"Waking up dead inside of my head will never never do, there is no medicine to take." - Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Slow Cheetah."
I moved to Paris, France in the winter of 1882. My service in India, interrupted by my transfer to Afghanistan at the beginning of the second Afghan war, had been cut short by an unfortunate injury I had sustained in Maiwand. Defeated, I returned to London, where I lived a lonely and sheltered life, penniless and useless. My thirtieth year came and went with no celebration, and my sudden shift in locale was only brought about by misfortune. Some distant cousin of mine, some Harry Watson in Manchester, passed away with some considerable sums to his name. My family had been depleted by the illnesses of mind and body that ran in our blood, as had his, and I was his closest living relative.
With some two-thousand pounds in my possession, I took it upon myself to seek a new location. I knew neither a place nor a person for which to look in London, despite its impinging familiarity. Regret layheavy in my heart as I paid for my ticket across the English channel. My new destination was Paris, France; my plan was to find a place to stay with the naivety of an Englishman new in France.
The world lay before me, pearlescent and uncertain, and I journeyed to a country that spoke a language I did not without a plan nor a care in the world.
Paris unfolded around me: glittering buildings, high-quality stores already outfitted with electric lights, and a sort of drawn-up snobbishness to the people that made for a certain attractiveness. I was le touriste anglaise1, an object of pity and scorn. Lodgings were impossible to find the first fortnight I spent there; my residency was a small hotel near the muddy banks of the Seine, long before the construction and fame of la dame de fer, la Tour Eiffel elle-même2. The Seine was beautiful and unmolested, as far as more modern standards might say.
In that small hotel, mostly confined to my bed and books, the troubles of the world outside barely reached me. Though I followed the linked deaths across the city-people of all ages found in dark corners, without a drop of blood and no sign of struggle-they seemed far away from me. The miasma of loneliness and hopelessness descended upon me and my own struggles far outweighed those of the dead.
I remained lost and confused around this large city with which I was not acquainted until chance lead me to meet someone I had not seen since my days in medical school, a Mr. Stamford who had been a distant acquaintance. I caught a familiar eye as I walked out of a bar, poor beer and self-pity weighing as heavily on my mind as the bloody sun weighed on the horizon. Unfortunately, he did not recognize me, a man changed by years at war and the grievous injury I had sustained. "Monsieur!" he exclaimed. His French was laborious but precise. "Qui êtes-vous? Vraiment, vous ne pouvez pas être mon vieil ami Watson? Vous lui ressemblez, mais vous êtes trop maigre et-"3
"Calm yourself, Stamford," I answered with a laugh, "I am ton vieil ami Watson."
Stamford's eyes widened and he clasped my right hand in both of his. "Truly extraordinary! You are the last person I would expect to see here!" His grin reached either side of his face, making his child-like large eyes even more cartoonish. "Have you just moved here? Where are you living?"
"Unfortunately, that seems to be my problem." Shame ran its course through me and I found myself more interested in the ground than the conversation. "I have been unable to find proper lodgings for myself at a reasonable price. Is there any place you might recommend?"
"There is," Stamford said, leading the way down the crowded street. The darkness of night and the full moon glimmered over Paris as we walked deeper into the city. My senses stood alert, bothering my injured shoulder, and the headlines of the papers rushed through my head. Fifth man this month found dead in Paris. I rather hoped that Stamford would be taking me to a safe place inside. "Rather surprising, you're the second person who's asked me for just that today."
My eyebrows raised-what an improbable coincidence this all seemed to be. "Really?"
He nodded again, maneuvering the streets. I did not know how long he had lived in Paris, but he seemed to know it fairly well. Perhaps his knowledge could secure our safety if the mysterious murderer came after us. "A man who works in the laboratories adjacent to the university has recently asked around for a flat-mate. He, apparently, has found cheap lodgings, though his funds are so slim that he wishes to share it."
"Serendipity is a funny thing," I remarked as we crossed over to a tall building that spiraled into the sky. It was silhouetted perfectly against the moon, looking like the giant minute hand frozen in place of a luminous clock.
"He should just be getting in now," Stamford told me with all of the infectious delight he had spread to patients whose wounds he was dressing. Of all the many doctors I knew, Stamford was the one whose bedside manner was the best. It was no real effort on his part, as it was for the many with naturally grim countenances. Stamford was an easily amused man who could easily amuse others. "Ah! There he is!" He pointed out a tall man coming in from another door, a lean silhouette against the modest electrical lighting in the building. It was a small laboratory, though well-furnished and very functional. "Speak of the devil, c'est Sherlock Holmes."4
"Je suis plus malfaisant que ce que l'on aime penser," the man quipped, taking off a woolen coat. "Eh? Qui est cet homme?"5
"C'est un vieil ami," Stamford answered in his certain way. "Il s'appelle Watson, et il cherchait pour un appartement."6
Sherlock Holmes turned to me then, and his lucid grey eyes set to sizing me up. "Je vois. Vous étiez, si je ne me trompe pas, stationner en Afghanistan."7
"Oui, monsieur," I replied, dumbfounded. "Mais, comment vous avez su?"8
He smiled something cold and unrevealing. "C'est un de mes talents."9
I nodded, conceding his point. "Je suis arrivé ici il y a deux semaines, de Londres-"10
"Ah, so you're English," Holmes interjected in flawless English. He had a sort of Royal accent, but a few of his words had the distinct slur of London, however, which made his accent an interesting one to parse.
"As are you, I see."
"Precisely," Holmes stated, turning from Stamford and me to look at an array of clear, labeled glass bottled lined in neat rows upon the table in front of him. "You see, but you do not observe." Pleased with his statement, Holmes sat on the stool and brought a Bunsen burner to life.
"I don't understand," I said, watching Holmes at work. He had long fingers, too long even for his large palms, that were so delicate he seemed to be able to pluck a mote of dust out of the air without disturbance.
"Few do," he replied in his grim manner.
Stamford, who had been watching our conversation with little interest, cleared his throat, "Don't bore him with your talk of deduction, Holmes. Get to the point."
"Ah, yes, the lodgings." Holmes turned to me with a pleased look on his face-far from the cold smile he had shown earlier, it was more genuine and less guarded, though not even the corners of his chapped lips twitched. "I require a room-mate to share a flat I have found. It is of a fair size, with two separate bedrooms, and space enough for two men to live separate lives."
I nodded. "I wasn't particularly looking for a shared flat," I stated, "but if you are unobtrusive-"
"I keep odd hours," Holmes interrupted me once more, "and many would say I am strictly nocturnal. There are few disturbances you could make during the day to bother my sleep. I often go out, sometimes have strange company, and I play the violin."
Holmes seemed agreeable enough as a flat-mate, and I nodded. "I am lazy and self-indulgent, no particular man for conversation, and my injury sometimes confines me to bed for days. I sleep deeply enough when I am not troubled by night terrors and pain."
"And the violin?"
"A good violinist is a gift to man," I told him.
His eyes sparkled as that pleased look took over his face once more. "It would seem that we get on well enough."
"Brilliant," said Stamford. "I must be off, you two, don't want to get caught by the serial murderer on my way home. Please do get in touch with me, Watson."
I promised to do that as Stamford walked out of the laboratory, closing the door behind him and shutting me in with this bizarre English stranger. There was a certain, peculiar glow about Holmes that followed him, leaving after-effects to blur my vision. His skin was exceedingly pale-an obvious mark of his nighttime lifestyle-but he looked to be in good shape. I wondered where this mysterious flat was, and I had little to do until I knew of its location. "Please wait for a moment," Holmes said as if he had heard my thoughts, "I simply need to finish this precipitate-it shouldn't take me more than an hour, at the most-and then I can show you to our new location." He looked at me, setting a test-tube into a wooden rack. "I trust you have a way to transport your items?"
"What I have could be carried from my hotel in a cab." What I had kept in the journeys from London to Afghanistan, Afghanistan to London, and London to Paris were few objects: some books, old papers, a few personal affects, and my pistol; moving would hardly be an issue. "Is this flat already furnished?"
"Indeed!" Holmes said. "Scantly, but I believe it will be enough. Now, Watson, would you be so kind as to verify the color of this precipitate?"
"Certainly, though it may be hard to see in this darkness." The lights were dim in the laboratory, but there was just enough to see. I walked down the long row of laboratory benches to my new acquaintance, who sat and stared at a small glass flask. It was filled half-way with a transparent brownish substance, light flakes of some chemical floating to its bottom. "Against the brown, they appear to be white."
"Thank you, Watson," Holmes stated. "It would appear that we shall get along famously."
FIRST CHAPTER, YAY! Be warned: here there be vampires and Johnlock. Lots of Johnlock, but way into the future of this fanfic. So yeah. Turn back now ye who likes not Johnlock, or at least ye who cannot tolerate it. Reviews are always appreciated. -J
1: the English tourist
2: the iron lady, the Eiffel Tower herself.
3: "Who are you? Truly, you could not be my old friend Watson? You look like him, but you are too skinny and-"
4: "…it's Sherlock Holmes."
5: "I am more evil than people like to think […] Eh? Who is this man?"
6: "He is an old friend of mine […] His name is Watson, and he was looking for a flat."
7: "I see. You were, if I am not mistaken, stationed in Afghanistan."
8: "Yes, sir. […] But how do you know?
9: "It is a talent of mine."
10: "I came here two weeks ago, from London-"