Title: The Note, The Bowler Hat, and the Doctor
Author(s): Starluff/Stellinia
Rating: PG (so far)
Universe: Russian Series
Character(s)/Pairings: Watson
Summary: Watson finds a mysterious note in his pocket, telling him to beware the man with a ratty bowler hat. What should he do when he finds himself being followed by a man of that description?
Warnings: None in this chapter but there will be violence of dubious rating next chapter, I don't know how much.
Word Count: 1535
Author's Notes: Written for the JWP practice #1 "A Mysterious Letter". And yes, I realize it has been almost a month since that prompt was posted. So sue me.

P.S. Watson is gonna be so BAMF, :3

"Beware the man with the ratty bowler hat and don't worry about Mrs. Hudson."

That was all the note said. Watson had just found it in his coat pocket when he got back from his walk. Watson frowned and tried to make sense of it by employing Holmes's methods, though he doubted he would have much success. He looked at all the minute details the way he would imagine Holmes would: male's handwriting, written on cheap paper, cheap ink – yet the handwriting was looping and fancy, like a man who was well-to-do. It also seemed to have been written in a hurry, if the shakiness of the otherwise perfect writing was anything to go by. Watson chewed his lip, wondering what it could mean. Suppose... if the handwriting gave the impression of education, yet the paper and ink suggested otherwise, add in that it had been written in haste, then perhaps the man who had written it was a gentleman who had...what, gotten stuck in someplace and couldn't get any better paper? There was an insignia on the paper but Watson didn't recognize it. Sighing, he set the paper down.

If Holmes were here, he would have seen right through the paper and understood everything. He had once solved a case just by looking at a letter. He didn't even need to get out of his chair and the client had payed him extra for his speed. But that was before Moriarty, before he... before he had fallen to his death in the falls. Watson closed his eyes and sighed. In any case, the note was, in all probability, just a prank on the friend of the late, famous consulting detective. Anyone who had read any of his books could have put together this little thing, with its contradicting details. It didn't mean that there was some sinister plot behind it and it didn't mean that there was a mystery to be solved. Besides, no matter what the reason behind the message was, there was nothing in it of interest. It just said to take care around people with a ratty bowler (which wasn't a very distinguishing feature, if one were honest) and not to worry about Mrs. Hudson; neither part made any sense.

Come what may, it didn't change the fact that Watson had an appointment to make.

It was only a month since Holmes's death and Watson still felt the melancholy hang about him like a cloak. This was, admittedly, the first time he had gone out with a friend since Holmes's death. Stamford had finally managed to convince him to get out of the house for nonessential reasons. Watson found himself not quite looking forward to it but not dreading it, either, the way he once did. And it really was a nice day out. He might even be able to enjoy himself.

Just before walking out the door, Watson grabbed his coat and walking stick, and, for some reason, slipped the note into his pocket. Even as he did so he knew it was stupid. And yet...

The day was as nice as he suspected and the doctor decided he'd rather walk than hail a cab. The sun was unhindered by clouds and was blessing the world with its cheerful rays, dispelling the heavy cold until it was only chilly. Watson never thought he would miss the hustle and bustle of London, yet he found himself looking on with interest at the mass of people walking through the streets. He was happy now that he had left early, for he could take his time with the walk. Watson looked at two people arguing in the middle of the street, disturbing traffic, and thought he recognized the dent of a pince-nez on either side of the nose of one, and thought how Holmes would have delighted in telling him that that man was close-sighted. The thought made him smiled and he directed his gaze to the other man. He had the tattoo of an anchor on the back of his hand, he noticed, and his exceedingly foul mouth all lead him to believe that the man was a common place sailor. Otherwise, he could deduce nothing else about them. He did not expect to; there was a reason he was simply the doctor and chronicler, not the consulting detective. Watson turned from the sight of the ongoing-row and continued on his way.

He passed pretty woman with scuff marks on the insides of both boots, and deduced that she enjoyed cycling. Across the street was the book shop that Watson would escape to often when Holmes was in a Black Mood, and had the best collection of poetry. He should nip inside on his way back and see if they had anything of interest. A little ways on, he found a man he could deduce nothing from and then...

A man with a ratty bowler hat. He was standing on the corner, watching him.

Watson stopped and stared, then shook his head. It was just a note, it didn't mean anything. Lots of people are too poor to replace their bowlers, it didn't mean anything. But now Watson found he couldn't concentrate on the people the way he had before; he had eyes only for that mystery man. After another two blocks, Watson saw him again and decided that he could not keep this up. If he kept walking and that man kept following him, he was going to start a fight, and that would not do. So instead, Watson hailed a cab and got in. As he stepped up, he glanced up and saw that the man was still watching him.

Watson settled himself inside the cab and tried to think. Was there another cab in the vicinity? Could ratty-bowler man follow him? Snap out of it, Watson! Stop the paranoia, he scolded himself. So far, the man had posed no threat. Watson would just make sure to take public streets, no side alleys or shortcuts, and be aware of a potential threat. That was all. The doctor kept his eyes out the window and searched around to see if he could see the man. He passed by shop with a window, giving him the reflection of the cab he was riding. Naturally, he saw the driver, himself in the window of the cab, and-

Watson gasped. The ratty-bowler man was perched on the back of the cab.

Watson's blood went cold and he knew. This wasn't anything ordinary; whoever had sent him that message knew. But why? Why was there someone after him? What did he want? Did it have anything to do with Adair, the man whose life was threatened by Moran and who Holmes had told Watson to help, before he fell into the Reichenbach? Who was the man who had sent the letter and was he a friend to be trusted?

First thing's first. He had to lose the ratty-bowler man. It was possible that the driver was an accomplice, and if not, he could easily be held at gun-point and forced to drive somewhere else. It was too risky to call the driver to stop. As far as Watson could see, he had onlyr option: get out of the cab.

Watson refocused his attention outside the window. They were nearing a major street with lots of other cabs and traffic. If Watson could somehow get out, either by jumping into another cab or mingling, unseen, into the crowd...

Watson took off his overcoat and hat and left them on the seat; it would be easier for the man to not notice him if he didn't have his overcoat on. Watson, ever the honest man, felt bad about leaving the cab without paying, so he left the required money on the seat. Then he took a deep breath and prayed to God.

He opened the door slightly. He gently eased his way out of the door, until he was half-in and half-out. The cabbie's eyes were focused on the road and the man perched behind was flush against the back, so he couldn't see the door around the corner. He probably did that so that Watson wouldn't be able to see him if he happened to glance behind the cab, but that worked in Watson's favor now. To escape unnoticed would require for him to drop to the ground, not stumble, look away the cab, and walk with nonchalance. It would require for him to pretend that he had not just jumped out of a cab.

Simple enough. Steeling his resolve and preparing his body for he was about to do, he waited until the cab had slowed down slightly before he jumped. He quickly got his balance and tried to walk away, swinging his walking stick casually, all the while his nerves sang and he didn't know what his expression looked like. He forced himself to wait until he heard the cab reach the end of the block before he turned to look at it.

It was continuing on easily, the man didn't seem aware of what had just happened.

Watson took a deep, easy breath to calm his nerves, then turned back toward Baker Street.