I'm not an impulsive person. I work hard at my job, and I enjoy it, but today I called in sick, when I wasn't.
"I can't come in today, Sarah . . . Yeah . . . Food poisoning or something, I think . . . Sorry . . ."
I wanted the day to myself. I decided to go to the Italian restaurant I think I went to once to meet Harry or something, because it seems to stick in my mind. But, of course, London during February – bloody freezing; snowing, too. Yeah, nice one, Watson.
I had some clinic paperwork to catch up on, anyway. I took my laptop with me, in an effort to be productive. I thought about posting on my blog, but I couldn't think of anything to write: it's all the same, really. Go to bed, go to work, watch TV, eat, and sleep again. I like it, though – I enjoy just getting on with it. That's why it was weird for me to just skip a day, and I still can't remember what possessed me to get on the Northern line rather than Piccadilly, but I'm glad I did.
There's not a single entry in my blog, much to the disappointment of my therapist, Ella. I'm thinking of firing her anyway. I don't have a problem with my leg, I don't have bad dreams anymore, or PTSD. I'm not sure why I haven't cancelled my blog yet, actually.
I sat somewhere in the middle of the restaurant. I faced the window, which showed the snow outside, like a big screen-saver just for me – aside from the bloke sitting at the table in the way of it. I hadn't sat there because it was reserved, so this was the closest I could get. It was sort of, like . . . When a tall person sits in front of you at the cinema, and your heart sinks, and right throughout the film you can't stop thinking about flattening the guy's hair down so it doesn't get in the way so much. This guy was no different, blocking the snowy street view with his curly hair and over-tall, skinny frame. He wore an expensive coat – the type that wouldn't suit someone short, like me – and was clearly well off.
Oh well. Some people have all the luck.
He looked over, once or twice. His eyes were piercing and a little bit intrusive for a stranger, but I'd never seen him before, I was completely sure. Still am. He examined me like a specimen most times, except . . . The first time he looked over, he looked softer, and friendlier. It quickly faded, as I kept looking at him in a questioning way: I wouldn't usually have such a brass-neck about looking a stranger in the eye, but I feel like he wanted me to. I can't imagine why.
Of course, it being around lunchtime, there were other people in the restaurant, but they were just, sort of . . . Ordinary. More in my league, actually – I felt a little bit unworthy to be looking at someone who was so dashing, while I myself was greying and ageing. But, then again – he'd taken the window seat. If he didn't want to be looked at by accident as people gazed, like I was, aimlessly out of the window, he wouldn't have sat there.
I met him again on the way home, although I hadn't noticed him leave the restaurant at the same time as me. As I boarded the train back to Baker Street, he got on behind me, though he looked as if he clearly didn't use the tube often. He looked about shiftily, at the unusually sparsely-populated carriage, and said to me, "Hello,"
I was a little startled at his direct approach to me. I wondered, a bit worriedly, if he fancied me or something. It's just that it was . . . A bit against the traditional stiff-upper-lip, stoical, British way of dealing with strangers on public transport to just come up and greet someone.
"Hello," I replied with a quick smile, but then looked anywhere else but his face. He didn't look away, though, I noticed from my peripheral vision, as he continued:
"You don't mind me talking to you, do you?" He asked, though the words seemed a bit strange to him, if his perturbed expression was anything to go by.
"Um . . ." I considered it for a moment. ". . . No – no, it's fine," I replied, but wondered internally if I was being come onto. I'm not good at meeting new people – 'trust issues', Ella says.
"Where are you getting off?" He asked, raising his eyebrows in expectation of an answer, as if this were a perfectly normal question to ask a stranger on the tube. The lights flickered a bit overhead, as we headed into a tunnel from the latest stop. I supposed, though, that there was no harm in telling him:
"Baker Street,"
"I know a woman who lives on Baker Street. A Mrs. Hudson – I'm on my way to see her, actually. At 221," He replied casually, though it looked, if I could see his expression properly from the angle and in the rubbish lighting, a bit forced.
"Oh," I replied, surprised at this rather massive coincidence, "That's . . . Where I live," I was a bit suspicious for a moment, but he didn't appear to have any malicious intent. I reasoned that Mrs. Hudson's response to him would tell me whether or not he was telling the truth.
"At 221b? – I used to live there! I did her a huge favour once, so she gave me cheaper rental of it – but . . ." He sighed, and looked away from me, at the handrail his right hand was holding onto, absent-mindedly. ". . . It was a long time ago,"
"Oh," I replied again, not really wanting to pry, as the sound of screeching from outside the carriage and the lack of topics made conversation impossible temporarily. I thought to myself: I too am benefitting from reduced rent. It's reduced enough for me to afford to live in this area, unbelievably. I realised that Mrs. Hudson must just offer low rent to every tenant that could protect her and keep her company, in order to make them stay. She's very endearing, with her silly ways.
We both steadied ourselves against the ricocheting of the train by holding onto several luminous yellow support bars, our expressions neutral. Then, my new acquaintance looked as if he wanted to say something, "I'm, Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes," He held out a hand for me to shake, and I took it with another quick smile.
"Doctor John Watson," I replied, with a little bit of pride to introduce myself as a doctor, I'll admit, even after all this time.
"Is there still a chunk missing from the fireplace?" Holmes asked abruptly, a smile pulling mischievously at one side of his lips.
"Like a stab mark?" I asked, smiling at his obvious knowledge of my flat, as the previous tenant, and nodding.
"I did that," He replied, with a hint of pride. My smile faltered, and I frowned:
"Why would you do that?"
"Oh, I don't know . . . I have to keep my letters somewhere, and stabbing them to the mantelpiece seemed the best option . . ."
"I see," I told him. I didn't.
We alighted at Baker Street, and Holmes and I walked to my doorway, where he knocked on the door, exactly as if he owned the place.
"I have a key," I mentioned.
"What? – oh, yes, well – I want to see-" He responded, presumably about to say my landlady's name, when the woman herself appeared at the door.
She was smiling kindly, her eyes bright and cheerful, until she set eyes upon my companion.
Something strange happened to her, which I can only really guess was a product of some past happenings between them.
"Sh –erlock?" She asked, her voice breaking, and tears welling at record speed in her eyes. One of her elderly hands clung to the doorframe tightly, I could see, by the whitening of her knuckles. The other flew to her mouth in what appeared to be surprise – shock, even.
"Mrs. Hudson," He acknowledged, and stepped inside, allowing me past as the landlady rushed to him and embraced him in a tight hug, sobbing openly onto his expensive coat. I could hear her whimpering something barely comprehendible into the fabric of his coat. Though I was a bit suspicious of what he'd done, the way he was comforting her with a kindly hand on her back, leading her to 221a, with a stormy and sad expression himself, was enough to dismiss my concerns.
I shuffled upstairs, dumping my rucksack down just inside the door of 221b and retrieving my laptop. I could hear her, still sobbing, as the door to her flat slammed shut. I was treated to an hour or so of silence, bar a few muffled sounds from downstairs, which I used to finish off the last of my backlog of paperwork from the clinic. This achievement put me in a good mood. That was before the knock at my door.
I opened it, and there again stood Holmes. He smiled at me, and strode in without a word.
He stood in the centre of my front room, and his smile disappeared, replaced by solemnity and distain. Clearly, he didn't like what I'd done with the place – I don't like what I've done with it either, really, seeing as I haven't done much. It's all impersonal Scandinavian furniture, and a telly, and an armchair, and a sofa with no cushions. There's a nice writing desk, with my laptop on it, and a few tall yet empty bookshelves, bar my books on anatomy and physiology.
He turned slowly around, shaking his head. I raised my eyebrows in inquiry, and he floundered for a second:
"It's just . . . Different," He said, in reply.
"Mmm," I agreed, though obviously I didn't know what it had been like before. I took a dispassionate look at my flat, and vowed to actually do something with it one day.
"Military clean, though. All sort of, neat," He added with an inexplicable gesture, as what I think was supposed to be a compliment.
"What?" I asked, a little bit uneasy as to how he'd not only had the luck to be able to legitimately follow me home, but also had an inkling into my military past. He looked as if he were about to offer an explanation, opening his mouth; he shut it again, just as quickly, and pointed at the small photo of Harry waving me off to go to Afghanistan.
"Ah," I acknowledged, feeling a little embarrassed of my unwarranted suspicions about Holmes.
"Is that your sister?" He asked, walking to the picture and picking it up gently.
"Yeah – Harry. I wouldn't have it up, but she came round and insisted. She said this place needed evidence that I had a family, or friends, or wasn't just a robot – actually, I was thinking it's a bit bland,"
"Indeed," He offered quietly, and set the picture down again, with a hundred-yard stare. He stood looking at the picture for a good minute, before I cleared my throat.
He took my awkwardness as a sign to leave, and whisked around, striding quickly to the door, and told me: "Well, I'd best be off, for now. I'm living at a hotel at the moment, but I'm thinking about moving into 221c,"
"Are you sure?" I began to caution him, "There's quite a problem with-"
"Damp, yes – there always was. But . . ." He paused and smirked to himself lightly, "I've been living abroad for three years, travelling. Believe me, I've stayed in much worse conditions – a bit of damp won't kill me,"
"Well, get someone in to sort it out, at least," I told him with a smile.
"Of course. I'll see you later, John Watson," He told me, quite formally, pausing at the door to offer me a brief smile.
"Goodbye, Holmes," I said, and like that, he was gone.
Holmes seems interesting enough, but I'm not sure he'll be too good a neighbour.
Well, after this strange day, at least maybe I can have something to blog about.
For Alice.