A/N: This is a sequel to "His Spare Watson" and "An Attempt at Ordinary", and takes place shortly before the Watsons' first anniversary.
This story shows our heroes as seen through the feverishly romanticized eyes of a young tabloid reporter. Please do not be put off by the quality of the opening "news article"! It's meant to be awful!
000
THE MYSTERIOUS MRS WATSON
By Percival Pratt
Unless you've been living in a cave for the past several years, you are surely aware of the existence of a self-defined "Consulting Detective" called Sherlock Holmes and his personal biographer/physician/assistant Dr John Watson. These two have been in headline after headline, solving impossible crimes, saving peoples' lives, "dying" and returning to life. You name it: if it's sensational, this duo is in the thick of it.
But until two weeks ago, had anyone heard of this mysterious third party? Apparently, Dr Watson ran off and got married nearly a year ago and no one seemed to notice. And Holmes gets an equal share of the domestic bliss, if rumours are to be believed. If it were not for some indiscretions on their part, the public might still be ignorant of this development in the lives of the internet detective and his faithful blogger.
The silence was broken about two weeks ago when Watson's wife travelled with Holmes to Cornwall on what seemed to be a working holiday: a murder investigation conducted from the comfort of a cosy, picturesque, one-bedroom seaside cottage. The discretion of the police in that area was not as easily bought by our heroes as that of Scotland Yard, it seems, and the secret was out. Mrs Watson promptly gave a fairly uninformative, exclusive interview the next day to my fellow-reporter, Gwen Stacey—an unsatisfying interview which left the public with more questions than answers concerning this enigmatic young woman who has apparently captured the hearts of the famous detective duo.
This is why I set out two weeks ago to remedy this vacuum of information and have turned up some useful facts. Unable to discover the Watsons' home address, I determined to at least find out the address of Mrs Watson's employer. Mary Watson is a general practitioner in the Health Centre on 17 Marylebone Road here in central London. Although our esteemed colleague, Ms Stacey, saw fit to withhold this information, I feel the Dr Mrs Watson's patients deserve to know just who it is they are entrusting with their healthcare. She trained at King's, I was told, and is considered by her colleagues to be a caring and competent physician.
But here is a juicy bit that perhaps even the great Sherlock Holmes does not know. Mary Watson has been seen frequenting a Pret A Manger on Bressenden Place in the company of a tall, handsome stranger. What will Holmes and Watson do when they discover these trysts between their woman and another man? Is the "ménage a' trois" about to become a foursome? Or will their inexplicable fascination with this mysterious young woman come to a messy end? This reporter is determined to find out!
Percy Pratt sat back in his chair and regarded his copy of the tabloid with some satisfaction. His editor had been pleased with his article and had promised Percy a hefty rise in pay sometime in the near future if he could make good on the promise for more on the Watson woman.
Which was why Percy was here, sitting at a table just outside the Pret A Manger on Bressenden Place, watching the entrance like a cat at a mouse hole. It was a clear, spring day, only a bit on the chilly side, pleasant for sitting. But for the past two weeks his investigation of the Watson woman had brought him here in all weathers as he followed her about in her everyday routines, as this seemed to be a frequent meeting place for her and her friends. Once she had met another young woman, a pathologist called Molly, and once she had met the elderly housekeeper of Holmes'—both desperately uninteresting.
But on two separate occasions, Mary Watson had met this tall, handsome, silver-haired mystery man for coffee and sandwiches. They had talked and laughed for at least an hour each time and seemed to have quite a rapport. The stranger looked old enough to be Mary's father; but then John Watson was no youngster himself. Mary obviously had a predilection for older men.
If Percy had not known better, to be honest, their affection for one another might have looked more like a father/daughter relationship than that of two guilty lovers. In fact, he had overheard Mary call the man 'Papa' at one point- but Percy was not fooled. Gwen Stacey had revealed in her initial interview with Mary Watson that the woman was an orphan with no family at all to speak of. And Percy was a man of the world. He knew that loving, non-familial relationships did not exist unless sex was involved in some way. Close platonic friendships did not happen in the real world—and anyway, if such friendships did exist, they would not be interesting to the reading public. Sex sells, and so sex there must be!
So Percy had arrived at the Pret before dawn, knowing that his article would come out that morning and that Mary Watson and her secret lover would certainly have to meet to discuss how to deal with it. The day stretched on and the lunch rush arrived and ebbed, and still Percy remained at his post, munching at a sandwich as slowly as possible and sipping conservatively at a coffee long gone cold. He was nothing if not dedicated to the truth, even to the detriment of his own comforts.
At last something happened, but not at all what Percy had imagined. Swooping up the pavement towards the sandwich shop, signature long coat flapping like a superhero's cape, was Sherlock Holmes himself. Dressed entirely in black, he seemed appropriately to be in mourning, Percy thought. The detective settled at the table nearest Percy, eyes turned down as he studied his phone with a frown.
Moments later Dr John Watson appeared, wearing a black Barbour jacket, black jeans, and a grim expression. He threw a newspaper down on Holmes' table with a great whap! and sat in the chair across from his friend. Percy Pratt felt the news gods smiling down on him. Could he have possibly had better luck? His excitement mounted as he quickly switched to a chair next to the half-column projecting from the building, which offered him some concealment. Holmes was facing him, his aspect inscrutable. Watson's back was towards him, and yet the emotions the doctor was experiencing were as apparent as if one could see his expressive face. His posture was military-straight, his shoulders tensed, and he bristled with indignation.
"Lestrade's on the way," Holmes informed his colleague without looking up from his phone.
"So is Mary," Watson replied tersely.
Percy's interest grew. Was this 'Lestrade' the mysterious lover? Would there be a confrontation, then? Right in front of Percy's waiting eyes? Perhaps there would be a fist fight! Or at least a shouting match! The reporter readied his phone to record whatever might befall.
"You've read this, I suppose," Watson was saying, his voice hard and brittle with ice.
"A lot of nonsense," Holmes returned, lifting his eyes to his friend's at last. "But dangerous all the same." His stone-cold eyes reflected Watson's frosty tone.
"She's turned in her notice today, of course, but she'll have to finish out the month whilst they look for a replacement," Watson's voice ground out angrily. "In the meantime, she and everyone working there is in danger from everyone in London with a grudge against us."
"Everyone on earth with a grudge against us," Holmes corrected him. "This tabloid is available on the internet as well."
Percy jumped when Watson's fist smashed into the table like a war hammer. The reporter ducked back behind his protective projection, gasping.
"If anything happens to her because of this man's idiotic arrogance, I won't be responsible for what I do to him," Watson growled. "I wish I could have him here right now! I'd be happy to give that Pratt a piece of my mind!"
Holmes looked half startled and half amused. "Why, John! You've such a talent for colourful and creative expletives—I'm shocked you only call the man a prat," he grinned maliciously.
Percy could not see Watson's face, but he was certain the doctor must have rolled his eyes heavenward. "Percival Pratt is the idiot's name, Sherlock. Not an inappropriate one, at that. But if I'd been his mother, I'd have called him . . . ."
Percy's face grew blistering hot from the colourful and creative expletives which Watson used to describe him, and his ears very nearly caught fire. But, he supposed, it was normal for the messenger to suffer for the anger the message brings. When this Lestrade fellow arrives, Percy thought, all this rage will be heaped on the right man!
Holmes had the effrontery to laugh, albeit bitterly. "That's more like the John Watson I know!" he said. "I've spoken to Mycroft this morning, and he agrees with you, in more well-bred terms! He assured me he will increase security in the compromised areas.
"But of course, we'll have to keep our sentiments to ourselves," the detective continued in a soothing near-monotone. "The best thing we can do now is refuse to rise to the bait. If we respond in any way, we only prolong Mary's exposure to the public. By lying low, we can depend on the fickle and fleeting nature of the common person's interest to wane. They will forget all about Mary Watson in a month's time, or less, if we keep a low profile."
Watson sighed loudly. "I'm going in to order coffees for us all." He rose and walked to the door slowly, as a man weighed down with care.
"Good idea," Holmes encouraged his colleague. "Standing in a queue will calm you down."
This time, Percy could see the doctor's eloquent eye-roll for himself.
It had been a mistake, he considered a moment later, to have let his gaze follow Watson to the door instead of keeping watch on Holmes. Sudden and silent as Percy imagined a Ninja might be, the detective was beside him. How had the man moved without Percy's notice? And yet, there he was, looking down on Percy, expressionless.
"Do you make a habit of listening in on other people's conversations, Mr Pratt?" Holmes inquired mildly. "Oh, yes, of course you do. It's your job, isn't it? Prying into the private affairs of perfect strangers. What a noble profession."
It took Percy a moment to pull himself together. "I, uh, well. Mr Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, sir," he stuttered at last. "What a coincidence that we should both be here today, eh?"
"The universe is rarely that lazy," Holmes replied enigmatically.
Percy had no idea what that statement could mean. He pressed on, trying to make the most of this turn of events. Clandestinely witnessing the confrontation between the Watsons, Holmes, and the mysterious Lestrade was now not an option. But perhaps he could salvage the situation.
"Mr Holmes, since we're both here anyway, how about giving the readers a reaction to the article that came out in this morning's paper?" he said hopefully, holding out his phone to record Holmes' every word.
Holmes looked down at the phone with a slight frown but did not object. "I found the article . . . annoying," he replied.
"Annoying?" Percy was disappointed. He had hoped for a more detailed response. "Just . . . annoying?"
Holmes looked at Percy, his strange eyes glittering with something like malice. The reporter had a nervous feeling he ought to have been satisfied with 'annoying.'
Holmes' mouth opened and words poured out like a torrent. "The so-called 'report' was entirely inaccurate, based on little more than vapid rumour and ill-conceived conjecture and, apparently, a criminal case of stalking my friend everywhere she went. The prose is trite, lurid and juvenile; the grammar questionable—I'm shocked it had your editor's approval. And your irresponsible release of Mary's place of work has put her in danger and has caused no end of difficulties. We have had to take special measures to ensure her safety and the safety of those around her. She was forced to give notice and will not be able to seek employment anywhere else for some time—not until this furore over her existence has died down. So, yes, I found the article annoying."
Percy felt as if his hair had been blown back by a strong wind, the words blasting over him like a hurricane. When Holmes fell silent, though, he straightened and took his courage in both hands. He would get to the juicy bits of this story if it killed him.
"But tell the truth, Mr Holmes, aren't you really just annoyed because you didn't know that Mary Watson is seeing this other man?" he ventured. Holmes raised an eyebrow, but Percy ploughed on, oblivious to the danger signs. "Perhaps you did know about him. Perhaps you and Watson are open-minded and into wife-swapping and all that. But perhaps she's just playing you two for fools. Perhaps she is just a . . . ."
The next words which came out of Percy Pratt's mouth were cause for his immediate regret. For the words he used to describe Mary Watson caused his face to explode and he found himself falling backwards onto the pavement with alacrity.
"No one speaks that way about Mary," he heard Holmes' calm, firm voice through the ringing in his ears, and then the world blanked out.
000
"Sherlock! What the holy hell?"
Percy was brought out his brief stupor by the sound of Dr Watson's return. Gentle, experienced hands checked his face for broken bones while a soothing, professional voice spoke with calm assurance. Percy opened his eyes, realizing as he did so that one of them was rapidly swelling shut, and looked into Watson's kindly face.
"Does it hurt anywhere else?" the doctor was saying, and Percy shook his head slowly. A pen-sized torch had appeared in Watson's hand like a conjuring trick, and the doctor was checking Percy's pupils and hmm-ing to himself.
"You're all right," Watson assured him at last. "Nothing broken. No concussion. Just bruised." He then turned his head towards his companion and said, "Are you going to tell me what's going on here?"
The detective hovered into Percy's line of sight, just behind the doctor. "This is Percival Pratt," Sherlock Holmes glowered darkly. Dressed entirely in black, he reminded Percy uncomfortably of the angel of death.
The doctor's kindly face froze instantly into an iron mask, his lips pressing together in a thin line. His eyes blazed, Percy thought, like the blue flames of the pilot light in a kitchen range. Slowly, Watson rose to his full height, which was not considerable and yet he seemed to tower over Percy in a most menacing way, fists clenching and unclenching. The reporter was suddenly reminded that Dr Watson was also Captain Watson, formerly of Her Majesty's Royal Army. And Captain Watson looked at that moment to be the most dangerous man Percy had ever met. Percy lay as still as possible and tried to look pathetic and harmless.
"The Percival Pratt who just trashed Mary in the tabloids this morning?" Captain John Watson asked quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The very one," Holmes confirmed. Percy held his breath and braced himself, waiting.
"Did we not," Watson mused, aggrieved, to his friend without taking his eyes from Percy's, "only moments ago, agree that we should not retaliate in any way for this article of his?"
"We did," Holmes nodded.
"Did we not," Watson continued, "decide that any response on our behalf would only prolong Mary's exposure to the public?"
"Yes." Holmes seemed to shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"In fact," Watson concluded sharply, "we agreed to completely ignore this . . . Pratt . . . entirely, yeah?"
Holmes nodded, although he was standing behind Watson and only Percy could see it.
"Then why is it, the moment my back is turned, you punch him in the face without even considering the fact that I might have liked to have done it myself, if it were to be done at all?" Watson demanded.
"It was unintentional," Holmes explained indignantly. "He . . . disparaged Mary and my fist just flew into his face of its own accord, like a reflex."
"Oh," Watson turned to his friend, finally releasing Percy from his fiery gaze. "Well, I'd have done the same, I imagine. What did he say about her to cause such a reaction?"
Holmes grimaced and looked at the pavement. "It . . . doesn't bear repeating," he murmured, and turned away. He picked up one of the cups of coffee Watson had brought out with him and sipped defensively.
Percy had thought to sit up, but now Watson turned upon him again with those fierce, blue eyes. "What the hell did you call my wife that was so heinous that Sherlock Holmes, the King of Insults, cannot bring himself to repeat it?" he asked through clenched teeth.
Percy looked at the doctor's enraged expression and dared not answer. Instead, he stammered, "I'm calling the police. . . .you can't attack me in the street this way. . . ." and he fumbled for his mobile.
"No need to trouble with a call—I'm a police officer," a gravelly voice from behind Percy's head declared. The voice sounded ripe with authority and strength. Percy felt faint with relief. An officer of the law was here to rescue him! He again began to raise himself to a sitting position, preparing to meet his saviour.
"Lestrade. About time you arrived," Holmes growled over his shoulder, still keeping his back towards Percy.
"What's the story here, John?" the police officer asked, stepping over to stand by the doctor's side and into the reporter's line of sight. Percy recognize him at once— Mary Watson's secret lover!
The reporter's hopes were dashed in an instant. Mary's mystery man was a police officer? And he was on first name basis with Mary's husband? This did not bode well. Percy lay back down and tried to look helpless and small.
"This is Percival Pratt," Watson said flatly, waving a disparaging hand in the reporter's direction.
"The Percival Pratt who just placed our Mary's life in jeopardy?" The man called Lestrade narrowed his eyes and glared down at the reporter.
Percy had heard of lethal looks that could slay a man, but he had always thought it to be hyperbole. Now he understood the truth of the saying. And the copper had said, 'our Mary'! Percy's heart sank down into the pavement beneath him. There would be no justice done here today—not by these three!
"Still, you oughtn't to have punched him, John," Lestrade observed. "No matter how much better it made you feel."
"I didn't punch him," Watson said bitterly. "I didn't even get to see it done. I was in the shop at the time. By the way, I bought you a coffee."
Lestrade picked out one of the cups sitting on the very table Percy had been ensconced at all of that long day. "Sherlock?" the copper asked. "What happened?"
"It wasn't intentional," Holmes insisted, keeping his back turned. "If it had been intentional, I'd have broken his jaw," he added darkly.
"He says this Pratt said something derogatory about Mary and he was so shocked he just lashed out without thinking," Watson explained. "But he can't bring himself to repeat what was said."
Wonder filled the copper's face. "What the hell could you have said," he demanded of Percy, "that could render a sociopath speechless with emotion?"
Percy was also rendered speechless. How could he safely answer that question? He was rescued from having to reply by a voice approaching from behind.
"Good lord! What's happened?" Mary Watson cried out in dismay. She dropped to her knees beside Percy and touched his face with gentle hands. "Are you all right?" she asked with concern.
"He's fine. I checked him out thoroughly," her husband said impatiently. "This is Percival Pratt."
"I don't care if he's Attila the Hun! Why is he lying on the pavement with you lot lurking over him like a flock of vultures?" Mary exclaimed. "You're supposed to be public servants! What happened?"
"Well, you know, he's the reporter who wrote that article about you in this morning's paper," Lestrade explained lamely.
"So you punched him?" Mary was shocked.
"No, I didn't punch him!" Lestrade was hurt. "I've only just arrived, and am trying to investigate this incident."
Mary rose to her feet. "Oh, Captain, did you let your temper get the better of you?" she sighed sympathetically, taking his hand.
"I didn't punch him, either. Regrettably, I was in the shop at the time," her husband assured her.
"Sherlock?" Mary asked, looking at the back of the detective, but Holmes did not respond. "Well, for heaven's sake, Captain! You're a doctor, aren't you? Why don't you get some ice for the patient's eye?" Watson sighed and disappeared from view.
"And you!" she turned on Lestrade. "Why would an officer of the law allow a citizen to lie on the pavement for hours? Help me get him up."
Percy felt himself being lifted, one large, strong and rather ungentle pair of hands on one side and one small and careful pair on the other. They settled him onto the chair in which he'd been sat all that day, waiting for these very people. His ears roared with the effort and his face throbbed. "Thank you," he groaned.
"Now, let's get to the bottom of this," Mary said calmly. She stood with her back to the sun, which lit up her blond hair so that it nearly glowed, making a veritable halo about her head. Percy was struck by her kind, blue eyes and patient look.
"It was unintentional," Holmes said stolidly over his shoulder.
"This Pratt said something about you that so incensed Sherlock that he reacted without thinking," Lestrade explained helpfully. They both looked at the detective, who refused to turn around or engage them.
"Oh, but I'm sure this is all just a terrible misunderstanding, isn't it?" Mary soothed. "You never meant to say anything derogatory about me, did you, Mr Pratt? You never meant me any harm at all."
Percy, his eyes round and mouth slightly open, shook his head dazedly.
"And Sherlock didn't mean to punch you—you heard him say it was unintentional. He must have misheard what you said, I imagine," Mary continued in her mesmerizing voice. "But you see, Mr Pratt, this article of yours has the boys all in a dither. Publishing my place of work, you know, was not a safe thing to do, and they worry about me. But you didn't know it was unkind when you wrote it, did you? Of course, you didn't. You'd never do anything harmful or unkind, I'm sure."
Percy shook his head again, entranced by Mary's tone. Watson reappeared with an ice pack from the Pret's kitchen and Mary gently applied it to Percy's aching face.
"Here's the problem, Mr Pratt," Mary went on. "I was kidnapped only a few months ago, and held with a gun to my head, by some men who held a grudge against Sherlock and John. I was nearly killed! They live in dread of that happening again. You understand, don't you, Mr Pratt?"
Percy did. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to take back his rash article which had placed this understanding angel in such danger. He thought of Sir Percival of legend, for whom he had been named by a romantic mother; the knight in shining armour had dedicated his life to protecting others. Percy now felt ashamed that he had placed his own career and advancement ahead of the safety of this lovely young woman.
Percy found himself apologizing for his selfishness and promising to print a retraction as soon as may be. He also swore not only to refrain from printing articles about Mary Watson in future but to encourage his colleagues to leave her alone as well. He was then bundled into a cab and sent off to his home, feeling better about himself than he had in years.
"What was I thinking, calling Mary Watson a heartless opportunist? No wonder Holmes clocked me," he thought earnestly. "I would punch me, too, were I him."
000
Mary and John and Sherlock and Greg sat at the table outside of the Pret a Manger and finished their coffees, having seen the last of Percival Pratt.
"Well, that went well," John observed dryly. "You certainly went off-script, Sherlock. I thought you'd lost the plot entirely."
"Yes, Sweetheart, you weren't meant to punch the man. You three were just to put the fear of god into him a bit, so I could rescue him from you," Mary chided gently.
"I told you, it was unintentional," Sherlock groused.
"You salvaged the day, though, Mary. Just by being yourself!" Greg praised, and Mary blushed a bit.
"I thought you poured it on rather thick, myself," John chuckled. "But he bought it, didn't he?"
"Let's get out of here," Sherlock said, throwing his cup away. "I think I never want to see a Pret again! What a dismal place! Why, of all the public places in London, Mary, did you have to keep leading the man here?"
"I like this Pret a Manger!" Mary declared. "And I certainly wasn't going to lead him to places we generally frequent, was I? The nerve of that silly muppet, anyway," she added cheerfully, "thinking he could follow me around for two weeks without my ever noticing." She chuckled good-naturedly and joined her menfolk in walking towards Greg's car.
"But what did he say that set you off, Sherlock?" Greg insisted as they walked along together.
"Yeah, Sherlock, what could he have said that was so horrible it had you rattled?" John wondered.
The detective looked at the pavement stonily. "He said Mary was 'heartless,'" he admitted reluctantly.
"Oh, Sweetheart," Mary laughed affectionately, hugging his arm; but the other two nodded in accord with their friend. They knew they, too, would have punched Percival Pratt.
000
Many thanks to my wonderful beta, Fang's Fawn, and to my lovely Brit picker, mrspencil.
Also thanks to the management of the Pret A Manger on Bressenden Place, where I spent many a happy hour a number of years ago.