Ch. 2 – A History of Military Service
John descended the stairs to find Sherlock rooting through an untidy pile of boxes next to the bookshelves. He was wearing a blue dressing gown over his dress shirt and black trousers and bare feet.
"Ah, John. I assume you'll be moving your belongings today. Do you happen to have a kettle? I seem to have misplaced mine. Pity, the heating element was idea for warming glycerins and parafins."
"Of course I have a kettle but I'll thank you not to put anything but water in it," John replied flatly casting a despairing look about the cluttered sitting room. "You are going clear things up, aren't you?" he asked trying to keep his voice light. Sherlock ignored him completely in favor of his kettle search. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came to the open door with a quiet "hoo hoo". She had a tray with tea and still-warm scones. John scrambled to help her with the tray while Sherlock up ended another box without even looking up.
"Oh, Mrs. Hudson you really shouldn't have," John started.
"Well, just this once, dear. I heard you get in so late last night and knew you couldn't have been to the shops yet." Sherlock made a triumphant dive into yet another pile.
"Yes. YES!" He raised the missing kettle in triumph. He then turned finally noticing Mrs. Hudson and the tray of tea. "Oh," he said slightly crest fallen. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, tea would be lovely," and he carelessly flipped the kettle onto the nearest pile.
"Just this once," Mrs. Hudson reiterated waggling a finger toward Sherlock.
/-/-/-/-/-/
An hour later, after John had done the washing up, Sherlock left for New Scotland Yard to see Lestrade and John headed back to his tiny bedsit. He found the grumbling, old land lord, Mr. Maddipoti, in the basement tinkering with the decrepit, ancient washing machine and gave him his notice. Like most of the tenants, John had been paying weekly, in advance. Mr. Maddipoti barely grunted in his direction in reply and John wonder vaguely if Mr. Maddipoti even knew which unit he was in. It took John less than an hour to pack and clean the flat. He left in a taxi the same way he'd come 7 weeks prior with his large green army duffle bag, his army pack, his laptop and a single suitcase.
/-/-/-/-/-/
The next morning John took Mike Stamford up on his offer of a lift to Harry's place up in Camden Town. He had stored his books and some other things there before he had last been deployed to Afghanistan. John had never been one for accumulating possession and everything fit easily into Mike's trusty old Citroen hatchback. Mike reminisced all the while about other moving days from their time at Uni that John honestly couldn't recall. Mike's jovial mood was soon crushed during the return trip by the absolutely brutal traffic. He and John barely had time to unload the Citroen onto the stoop of 221B before Mike had to dash off to his afternoon lecture. John propped the door to 221 open and began shuffling his things inside.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade thumbed through the ballistics report the and the photos from Roland Kerr Further Education College and placed them back in the case file. He wanted to run the whole package the past Sherlock one more time. He still wasn't satisfied with the detective's back peddling regarding the shooter. Something didn't sit right there. A kill shot with a hand gun through a window from at least 30 metres away. Sherlock had been going on about it at the scene but then stopped and he hadn't offered anymore yesterday, other than the obvious. The shooter was an expert, maybe even a pro. He checked his phone again. Sherlock wasn't responding to his texts. Lestrade sighed. Bloody perfect. Taking the file in hand, he stood and left his office. Nothing for it but to go to the annoying git's new flat, personally.
When Lestrade arrived at 221 Baker St. the outer door was slightly ajar. He pushed the door open and was just about to call a 'Hello' when a voice came down the stairwell.
"Grab something on the way up, would you?"
That must be Sherlock's supposed new flat mate. Lestrade paused to recall the name. Dr. Weston? No, Watson. God, was the man really going to move in? The DI shook his head. In the entry there was a stack of neatly packed boxes and small television. Lestrade grabbed the TV and a smallish box and headed up the stairs. He had just gained the landing when he heard foot steps coming down and the voice again,
"About your experiment in the kitchen, I don't ... "
John froze half way down the stairs, his eyes widening a bit at the sight of the DI. When he continued his voice was quieter and almost a touch apprehensive.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm sorry, I though you were Sherlock. You didn't have to," John pointed wordlessly to the television and moved to take it off Lestrade's hands apologizing again.
"Oh, no problem," Lestrade countered politely. "Moving day is it, Dr. Watson?"
"John," John said out of habit.
"Greg," Lestrade offered in return.
"Um, yeah." John mumbled in reply to the DI's question lifting the television up as if in evidence.
"Are you looking for Sherlock? He's not in at the moment," John said a bit too quickly as he crossed the sitting room to place the television on top of the shelves. "I'm not quite sure where he is, actually," he continued with a small, almost shy smile. It rattled John far more than he liked to have a detective inspector from Scotland Yard suddenly appear in his flat less than three days after he had killed a man.
Lestrade scowled severely as he considered this information. Then he scanned Sherlock's detritus which still littered the room despite the detectives assurances that he would 'tidy up a bit'. The DI's copper senses were kicking in. This might be an interesting opportunity. He glanced up at the thoroughly ordinary looking man before him. He knew virtually nothing about this mysterious "flat mate" and "colleague" who had suddenly accompanied Sherlock the other night, only that Holmes had seemed to defer to him twice and then abruptly sought him out after the whole mess at the College to "discuss the rent". If this guy held some sway over Sherlock, Lestrade needed to know how and why. He shook his head slowly for dramatic effect and huffed a single, disbelieving laugh.
"You're really going to live here, with him? You do know what he's like, don't you?" Lestrade broke into an all-too-knowing, friendly grin as he looked at John. John returned the smile with along with a sheepish, one-shoulder shrug.
"Well, you're a braver soul than me, John Watson." With that, he gave John a slight mock bow and put the box he was holding on top of a mass of Sherlock's boxes. "Here, OK?" John nodded relaxing a bit.
"As good as anywhere I suppose," he said making a futile attempt to straightened some of the mess by the shelves.
Lestrade took another quick glance around the flat. It was nice enough and well located but why would an experienced doctor need to flat share, especially with someone like Sherlock Holmes?
"So, Dr. Watson ... John," Lestrade hastily corrected himself with an engaging smile, "are you new to the city?" John took a beat before answering.
"No, not really. I, um, trained at Bart's and my sister lives up in Camden. Been away for awhile, 'though." Lestrade nodded amicably then he noticed the green canvas pack with the name tag 'WATSON' on it leaning against the wall by the door. No, it couldn't be, could it?.
"So, what brings you back?" he smiled looking genuinely interested. John was caught short and stared dumbly back at Lestrade before clearing his throat. He hadn't actually explained this out loud yet, not to a stranger anyway.
"I've just left the army. Thought I'd looking for work here."
You're looking for someone with a history of military service.
Only the DI's 23 years of experience allowed him to school his features and give nothing away as he studied this mystery man again. He stood straight, dressed in jeans and a plaid button-up shirt which was, in fact, buttoned right up to the top. His hair was trimmed short and neat. He could almost hear Holmes's superior drawl in his head. Military, obviously.
"Really?" Greg sounded surprised, which he guessed he was. "What? In the medical corps? Regular army or TA?"
"Regular army, I'm RAMC attached to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Was attached..." John quickly corrected, his ear tips flushing red.
"Really. I've got a mate who's a sergeant major with the 1st Mechanized*."
"Oh? Tank driver?" John inquired politely.
"Yeah, well, used to be. He's got some job in Whitehall now. Just don't let him park in London. No space is too small if you know what I mean." John chuckled then was quiet again. Lestrade shifted deciding to press further.
"Mind if I wait a bit, for Sherlock? I just wanted to review his statement about that crazy cabbie and the two pills business, as well as his deductions about the shooter?" he raised the case file studying John's face for a reaction. There was none other than that of a well-mannered, polite Englishman.
"Um, no, not at all. Please." John indicated the gray and red plaid armchair. "Sorry the place resembles a tip at the moment but I do think I know where the tea is." John stepped around some boxes into the kitchen and set his kettle to boil.
While John busied himself with the tea, Lestrade noticed the box placed next to the chair. It was neatly labeled Journals, 2005-2010 in a hand he knew was not Sherlock's. He casually flipped the box open. On top were several issues of 'The Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons'. Not just a doctor but a ruddy surgeon. His hand couldn't have shaken at all. Jesus.
John returned with a mug of tea for Lestrade and one for himself. Lestrade regarded the man again as he accepted the steaming cup. He was a bit short with a compact build and was probably a pretty good athlete. His manner was bit reserved but otherwise he seemed completely ... normal.
"So how the heck did you ever get into this, John? How do you know Sherlock?"
"Actually, I just met him. I had a chance run-in with an old mate from Bart's, Mike Stamford," Lestrade interrupted,
"Oh, I've met Mike. Oversees the teaching labs at the hospital that Sherlock likes to haunt." John smiled politely in affirmation.
"Right. Well, I ran into Mike at the park Tuesday and he introduced us. I'd just come by to look at the place when you showed up and we headed out to Lauriston Gardens. And, well, hear we are." John spread his arms to encompass the room. "A bit crazy, I know, " he smiled, a genuine warm smile, then to Lestrade's surprise he went on. "But in that cab to Brixton he ... deduced me, you know what I mean? It was amazing, like a magic trick only it wasn't. It was real. I'd known him for about 20 minutes in total and he knew my whole life story. Then he does it again on Jennifer Wilson. I mean, would you ever have known she had a case never mind that it'd be pink? That was brilliant." Lestrade looked thoughtfully at the doctor who was still smiling broadly. He was right. He was absolutely right. Finally, someone else who saw. Now if Sherlock could only manage not to drive him away.
"Well, mate, you didn't happen to receive any special training in the army, did you?" Lestrade asked lightly. John's smile vanished and he looked puzzled as he felt his stomach drop out. He had had quite a bit of special training.
"What do you mean?" he asked as neutrally as he could.
"Oh, I don't know. Some sort of hazardous duty training, lion taming, advanced ninja skills. Could be helpful for you," Lestrade quipped voice now teasing. John smiled, mainly in relief.
"Nope, not a ninja, but I do have some mates in 40 Commando if things get out of hand." Lestrade laughed. He liked this bloke.
After finishing his tea John stood. "Excuse me, I've got some more things to move up. I've got no idea when Sherlock will return, really, but you're welcome to wait." John smiled politely again and headed toward the door.
"Let me give you a hand, then," Lestrade offered putting his own tea down and standing up. In two trips they brought the remaining boxes up to the sitting room.
"I wonder if I can get squatter's rights if I can get my books into the shelves first," John said sardonically as he spun back to face Lestrade. His elbow bumped the top box of books which started to slide off the pile. John instinctively reached out and back with his left hand to right the heavy box, which wasn't the best idea. Lestrade also got hand on the box and managed to right it as John let out an involuntary hiss of pain and drew his arm in close to his body.
"You pull your shoulder or something?" the DI asked with friendly concern. John nodded vaguely not wanting to get into it. "Man, that can smart. I pulled mine out last year," he rolled his right shoulder, "putting up some shelves for the missus. Still not sure what I did exactly but I heard a pop, you know?" he looked at John earnestly. "I tell you I felt that bugger twinge every time I tried to reached up for the next 6 months. Couldn't even screw in a overhead light bulb. Felt like a cripple." Lestrade huffed laugh. John's face hardened for a flash before he forced something neutral and nodded again.
"It's something like that," he said flatly.
In the end, Lestrade hung around for another 15 minutes watching John stack books on the bookshelves before giving up. In that time, he and John engaged in idle conversation typical of British males. Football or rugby? Newcastle? You support bloody Newcastle? I like playing football but rugger's much more exciting to watch. Did you see Top Gear last week? Once back at New Scotland Yard, Lestrade wasted no time in calling his old mate the sergeant major. Three days later Lestrade stood his good mate a pint at his favorite pub. The sergeant major had just handed him the service record for one Captain John H. Watson, MD.
/-/-/-/-/-/
Whatever Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade though he'd discover in John's service record, he was not prepared for what was actually in there. John Watson had been one hell of a soldier and an excellent doctor, too. A trauma surgeon who had routinely gone up to forward areas where doctors were rarely, if ever, sent. He had been well regarded and well liked by both superior officers and subordinates. He had been decorated and had twice been mentioned in dispatches. No doubt about it, John Watson had been having one hell of a career. Had been.
Greg sat back on the sofa feet propped on the coffee table. Anna and the kids had gone to bed hours ago, it was now past midnight. He swirled the last of the scotch in his glass and looked up to the ceiling before looking once more at the last page of the folder spread open on his lap, as if the pause would change the indelible text. Wounded in action, Helmund Province. Shot by sniper while treating casualties. Emergency evacuation. Critical-care airlift to UK. Massive post-operative infection. Permanent disability. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Unfit for Duty. Honourable Discharge (medical causes). The last entry was dated just eight weeks ago. Greg closed his eyes and swore out loud.
"Shit."
/-/-/-/-/-/
A/N – So, what do you think? I've always though Lestrade would be on to John from the start. Please read and review (said with sad puppy dog eyes ...)
Not beta'd or Brit picked.