April 1912
"6 o'clock!"
A soft knock resounded on Sherlock's door. His eyes opened slowly, vision unfocused. Sunlight streaming from the small window warmed his back pleasantly. Immediate awareness of everything around him sparked Sherlock's mind. The feeling of the thin bed sheets on his skin, the comfortable weight of the blanket, the muffled pounding of his pulse in the ear pressed against the pillow.
"Time to wake up, Sherlock!" came Molly's shrill voice through the door. As he sat up, stretching luxuriously, his room materialized in the dim lighting.
"Thank you, Molly," he called back weakly. The sounds of the usual morning rush echoed around him: footsteps, hurried voices and the unmistakable commands of Mrs. Patmore. Sherlock swung his long legs out of bed and pushed himself up, padding softly over to the wash table.
Once dressed in his footman's livery, he looked at his reflection in the armoire mirror. A tall, thin, pale-skinned man stared back at him, unruly black curls hanging on his forehead. Mr. Carson always criticized him about them, remarking that it reflected a sense of disorganization and inefficiency. And Carson was famed for his love of propriety and efficiency.
The others seemed to like his hair, however, especially Mrs. Hudson. "It softens those cheekbones," she would say fondly. James sneered at it. Then again, James had a permanent sneer on his face.
Sighing and adjusting his bow tie one last time, Sherlock opened his bedroom door, ready to plunge into the battle of the day.
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"Where've you been?" said a familiar snide voice behind Sherlock. Rolling his eyes slightly, he continued to lie out the large white cloth on the dining room table.
"I'm not late, am I?"
James came into view, holding a small silver tray of crystal glasses. "You're late when I say you're late," he snapped back, walking out of the room. Sherlock bet James just came in there to say something nasty to him. But he shrugged it off, smoothing out the cloth and heading back downstairs.
Housemaids were hurrying around the house opening windows, fluffing up cushions, doing quick sweeps and dustings where necessary. Just the usual morning chaos before the family woke up. Sherlock nearly crashed into Molly, who was running around with the first floor frantically with her fire starting equipment. "Sorry!" she yelled back at him. Smiling, Sherlock continued on his way.
Molly. The innocent, sweet kitchen maid who was constantly screamed at by the fearsome cook, Mrs. Patmore. Sherlock thought himself rather lucky when he saw Molly's sweaty face and sooty hands. He liked her a great deal more than most of the rest of the staff.
Taking off his jacket, Sherlock helped set up the servants' dining table downstairs for breakfast.
"Sherlock, could you go and fetch Mr. Carson?" asked Mrs. Hudson as he passed her, her great ring of black keys jingling in her hand. Sherlock nodded and headed toward the silver storeroom, where Mr. Carson was polishing the last of the candleholders.
"Breakfast is ready, Mr. Carson," he said, turning quickly to leave and finish up his own work before eating.
"Oh, Sherlock," Carson said, stopping him. "Have the papers arrived yet?"
"They're late."
"They certainly are..." Carson huffed. Anything that was even slightly off schedule always bothered him. "Well, get the board out so you can do them as soon as they're here."
Sherlock pulled out the ironing board from behind the door and unfolded it. Then he rushed back out of the room.
A bell chimed along with the clinking of spoons and plates in the servants' dining room, everyone trying to scarf down some porridge before the family woke up. Heads turned toward the wall of bells with plaques behind Carson's chair.
"And they're off."
"No rest for the wicked."
"It's Lady Mary's room... are the tea trays ready?"
"All ready Mrs. Patmore... if the water's boiled. Ms. Adler, will you give us a hand to take the other two up?"
"I've got her ladyship's to carry."
"I'll help."
Another chime sounded, now muffled in the scraping of chair legs and distant yells of, "Where's the sugar?"
"Back door."
"Papers at last- Sherlock?" asked Carson.
"You're late," Sherlock said, irritated, to the boy on the bicycle, snatching the rolled up newspapers from him.
"But-"
"But what?"
"You'll see."
Ignoring the boy, Sherlock turned and slammed the back door behind him. He ran to the board and began to iron the rough paper, turning the pages carefully.
"Do the Times first, he only reads that at breakfast... And the Sketch for her ladyship. You can finish up the others later if need be," Carson said as he appeared in the doorway, drops of sweat trickling down his temple.
Sherlock gave a curt nod and continued to turn the pages.
TITANIC SINKS
Words jumped out at him: iceberg, death toll, missing, lost
He frowned, examining the article underneath the headline, the sounds of the house somehow silencing themselves around him.
Leaving the ironing for a moment, he rushed to the dining room, more tinkling bells greeting him.
"Mr. Carson! I think you should take a look at this," Sherlock said gravely, handing over the paper, the grim headline clearly visible. A splash of black on the otherwise sunny day.
The rest of the morning slipped by. All the staff seemed a little distracted. News traveled like wildfire downstairs.
"Is it really true?" murmured James in Sherlock's ear as he swept passed with a steaming plate of kedgeree.
"Afraid so."
"Nothing in life is ever sure," said Mrs. Patmore.
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The back door creaked open, and John stepped inside, closing it behind him. As he walked down the narrow hall his cane made a soft click on the stone floor every other step. He approached a staircase; voices and footsteps echoing down it.
"She's a girl, stupid, girls can't inherit! But now Mr. Crawley's dead, and Mr. Patrick was his only son... so what happens next?"
"It's a dreadful thing..."
Three women appeared. Two in soft green printed dresses with white caps and aprons, one in austere black, hair gathered up in a tight bun. When they saw John, they're eyes immediately were drawn to the cane he leaned heavily on.
"Hello. I've been waiting at the back door... I knocked but no one came."
"So you pushed in?" retorted the woman in black.
"I'm John Watson. The new valet."
"The new valet?" Suspicion and skepticism etched the woman's face as she looked at the cane again. She would have been beautiful in John's opinion, with her porcelain skin and curvy body, except that her face was fixed in a less than friendly expression.
"That's right."
"You're early."
"I came on the milk train. Thought I'd use the day to get to know the place... start tonight."
The three women looked at each other in the moment of awkward silence. Then one in green with a bright smile and blond hair shifted the large pile of sheets in her arms, stretching out a hand to John.
"I'm Anna, the head housemaid."
"How do you do," John said, shaking her hand firmly. He extended his own towards the one in black, but her arms remained folded.
"And I'm Ms. Adler. The ladyship's maid. You better come along with us."
Hardly the welcome John was hoping for.
The foursome walked into the hectic kitchen, alive with the clatter of pots and the hisses of boiling water. Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Patmore, Molly and various maids were running about. They all introduced themselves in a much more friendly manner, shaking hands warmly with John. Then a new figure entered the room, slightly apart from the rest, gazing imperiously at him through sharp eyes. The man seemed to be around the same age as John, mid-thirties, with smooth, pale skin and carved features. Black curls surrounded his face, his footman's livery fitted well to his lithe body. John was slightly unnerved by the way the stranger was examining him with such intensity and more than slightly offended by the obvious arrogance the stranger showed.
The man came up to him, extending a large, bony hand.
"Sherlock Holmes. Second footman," he said, a forced smile not reaching his eyes as they shook.
"John. John Watson."
"But... how can you manage?" asked Mrs. Hudson concernedly, looking at the cane.
"Don't worry about that, I can manage," reassured John.
"Because we've all got our own work to do," Mrs. Patmore put in.
"I can manage."
"All right Mrs. Hudson, I'll take it from here, thank you," Mr. Carson said as he entered the kitchen with James. John was startled by the size of Carson, let alone his deep commanding voice. He was tall and heavyset with thick eyebrows and muscular limbs, seeming to fill up half the room on his own.
"Morning, Mr. Watson..." Carson hesitated as he saw John's cane, shifting his arms uncomfortably. His eyes snapped up again to John's face after a second, as if realizing it was rude.
"Welcome," he continued, "I hope your journey was satisfactory."
"It was fine, thank you," John replied in a clipped tone. He was starting to become a little irritated by the glances to his cane.
"I am the butler of Downton, my name is Carson."
"How do you do, Mr. Carson."
"This is James, first footman. He's been looking after his lordship since Mr. Bates left." James straightened his back and nodded stiffly to John. "It'll be a relief to get back to normal, won't it James?" The first footman gave an extremely forced smile, indicating that he thought otherwise. Jealous sort of bloke, thought John. Didn't like to have the better, though temporary, position taken away from him.
"I assume that everything is ready for Mr. Watson's arrival," Carson murmured to Mrs. Hudson.
"I put him in Mr. Bates's old room. Though he left it in quite a state, I can tell you."
"But what about all them stairs?" said Mrs. Patmore.
"I keep telling you. I can manage."
"Of course you can," said Anna quickly.
"James, how about you take Mr. Watson to his room, show him where he'll be working," interrupted Carson before anyone else could speak.
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Sherlock had just cleared off the dining room table when the family had finished their breakfast and brought the cloth downstairs, when he heard a new voice down the hall. Setting the cloth aside, he entered the kitchen just as Anna, Gwen and Ms. Adler came in with an unfamiliar man. The new valet, thought Sherlock at once. Now James won't gloat so much anymore. Sherlock studied the stranger from a distance, leaning against an oven but maintaining good posture. First impressions always count. The newcomer was shorter than average, but solid and well built. His dark blond hair was in need of a trim, curling at the base of the neck. He looked weary, but seemed to want to appear as though he wasn't, making an effort to stand straight despite the obvious pain in his leg. The hand on the cane gripped the wood tightly, knuckles white. His large black overcoat hung a little loosely on him, like he had lost some weight in a short time. The casual suit and printed tie were slightly rumpled but clean. After everyone else had shaken the valet's hand, Sherlock felt that he had an obligation to do so as well. But he wanted to keep this man at arm's length, unsure about his character. Too many times had Sherlock had to deal with incompetent and obnoxious outsiders, too enthusiastic about being in a great house like Downton to focus on their jobs properly. However, this "John Watson" seemed pleasant enough. Driven by independence and the need to show he didn't need assistance, judging by the constant reassurances that he could "manage." Sherlock would have to wait and see just how well Watson managed over the next few days.
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"Downton is a great house, Mr. Watson, and the Crawley's are a great family. We live by certain standards and those standards can at first seem daunting." The servants were seated around the table, settling in for luncheon. Carson walked slowly and commandingly around the back of John's chair, giving his usual "standards" speech to impress his authority and outline the behavior expected in Downton Abbey. Ms. Adler and James smirked at each other. Sherlock remained impassive, sitting with a straight back in his chair, hands folded in his lap. He continued to watch Watson.
"Of course," said John quickly.
"If you find yourself tongue-tied in the presence of his lordship, I can only assure you that his manners and grace will soon help you to perform your duties to the best of your ability." Finished with his lecture, Carson sat down at the head of the table and placed his napkin on his lap.
"I know," muttered John.
"Watson! My dear fellow!"
Everyone rushed to his or her feet, chair legs scraping, as Lord Grantham himself appeared in the entrance of the servant's dining room.
"I do apologize, I should have realized you'd all be at luncheon."
"Not at all my lord," replied Carson, bowing his head as he jumped up from his seat.
"Please, sit, sit everyone," Lord Grantham said casually, walking around to John's chair. Carson and John remained standing. "I just want to say a quick hello to my old comrade in arms."
The silence was absolute. All eyes were drawn to the man leaning on the cane and the Earl of Grantham, greeting each other like old friends. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised, though, as he thought about it, it made perfect sense. Watson's stiff posture when standing, concise and clipped speech, and his worn face with eyes that seemed to hold dark memories of pain and suffering. It also explained why he was employed, despite his crippling injury.
Sentiment, Sherlock thought drily.
"Watson, my dear man… welcome to Downton," Lord Grantham continued, extending a hand.
"Thank you, sir," John said, a small smile creasing his face. After a moment, a very tense moment filled with shifting eyes and sideways glances, Lord Grantham took his leave with a, "I'm so sorry to have disturbed you all. Please forgive me."
John couldn't miss the stares as he sat back down. He shrugged slightly, hooking the cane on the back of his chair. Unknowingly, he had caught Sherlock's eye for a second, as he looked around the table, a small smirk quirking his lips.
"You never asked."
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Crickets chirped quietly and a bright moon hung in the sky, visible through the small window. It was evening, and John sat alone at the servants' dining table, fiddling with his pocket watch. The blasted thing kept freezing at precisely 7 o'clock each night and he simply could not fix it. The others had gone to bed, giving him a pleasant "Good night, Mr. Watson."
The first few days at Downton had passed quickly, and John seemed to be adapting to this new environment. He woke up at 6 o'clock like everyone else, dressed, ate, and then went upstairs to ready Lord Grantham for the day. The two got on very well, having known each other for a couple of years during the Boer Wars. John was Lord Grantham's batman and constant companion during those turbulent times. However, he was sent home when shrapnel buried itself in his leg.
Muttering darkly under his breath, John gave up and slammed the watch onto the table, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. He sat straight back up again when a tall, thin figure entered the room, still in crisp trousers, but in shirtsleeves.
John had met all of the staff by now and had learned the names of all of them. To keep up his memory, whenever he passed someone he would greet him or her by name, and they would always reply back with a "Hello, Mr. Watson." John strived to create good ties with the others, to be likable and hard working so people would pass over his injury and refrain from judging him by it. True, he could not serve at dinner when a large party came; he could not help carry heavy objects… in short, John could not fulfill his extra duties as a third footman when needed. There were many different feelings toward him: pity, jealousy, disbelief, skepticism, and sometimes, outright hostility. Such was the case with James, first footman.
However, the man who just entered John's presence that quiet night had been showing a very unique attitude toward him. It was almost the air of a scientist studying his most prized subject in an experiment. It unnerved John a bit. This man, the second footman, Sherlock, if John remembered correctly, never spoke a word to him. When John said "hello," all he got back was a curt nod or a scrutinizing look.
Yet here they were, alone in the same room.
"Oh—good evening, Mr. Watson. I—didn't realize anyone else would be awake," said Sherlock, stopping short
"Yes… well. Don't sleep very much anymore. Please, sit down," replied John, gesturing to a chair across the table. Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then walked cautiously around to sit, facing John. They sat in slightly awkward silence as John picked up his watch again in a vain attempt to repair it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his companion survey his efforts.
Sherlock leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and brought his hands together under his chin in a sort of mock prayer position. His brows knit in… was it confusion? John couldn't be sure. The man's face refused to reveal any of the thoughts that were evidently rocketing around inside those black curls. John continued to work, feeling his companion's eyes almost burning through his chest, as if to examine the very soul within.
"Shall I?"
The peace was shattered. Looking up, John saw a pale hand extending towards him across the table.
"No I— alright. Thank you." John passed over the watch, regarding Sherlock with something close to suspicion. All this time, the footman had been avoiding his eyes, refrained from speaking to him, had not acknowledged his existence in any way other than his brief introduction on the first day. So what was this offer of assistance now?
Sherlock never apologized if he could help it. He believed the action showed weakness through letting the other person know that he had any sort of emotion under his armor. Pain was an evitable result from emotion. Sherlock simply protected himself. However, when a burning need arose, he did find other ways to apologize. Such was the situation at this moment. As of now, Sherlock had judged John to be just an incompetent man, unable to perform his tasks; just rash enough to think he could validate himself. The past few days had proved Sherlock wrong. No, not wrong, he was never outright wrong. Mistaken, perhaps. Though he would deny it if asked, Sherlock could not help but admire John's determination, humility and selflessness. Never had a moment passed without the soldier offering a hand of assistance, inquiring if anything else was in need of being done to Mr. Carson or Mrs. Hudson or helping Anna carry laundry down the stairs. The man even braved to weather the storm that is unavoidable when speaking to James or Ms. Adler. All his life, such humanity was rare to Sherlock. Yes, the valet (Sherlock was still unused to using his name) did have shortcomings, but they seemed to be overshadowed by his sheer… humanness. Sherlock was frustrated that he could not find a better word. There was simply nothing else that encompassed the character more completely. It felt all the more alien to him, Sherlock Holmes, a man who chose to be separated from sympathy. So here, Fate itself must have arranged this meeting; Sherlock took the opportunity to right his error. With his offer of help, in his own unique way, he apologized.
The pocket watch in Sherlock's hand was now a sort of peace treaty between the two men, both acknowledging their misjudgments. In John's case, he believed the second footman to be a pompous git, unable or not keen to get to know John better. Those suspicions still floated around in his mind, but he was a forgiving man. He considered second chances to be important. So he gave Sherlock one.
"You did not mention your brother before, Mr. Watson."
The statement jolted John out of his thoughts as he stared blankly at Sherlock's deft hands handling the metal with ease.
"I'm sorry?"
"Your brother, Mr. Watson."
"How—"
"Here," Sherlock interrupted, pushing the repaired watch across the surface between them. John tucked it away subconsciously into his breast pocket, gaping at Sherlock. He couldn't even force out a "Thank you."
"How could you possibly know about that?" he said, a slight edge to his voice. Such showings of wit or pranks did not blow over well with him. Sensing the displeasure rising in the valet, Sherlock quickly explained. He merely wanted to appear friendly. Didn't one ask after the family of a new acquaintance?
"Your watch, Mr. Watson."
John pulled it out again. Now that he looked at it, the thing that had obviously helped Sherlock to figure his brother out was clear. An ornate H.W. was engraved on the back. But it still didn't explain how the footman had known what the letters stood for.
Seeing that the valet had found the evidence to his statement, Sherlock elaborated in a feverish tone, speaking as fast as he pieced the data together in his head.
"Yes, the initials, Mr. Watson. The W, of course, probably stands for your surname. Judging by the year carved in the edge by the maker of the instrument, it was owned by your father first. But see these?" Sherlock pointed a long finger towards the object, indicating numerous scratches and notches around the circumference. "They were made much later than when the watch was purchased. While of great monetary worth, this was used without care, put in the same pockets as coins or keys. A man such as yourself, who keeps up appearances and values moral standards, would never treat an object so. It was probably given to you as a keepsake before the wars. People do that. Sentiment. But who gave it to you if not your father? Why, the man who made these scratches. Tradition spurs fathers to pass things on to their eldest sons. Such, I believe, was the case with your father and your older brother. Same name, same initials, tradition again. I assume you don't speak with him much, as the previous owner of this watch is a drinker and of untidy habits—"
"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" interrupted John.
"Marks around the hole. What sober man's key would make so many scores?"
The persistent chirping of the crickets was the only sound penetrating John's speechlessness. By God… the footman was right. Right about every single thing he spoke of.
"That. Was… amazing," breathed John.
"Really?"
"Yes. Yes it was… quite amazing."
"Well, um. Thank you."
They remained in companionable silence for a few more seconds, glancing at the other, sometimes catching eye contact, and looking away immediately.
Then John began to chuckle. It bubbled up without reason, seeming to fill the room with a glow. Sherlock couldn't stop the corners of his lips lifting slightly.
"It seems I underestimated you, Mr. Holmes."
"Sherlock, please."
"Alright. Sherlock, then. And call me John."
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September 1912
"6 o'clock!"
A soft knock resounded on Sherlock's door. His eyes opened slowly, vision unfocused. Sunlight streaming from the small window warmed his back pleasantly. Immediate awareness of everything around him sparked Sherlock's mind. The feeling of the thin bed sheets on his skin, the comfortable weight of the blanket, the muffled pounding of his pulse in the ear pressed against the pillow.
"Time to wake up, Sherlock!"
It wasn't Molly's voice, though. It was deeper, more pleasant. Sherlock heard his bedroom door click open, and someone entered. A tap of a cane on the stone floor every other step the intruder took told Sherlock who it was, even though his back faced the door. He sensed that John was standing right over him when he felt a light pressure on his hip. The warmth from each of John's fingers bled through the blanket, leaving a faint handprint on Sherlock's skin.
"Come on. Can't drag you out of there with this leg," said John, looking down at the long figure protruding from the bed at sharp angles. With a sigh, Sherlock threw off the covers and twisted to face John.
"You've never come in here before." Not that Sherlock minded.
"Yes, well… You weren't getting up. Carson is going mad. Can't have one of his footmen still in bed when the Duke arrives."
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Gravel crunched as the motor came smoothly up the driveway. The entire staff was lined up, backs straight, heads held high. Lady Grantham and her daughters stood regally on the steps leading up to the great doors.
The motor slowed and halted in front of the welcoming party.
Sherlock stepped forward from the line, and opened the door for Lord Grantham and a handsome man in a black traveling coat emerging from the backseat.
"Welcome to Downton," said Lord Grantham. The staff bowed their heads respectfully, the maids curtsying slightly. Introductions were made and all the niceties observed. Much to Sherlock and John's distaste, James would be looking after the Duke during his stay. Everyone started to head inside, chatting amiably, when Sherlock caught a look passing between Ms. Adler and James. Just as he felt a sense of foreboding stealing over him, Ms. Adler kicked John's cane out from under him.
John plummeted face first into the gravel.
"Watson, are you alright?" said Lord Grantham, rushing towards him. Carson was slowly turning purple with embarrassment.
"Perfectly, my lord," replied John from the ground, cheeks dusted with pink. "I apologize."
Sherlock could have punched Ms. Adler's smug face as he bent down a bit to look at John concernedly, offering an arm to help him up. Once the tension had subsided, everyone left to go in, leaving Sherlock and John alone.
Sherlock scowled as he brushed off excess pebbles and dust from John's jacket.
"Those bastards," he muttered, standing close. John touched Sherlock's hand lightly, stopping his attempts to help.
"Please. Don't feel sorry for me." He gave a dampened smile, and squeezed Sherlock's fingers briefly.
With one last look directly into his eyes, John walked away, leaving Sherlock behind.
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"I am very eager to stay, my lord. Very eager indeed."
"I know you are. And I was eager that this should work."
"You see… it is unlikely that I'll find another position."
"But surely in a smaller house where less is expected of you."
"It's not likely."
"I mean to help until you find something."
"I couldn't take your money, my lord. I can take wages for a job done. That's all."
Silence.
"…Very good, my lord. I'll go at once."
"There's no need to rush out into the night, take the London train tomorrow morning. It leaves at nine. You'll have a month's wages too. That I insist on… It's a bloody business, Watson. But I can't see anyway around it."
"I quite understand, my lord."
The last conversation he had with Lord Grantham echoed inside John's head. He sat on the edge of his bed, face covered by a hand, body slumped. Five months. That was all.
And Sherlock.
Ever since that night with his pocket watch, they had grown close. Closer even, John supposed, than he was with his best mates from the wars. It started with long evenings talking together in the dining room. They got comfortable with each other, sparking a friendship and a kind of understanding between them. Others may call it odd, but the two couldn't remember when they had been so happy with someone else. Then it came to meaningful glances during meal times, quick smiles when they passed each other in the halls, brushes of their shoulders, comforting touches when it all became too much.
"John?"
It was Sherlock's muffled voice coming through the wall. John limped over without his cane, gathering himself, trying to appear all right, and opened the door. Sherlock stood there with a tray of food and a glass of water in his hands, looking a little nervous.
"I, um, brought this up for you," he said awkwardly, thrusting the tray forward.
"Oh. Thank you." John set it on a nearby table, then turned back to look at his friend. Curtains seemed to have closed behind Sherlock's eyes, leaving them blank and dark. John hated it. He hated that he couldn't see what was going on within those black curls.
"I, uh…" Sherlock cleared his throat, "I'll miss you, John."
Something clenched painfully in John's stomach. His voice cracked slightly as he said, "And I you, Sherlock."
They stood in the doorway a bit longer; stretching out the last few moments they would see each other. John suddenly reached out and gripped Sherlock's hand, staring into those blue-green eyes.
"You take care of yourself. I won't be there to remind you to eat, or sleep." A shaky sort of laugh escaped Sherlock's lips.
"I will."
Taking a deep breath, fingers still wrapped around Sherlock's, John whispered, "Goodbye, then, Sherlock."
"Goodbye, John."
Their hands broke apart, and John closed the door.