you," John replied. "It was kind of you to offer to give me a lift to the retreat."
"Not at all. You're doing me a favour – I don't leave the place often enough as it is!"
John smiled.
"Are you well?" Mike continued.
John shrugged. "Well enough. You?"
"Very well, thank you. Sussex air does wonders for your health. Right, then, let's get going. Do you need any help with your bag?"
"No," John replied immediately. A moment later he realised he might have sounded snappish, and added: "Sorry. No, I can manage."
"Alright then. This way."
Mike turned, and led the way along the platform and down into a small carpark. His car was the nearest to the stairs leading down from the platform, and whether he had chosen the space out of laziness or consideration for his friend, John was unsure. He said nothing, however, and loaded his bag into the boot, then seated himself in the passenger seat, resting his cane at his side. Despite his generally sociable nature, John wasn't in much of a mood for conversation, so he brushed aside Mike's various attempts at smalltalk throughout the journey with one-word answers (as politely as possible, of course) and otherwise remained silent.
Around twenty minutes later, the car rolled onto a winding road that led into a courtyard in the centre of a large farm. Mike parked between a black Land Rover and a pink Mini Cooper, then stepped out and opened the boot. Leaning on his cane, John followed, suppressing a grunt as he lifted his bag back onto his shoulder. Mike was about to lead John up to the main house when an older woman with a kindly face came hurrying towards them.
"Ah, Mrs Hudson!" Mike grinned. "Delivery for you!"
Mrs Hudson extended a hand towards John, and, wanting to make a good first impression, he shifted his bag further onto his shoulder to shake it. "John Watson," he said, with the warmest smile he could manage given his discomfort.
"I've been so looking forward to meeting you, dear!" she said. "Welcome to The Gables! Come on, I'll show you your room."
She led the way towards one of the cottages that formed part of the border of the courtyard. It was a very pretty building, as were all the others. It was not particularly large, but certainly not tiny, and almost entirely masked with thick green ivy, which cleared only to make room for bay windows and a surprisingly spotless black door adorned with a brass 'B'. Mrs Hudson produced a key and unlocked the door, then passed the key to John.
"This is yours, Dr. Watson!" she said. "Your room's at the top of the house – oh…" She broke off as she noticed that he was leaning on a cane. "Will you be able to manage that?"
"Of course," John replied, more brusquely than he intended. He offered her a smile in an attempt to remedy his rudeness. "Sorry. Just getting used to it."
"It's alright, dear," she said, "I've got a hip." She patted her hip as if to demostrate. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in. The writers usually come to dinner in the main house around seven. Feel free to come along and meet them!"
"Thank you," he said, "I will."
She nodded, then left the cottage, closing the door behind her. John sighed heavily as he looked up at the long spiral staircase leading up to his room, but he'd gotten himself into this situation, and he just had to bloody well deal with it. Gritting his teeth, he crossed the room, and, very slowly, climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, he dropped his bag onto the landing and sat down heavily beside it, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing deeply, catching his breath. He hated the necessity of rests like this – after all, he was a military man, and his stamina had once been a source of pride. Still, what was the point of lamenting an inescapable situation? He'd just have to learn to manage.
He gathered himself up and carried his bag into what was going to be his home for the next six weeks. It was a homely room, with cream walls decorated with watercolours of what appeared to be local landscapes and pressed wildflowers in wooden frames. There was a small oak bed against the right wall, and a window dominated the wall facing the door. A large and rather antique-looking desk was placed in front of the window, affording a view out onto the extensive grounds. It was equipped with writing paper and a typewriter, which were rather wasted on John, who preferred to use his laptop and an old notebook that had seen him through his time in service. He set his bag down on the bed and spent a while unpacking, enjoying his new freedom from the claustrophobia of London. Once he was finished, he took a brief shower in the little bathroom opposite his room and changed into clean clothes, then took up his cane and hobbled down the stairs, intending to take a walk and get to know a little of the area before dinner.
As he exited the cottage and locked the door behind him, a woman walked past him, then paused, and turned to look at him. "Are you staying there?" she asked.
"Uh, yes," John replied, slightly bewildered by her odd tone.
"Well, good luck," she all but sneered. "You're going to need it."
With that, she turned and went on her way, leaving John even more confused than he had been before. Still, he was determined to take his walk, so he brushed it off, and took a right out of the courtyard onto a footpath leading around the edge of a large cornfield and into a wood. As he walked, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, revelling in the crisp clarity of the late autumn air. He soon found himself getting lost in his thoughts, which, as per usual, orbited his experiences of war. The soft dappled light that fell through the leaves above his head soothed him, but he had seen far too much to be so easily cured.
He became so deeply engulfed in his thoughts that he did not hear the thundering of hooves until the horse they belonged to was almost on top of him. He had reached a turning, and it was around this that the enormous black animal emerged. Its rider dug a thigh into its flank and whipped back its reins on one side, causing it to swerve violently, missing John so narrowly that he leapt back in shock, dropped his cane and fell backwards onto the ground. Despite its apparent sturdiness, the turn had unbalanced the horse, too, and it slipped on the thick bed of leaves that littered the path. Eyes widening and nostrils flaring in panic, the horse reared up onto its hind legs with such force that its hooves slipped out beneath its weight, and it too fell backwards. It would have crushed its rider had the man not been quick enough to throw himself to one side, slamming into the ground with a nauseating thud. The horse righted itself almost as soon as it had fallen, and, thus freed of its rider, bolted away along the path, tossing its gigantic head as it fled.
John had, by this time, recovered from his initial shock, and leaped up, rushing to the rider's side. "God, I'm so sorry – are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.
"Fine, no thanks to you," the man replied in a cold baritone. He jumped to his feet and brushed himself off, wincing when a sharp pain shot through his wrist.
"Here, show me," John said, offering an upturned palm to the clearly injured man. "I'm a doctor."
The other man fixed him with a glare that was made all the more piercing by his narrow, iridescent eyes, and seemed about to refuse, but much to John's surprise, his eyes darted over John's form with an almost reptilian quickness, and he placed his leather-gloved hand in John's offered palm. John very gently turned the man's hand to one side, and when he met with a faint hiss, said: "It looks like it could be broken. I can tend to it properly for you if you like – I'm staying at The Gables, it's not far from here-"
"I don't have time. Grab my horse, will you?" the other man replied.
John glanced in the direction the animal had gone, and saw it a rather long way off, grazing on a tuft of grass growing from the edge of the path.
"Some time this century would be nice," came the baritone.
"Right, yeah. Sorry," John said, slightly startled by the man's tone. He jogged briskly towards the horse in the hope of catching it before it could run any further. To his relief, the horse seemed to have entirely forgotten about its mishap, and was completely engrossed in its snack. Due to his very limited experience with horses, John was not entirely sure how to lead it, but its reins had fallen over his head, so he picked them up and gave a gentle tug. "Come on then… boy," he said, having cast a glance over the animal to ensure that it – he – was not badly hurt. The horse looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the grass. "Come on!" John urged again. However, his efforts turned out not to be necessary – the air was suddenly pierced by a long whistle, and the horse whipped up its head, and broke into a sudden gallop, snatching its reins from John's hand. John ran after it, but by the time he had caught up, its owner was already repositioned in the saddle.
"You, er- you probably shouldn't be doing that, what with your wrist and everything," John said, glancing up at the man.
The horseman scoffed. "Please. I've ridden with far worse predicaments than this before. Besides, it's not as if I require the the use of both of my hands – or either of them, for that matter – to far outdo any other rider you're likely to meet."
John was unsure of how to respond to such an explicitly arrogant claim, but he needn't have worried, as the rider promptly tipped his helmet and said "Good day." With that, he brought his crop down on his horse's hindquarters, and the pair disappeared along the path, leaving John in quite a state of disorientation.
He made his way back to the retreat in a sort of daze, his mind replaying his encounter with the pretentious man repeatedly as if his thoughts were set on loop. He was, now that John was able to reflect, a man of unusual appearance: tall and slender, though not at all ill-built, with dark curls that peeked out from beneath his helmet and framed his pale, angular features. There was something altogether ethereal about him, and John mused that, in novels in which appearance is symbolic, such a man as he would make an intriguing protagonist.
When he at last reached the retreat, the sun had fallen low in the sky, the last of its light casting a gentle orange glow over the farm. John thought it would make a picturesque postcard, and might have photographed it had he anyone to send a postcard to, but he did not. Checking his watch, he saw that it was just past seven, so instead of returning to his cottage he went directly to the main house, where he was greeted by Mrs Hudson with more enthusiasm than he had anticipated.
"Goodness, dear, I thought you might have gotten yourself lost! Come and sit by the fire, warm yourself up!" she said.
"Thank you, you're very kind," John mumbled, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He sat down in a large patchwork armchair in a lowered booth by the fire opposite a young woman with long mousey hair, who was bent intently over an ancient-looking book. Deciding it would be impolite to interrupt her, John instead glanced around the room and caught Mike's eye. His friend was sitting alone, and so he stood up and walked over to John.
"You know, a man had an accident while I was out," John said when he reached him.
"Oh, did he? What happened?" Mike asked.
John briefly recounted the story up to the point at which he had fallen.
"Dear God!" Mike exlaimed, eyes widening. "Were you alright?"
"Yeah, fine, but the rider wasn't. His horse slid across the leaves and fell onto its back, and the man leaped off and broke his wrist. I offered to help him with it, but before I had a chance he was back on his horse and off he went!"
"Oh, how romantic!" the young woman exlaimed, causing both John and Mike, who had not realised that she had set down her book to listen their conversation, to start.
"Romantic?" John echoed, wondering how anyone in their right mind could find the situation romantic in the slightest.
"Yes!" the woman said. "It's like Jane Eyre! Mr Rochester fell from his horse the first time they met, and they got married in the end! Oh, do you think you'll fall in love with him?"
John was quite convinced that she wasn't in her right mind by this point, and said "Oh, I'm not-"
He was cut off by Mrs Hudson, who also seemed to have been standing nearby and eavesdropping. "Don't mind Molly, dear – she has a rather active imagination, don't you, Miss Hooper?"
Molly hung her head, and went back to her book as if she'd never opened her mouth.
"You forgot this."
John glanced to his left to see where the voice had come from, his eyes meeting with a pair of pristine black boots at the top of the stairs leading down into the booth. His gaze travelled upwards, over long legs dressed in white breeches, a black velvet jacket, a navy silk stock and the face of the very man he had just been discussing, his curls disarranged now that they had been released from the confines of his helmet. John then noticed that the man was holding, to his great surprise, his cane. In all of the excitement of the afternoon, he'd entirely forgotten about it. How had he forgotten to limp?
"Because it's psychosomatic. Obviously," the man said, as if he could read John's thoughts. "All the same, you'd better take it just in case."
John slowly reached up and took the cane from him. An awkward silence ensued – or at least, it was awkward for John; the taller man didn't appear phased in the slightest – until John broke it by saying: "How's your wrist?"
"It's been better, but I think I'll live. Still, you gave Marius quite a turn. Getting him home without use of the reins was a slight challenge, even for me."
"You haven't hurt both your wrists, have you?"
"No, but I had to carry the cane."
John was strangely touched that he'd bothered to go back for it and carry it despite his possibly broken wrist and spooked horse, though he was getting slightly mixed signals as a result of the man's otherwise cold manner towards him. All the same, he thought the best course of action was to introduce himself.
"I'm John, by the way," he said, offering his hand. "John Watson."
"I know," the other man replied with a faint smirk, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.
John was rather taken aback by that. "How do you know?" he asked.
"Really, it's painfully obvious," the man drawled. "I know everyone in the retreat. I didn't recognise you, therefore you must be my new flatmate, who I was informed prior to your arrival goes by the name of John Watson."
"Sorry, your new flatmate?"
"Every cottage houses two. Surely you realised that?"
"Well, yeah, but I didn't realise you were staying here."
"Well, I am. The bottom two shelves of the fridge are mine – please refrain from moving anything from them. If you have any qualms with the violin I recommend leaving the house prior to eleven AM. Good evening."
With that, the man turned and walked back towards the door.
"Wait!" John called. "I don't even know your name."
The man paused in the doorway and turned back to look at him. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Enjoy your dinner." Then he was gone.
Cover credits:
Bird brush is by falln-brushes on Deviantart
Feather brush is by lelu on Deviantart
Author's notes:
One of my beta readers questioned the possibility of riding without reins. As a rider, I can assure you that it is most definitely possible.
If you have any queries, please contact me via my tumblr (iwillincendiotheheartoutofyou)
Thank you!