Edinburgh, Scotland
A roar of laughter echoed through the crowded pub, drawing attention briefly toward the two men seated at a table in the corner of the large room. John Watson watched bemused from across the polished table top as his former classmate gasped for breath. His eyes narrowed slightly in concern as the man's face continued to grow redder by the second, a product of the combined effects of alcohol and a lack of oxygen. Then again Stamford had never been able to hold his liquor, not even when they were students at uni. Just when he believed the man could grow no redder, Stamford gave a shuddering gasp which gave way to a fit of coughing. Ale dribbled down his wobbling chin as he downed the last dregs of his glass in an effort to quall it.
John settled back, relaxing into the curved wood of the chair as he waited for Stamford to collect himself. He hid his grin behind his own glass and cast a glance around the pub. He had missed it…the warmth of the dark wood, the gold of the thick curtains which framed the large windows which looked out over the streets of Old Town, the smell of thick stews and strong ales…all the better now that they could afford better quality liquor rather than the cheap beer used as a lure to draw the students from the university. The Doctors, as it was appropriately named, was a favorite of his from his days as a med student at the University of Edinburgh. Conveniently located across the road from the medical school and the new surgeon's hall, it had once served as a safe haven of sorts for a rag tag collection of young men at the beginning of a new adventure, looking to make their marks on the world.
He wondered where the others were and if they had indeed become the great men they had dreamed of becoming…or if life had taken a bit of a different path, like his had…not that he would have changed it. Well, perhaps some bits. His focus shifted to Stamford as his friend gave a last rasping cough and set his glass down before him with a dull clunk.
"He actually said that? 'Round and round the garden like a teddy bear'?" Stamford wheezed.
Despite the twinge of melancholy which accompanied the memory, John grinned. "I believe those were his words exactly."
Stamford gave a knowing chuckle. "Yes, well, Sherlock always did have a flare for the dramatics."
John snorted and tipped his glass in small salute. "That he did." The grin dimmed a bit as he considered the dark liquid at the bottom of his glass. His fingers flexed unconsciously around the curve of the glass as his chest tightened, as it always did when he spoke of his late friend.
It had been nearly eighteen months…two weeks…and three days…since the incident at St. Bart's, and yet some days it seemed like just yesterday.
For six months after he had clung to a desperate hope that the horror he had witnessed had all been some sort of elaborate stunt on Sherlock's part, just another trick. For six long months he had watched and waited, as he struggled to make sense of all that occurred on that fateful day…but try as he might, some facts still alluded him. By the time he had been able to fight his way through the crowd, Sherlock's body had already been removed and whisked into the hospital, and out of sight.
Oh, the body on the slab at the morgue had been real enough…in his nightmares he still saw Sherlock's pale face, nearly translucent beneath the harsh overhead lights, blood staining his ivory skin. Too much blood. Still if he had learned anything in his time with Sherlock, it was that looks could be deceiving. He had been prevented from examining the body; in fact he had only been allowed the one brief glimpse for identification purposes before he was removed by a few very determined men in dark suits. The body was gone when he returned hours later, as was Molly.
Eighteen months ago he would have been willing to swear before God and a court of law that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of suicide. The man had been much too fond of himself to even consider it. Risk his life to prove he was clever? Yes – John had accused him as much at the close of their first case together. Suicide though…No. John had been unable to accept it. When Moriarty was involved, there was always a larger scheme involved…a bigger reason…but his attempts to discover the truth had been thwarted at every turn.
Six months had passed…and then six more.
Mycroft had advised him to move on, to let his brother rest in peace, that Sherlock would have wanted him to move on. John had told the man to go to Hell. What right had the man after the part he had played in his own brother's destruction? In the end it had been Mary, his angel, who had managed to draw him back from the darkness that had threatened to consume him for the second time in his life.
Lestrade was reinstated, Sherlock's name was cleared and, while the reason for his death remained as ambiguous as it had on that fateful day, life began to move on and John along with it. He and Mary had been married that past spring with Lestrade standing as best man. He had returned to practicing medicine, and had even, after much deliberation, accepted a position assisting the NSY as a part-time medical examiner. After four years of Sherlock's influence, like it or not, solving crimes had become as necessary as breathing…even though it often pained him to do so, particularly when he caught himself searching the scene for a familiar figure with in a long dark coat…
"So the poor bloke just stands there, stunned, coated from head to toe with some sort of noxious bluish goo…"
John blinked hard as the nose of the crowded pub came back in a rush. He released his grip on the glass and rubbed a hand over his eyes as he forced a grin to his face, though he feared it was more of a grimace. Stamford, to his relief, appeared to be oblivious to his lapse, lost within his own recollection of a tale regarding an unfortunate student's encounter with one of Sherlock's more nefarious experiments. An experiment involving some sort of preservation fluid and a vat of pig intestines, the very thought made John's stomach churn. There was a reason he couldn't stand the smell of pork to this day.
"I beg your pardon, sirs."
The men turned to find a tall gangly young man, with a mop of dark curls and a wide eager expression behind a pair of large framed glasses, beside their table. The boy held out a dog-eared book and a pen.
"Dr. Watson, do you think you might..?" he asked, his voice trailing hesitantly.
John offered the boy an easy smile as he took the book. "I would be honored…"
"Nick."
John nodded, signing the book with a flourish. Such questions were becoming more and more common. It appeared nearly everyone had a copy these days. He could barely go more than ten steps out of his door before being stopped for his autograph.
The Case Files of Sherlock Holmes.
His therapist had suggested that he continue to write, perhaps consider publishing his blog stories into a book. Seeing it as a chance to set the record straight regarding his late friend, he had finally agreed. In a way, it had provided a small bit of closure. His bit of defiance against a world that believed the lies had exploded with greater popularity than he ever dreamed. People loved his stories and clamored for more. Sherlock Holmes had become a household name practically overnight, and the damage done to his reputation repaired. For that John was willing to put up with a bit of inconvenience.
A small ghost of a smirk played at the corners of his mouth as his eyes brushed the photo on the book's cover. Sherlock's penetrating gaze peered upward at him from beneath the rim of the infamous deer stalker cap. The smirk widened as John recalled the detective's scathing opinion of the photo, and the hat.
It has earflaps, John.
Perhaps it was well for him that Sherlock had not lived to see it plastered on the cover of a book that was fast becoming a world-wide best seller. John returned the book and the pen to the star-struck student.
"There you are, Nick. See you at tomorrow's lecture?"
Nick nodded with an intensity which made him resemble an oversized bobble head doll. He stammered out a thank you and returned to his group of friends, who were failing to hide their gawking a table on the opposite side of the room. A few of the students, he recognized from his seminar class.
"Were we ever that young?" Stamford asked.
John grinned. "Once perhaps, ages ago."
The man snorted softly. "Didn't realize that you were such a celebrity."
"Shut it."
It had been an enjoyable experience and he was glad he had given in to Stamford's urging to join him. His topic of choice had focused on forensic medicine, using a few select cases from his time with Sherlock as case studies. The students were bright and eager to learn; especially it seemed from the famous Dr. Watson – one half of the world's most successful investigative team, and close friend of the late, great Sherlock Holmes.
Speaking of which, he had one last lecture in the morning to prepare. He signaled the waiter for the check as he retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his coat.
"Leaving already?" Stamford groaned.
John grinned. "I have a lecture to review for and some of us have to set a good example for the young ones." He placed a handful of notes on the table and stood, shrugging into his coat.
"Oi, Mike!" came a shout from the general direction of the bar.
Stamford gave the shouter a wave of acknowledgement.
"Stay if you like, I can find my way back."
"Perhaps I will." Stamford shot John a concerned glance as he stood. "Don't get into any trouble. I promised Mary I would return you in one piece."
John offered his friend a fond smile as he slapped his thick shoulder lightly.
"This is Edinburgh, Mike, not London. I think I'll manage. See you back at the flat." With that he made his way through the crowded room and out into the night.
A cold wind swept around the corner of the building, blowing the light drizzle beneath the protective overhang of the doorway. John shifted his wool scarf higher around his neck and turned the collar of his coat up for good measure before stepping out into the night. The streets were still fairly active despite the late hour and the weather. The flat provided to visiting professors was located just off the university campus, a relatively short distance from the pub. John decided to forgo a cab and walk. With his busy schedule, he'd had little time to indulge in his favorite pastime: wandering the streets of the city and soaking in a bit of Auld Reikie's charm.
At night the city was particularly spectacular, even with a bit of rain, perhaps even more so because of it. Edinburgh was a city unique in itself, a city so old that one could not take a step without stumbling upon some sort of history, both the good and the more nefarious. Kings had ruled and died, conspiracies had been plotted, great discoveries made, murders concocted and secrets buried beneath its stones…if the walls of the city could talk, oh the stories they could tell. It was no wonder that the city had inspired many of the greatest writers of the times: Walter Scott, Robbie Burns, Robert Louis Stevenson… Every corner whispered a story aching to be told…
John turned his gaze from the Castle, which gleamed brightly from its perch high above the city, as the light turned. He crossed the busy street, pausing on the opposite side as he considered the towering stone building which housed the medical college. His own field of medicine had a dark past, a bit of which was housed within the Surgeon's Hall – a skeleton and death mask of one of the world's most infamous serial killers, a man by the name of William Burke. Burke, along with his partner William Hare, had murdered sixteen people in their reign of terror, selling the bodies to a doctor by the name of Robert Knox for the medical school. The events of which had inspired many a play and book, including Robert Louis Stevenson's chilling tale The Body Snatchers.
John felt a small shiver inch its way up his spine at the thought. He grinned at the foolishness of it as he turned off the busy road onto the nearly silent side passage which ran through the university grounds. If he were one to believe in ghosts, Edinburgh would be the place for it. In a city as ancient as this one, bodies were buried literally everywhere and many an old kirkyard had been lost as the city continued to evolve and thrive. In fact, he knew of Kirk in particular which had sold its plot to a local hotel chain. He wondered if the guests of the hotel knew what lay beneath its foundation. He laughed at himself as he quickened his pace, more in defense against the cold rather than fear of the dark. He had witnessed enough horrors in his lifetime to dull his beliefs in ghosts and goblins.
Mary, however, would have found the tales fascinating. With that, his thoughts turned wistful as he made his way through the quiet residential area. He missed his wife greatly and had been hesitant to separate from her, even for such a short amount of time, but she had insisted that he go. He was to join her in a week in Brighton, where she was caring for an old friend, a Mrs. Forrester, as the older lady convalesced by the seaside. A small frown wrinkled his forehead and he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. It was odd that Mary hadn't called. She had made it a practice to call every night before turning in. He pulled it from his pocket and gave a low groan as he discovered that he had forgotten to turn it back on after the evening lecture.
His toggled it on, his frown deepening quizzically as the screen displayed a number of missed calls and messages, most from Lestrade. He slowed his pace as he dialed the Inspector's mobile, which went straight to voicemail. Frown deepening, he tried his own voicemail. There were two messages: the first from Mary who assured him she was having a wonderful time and missed him lots. The second was Lestrade's voice. A strong sense of dread swept through John at the tone of his friend's voice. There was some sort of disturbance in the background, of which Lestrade seemed to be part of. His voice was a bit muffled as he spoke to someone on his end…his next words came through as clear as crystal.
"John, call me when you get this. Find some place safe and stay put. It is vital that you do."
The message ended. He quickened his pace, sweeping the area with a supposed casual glance as he crossed the empty street to the flat. A second attempt to contact the Inspector garnered no more success than his first. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment as he debated whether or not he should call Mary. He gave in, shifting the phone to his shoulder as he fumbled for his key, the darkened streets quickly loosing the serenity they had provided mere moments earlier. Whatever happened, it was bad.
Greg Lestrade was not unsettled easily.
A/N: My apologies if I got a few of the Edinburgh details wrong. Had to use a bit of creative licensing as I have walked past the Doctor's Pub many times but haven't yet had the opportunity to stop in. Edinburgh is truly one of the most unique and amazing cities that I have had the privilege to visit. Its beauty and history are something that must be experienced in person. I highly recommend that you do – and for those of you who hail from Scotland – lucky you - If you get a chance, check out the Literary Walking Tour by Alan Foster – fantastic.