Chapter Two - Something New
Both men looked at each other, one expectantly and the other indignant. The dog snored under a table, ignorantly blowing bubbles to himself. John Watson would have laughed at the irony of it all, but that would have meant putting more fuel onto the fire of Holmes' foul mood. He'd come here at the behest of his old landlady…sadly, not for the benefit of Holmes, nor their weakened friendship since his marriage to Mary and the booming of his practice. He wasn't sure whether it was a comfort to him that Holmes already knew why he was here. But the fact that he had come back surely meant something positive, didn't it?
"She seems capable," Watson said after an awkward silence.
Holmes raised an eyebrow and threw his companion an annoyed look. "Capable is a general state of being, Watson, implying that the subject who is capable is capable of something specific…"
Watson smiled. Typical Holmes. "Terribly sorry, old boy. Capable of taking care of you."
Holmes scoffed and crossed the cluttered room to the settee and dropped down on it, but not before kicking over a pile of books along the way, muttering to himself. "I don't need a nursemaid."
"Truly," Watson asked. "Well, then you've successfully fooled me."
Sherlock hid his smirk and spoke to the air directly next to his friend before granting him the fleeting glance of acknowledgement. "Not a first…"
Watson scowled as he made a pathway over to his old chair, which he was pleasantly surprised to still find there, free of any mess that littered the floor and other pieces of furniture. He eased himself down and allowed himself a moment to take in the state of the rooms. Some plants in a forgotten corner were shriveled and disintegrated to practically nothing, and the state of Holmes' complexion, from lack of sunlight…or perhaps lack of keeping time, only confirmed Watson's suspicions about what his friend had been reduced to. Newspapers in mountainous piles, ink stains on Holmes' fireside chair, the clear odor of pipe smoke and perhaps something unmentionably stronger were all too painfully obvious to ignore. Holmes, however, seemed perfectly content to ignore all above-mentioned.
"Did you know," Holmes said. "That there was absolutely nothing in the papers today? Nothing! That is simply an impossibility, Watson. We live in a densely populated city-Crime is not merely a fear but a reality. Practical and inevitable. Peace is such a farce."
Watson pursed his lips and adopted a quick contemplative look to hide the grimace that threatened to break free. It was easy to fall into talk like this, like the old times, but was it just as easy to go back to those days? Did Holmes want that? "Only because, with it around, you'd be out of a job."
"Occupation," he groused. "Occupations are fickle. The game is what matters-how many times must I tell you this?"
The detective hadn't spared him another glance since that brief one a moment ago. Perhaps he had been wrong… "Again and again, and yet again, it seems."
Holmes said nothing in response but disappeared for a moment to get rid of his tattered robe…that had, somehow, ended up in pieces on the chandelier of the ceiling. Watson allowed himself a small chuckle once his friend was out of sight, grabbing a nearby paper out of habit. The sudden burst of happiness, however, popped like a child's little balloon and regret swept in the open window of John's heart. He looked around the room again and with each passing second his grief grew in size. He had missed this. And things had never deteriorated to this point when he was rooming with Sherlock. Hell, they would have had an argument over it, not spoken to each other for a day, and the mess would have been cleaned up before dinner so the two flatmates could sit amiably by the fire before bedtime.
Sherlock wasn't the type to hold a grudge for long, when it came to Watson, at least. But this seemed so much like Holmes either wanted to or may have learned how to and was struggling with keeping true to it. Truth be told, the fault lie with the both of them. Neither had really made any effort as far as their friendship was concerned. And truth be told, he had forgiven Sherlock even before he knocked on the door to 221b today. Maybe he had forgiven him long before that, but today he had finally accepted it. What mattered more to him though was whether Holmes had forgiven him.
"Obviously you are getting somewhere with this argument?" Watson called.
Holmes poked his head around the corner in confusion, buttoning a fresh shirt. "Hm? Ah, yes. Consider this: a conspiracy! One to keep all notice of crime out of public knowledge! For what, you ask? For secrecy of course."
Watson just sat with his mouth agape, blinking. "Holmes…?"
"It's purposeful, a scheme to lull us into a false sense of security—"
"Holmes—"
"Think about it!—"
"For the love of God, Holmes! I know how you are between cases but don't start stirring up phantoms of your own imagining. Now, you closed that case at the university yourself. Leave it be. You and I both know why you're re-examining it so you might as well put an end to it."
He sighed, tossing the paper aside, which was snatched up by the detective (causing a bit of a jump in the doctor at the sudden proximity) and rose to pull another set of curtains back, having enough of Holmes' erratic behavior and the rank smell of their old rooms. The detective winced at the light and stubbornly turned away from it, muttering again when Watson opened the window for fresh air. Watson admitted to himself that it was rather bright out today, but he was determined not to aid his old friend's possible vision impairment…or any future possible impairment, if he could help it.
"Besides," Watson continued. "Lestrade would never listen to you, not after that incident with the Duchess last week."
Holmes discarded the paper in disgust and simply started stringing chords together on his violin. "If you've come to invite me to another one of those useless and inane social gatherings that you call a 'party' you might as well desist and leave me to my lair of dissolute solitude."
Watson rolled his eyes. "You're being entirely too dramatic. And you enjoyed yourself for a few minutes, don't deny it!"
"A scarce few minutes out of three droning hours of complete and utter nonsensical excuses for human interaction. You'd gain a much more stimulating conversation out of a…"
Watson's brows rose. The plucking on the violin even stopped. Somewhere below, a cabbie called out to some people in the street. For half a second, the awkwardness returned, reminding them both of why they were there, and that this was not the normalcy they were used to.
"Out of a what, Holmes?"
"A monkey," he replied, decisively. The violin was put aside and his pipe was snatched up.
Watson sighed to himself. "You meant a mute, didn't you?"
"Perhaps you should have your hearing checked. I don't remember saying anything of the like."
Watson opened his mouth for a response but promptly closed it and changed tactics. "I didn't even know you knew sign language."
Holmes stared at the spot that the Collins girl had recently vacated, the gears in his mind turning. Watson knew an answer was not forthcoming and was left on his own to figure out his choices as far as possible conversation went. He briefly considered returning home now that Mrs. Hudson had successfully made her getaway. But that would have made this journey a waste, because he still didn't have a clear answer to take away. It seemed natural enough to turn his gaze to another part of the room for inspiration, but the unfortunate space that caught his attention made his eyes narrow and the familiar feeling of irritation rise.
"Holmes…"
"Hmm?"
"Why is Gladstone lying in an unnaturally large pool of his own saliva?"
Holmes deadpanned for a moment and blinked before answering. "Why shouldn't he? He's a dog!"
Caroline watched from the window in the sitting room, curtains parted with a steady hand, as the carriage bearing Mrs. Hudson on her journey pulled away. She was on her own now. She smiled but bit her lip as soon as she turned around to face the house. The responsibilities and chores had been blazed through so quickly that Caroline was sure she'd forgotten something before she started making a mental list of them all. But from what she did gather they boiled down to three main things:
1. Collecting / badgering for rent money…when possible.
2. Cleaning and preventing Mr. Holmes from permanently damaging the house.
3. Make sure Mr. Holmes does not kill himself…though optional.
Mrs. Hudson painted him like he was an over-active three year old. And that thought had Caroline smirking to herself. If he were anything like how her brother, Thomas, used to be, when he was younger, then this job wouldn't be as hard as she thought. Being raised in a house of four brothers had its uses after all.
But then again, this wasn't a matter of childcare. And, for some reason, she had the distinct feeling that this was going to be nothing like what she'd done in Norwich for the past few years. There was no security blanket here. She was completely on her own, unfamiliar with practically everyone within a ten-mile radius. It was a scary thought, especially since this house was now dependent on her skills as a maid and a landlady…of which she was about to learn quite a lot about in a short period of time.
She closed the curtains and wandered into the foyer. She strained her ears and could faintly hear the two men still conversing upstairs. The bold colors in the wallpaper seemed to be staring her down, taunting her and saying things like 'Who are you, little girl?' and 'You know you don't belong here,' and more urgently 'Go home where you know you'll be safe.' Even the banister was cool to the touch. These were passing things, of course, but they were voices and feelings that weren't as easy to ignore.
She had been worried when she left, worried on the train, worried in the carriage, and now was no different. All of this was new. It was not a matter of inexperience, just a feeling of being unprepared. But the idea of managing just one tenant…even if it was a man who was a bit older than her, didn't seem so bad. It could have been worse. She could have inherited her aunt's tavern in Norwich and then she would have had a real problem on her hands. Briefly and quickly, she crossed herself and thanked her lucky stars before staring at where the door to her room would be.
There were bags and things waiting to be unpacked…and then she remembered how much she hated unpacking. She sighed and started in direction of the kitchen. She'd have to meet the cook sooner or later. Best to get introductions out of the way now that she had the courage to. Persevere and you shall reap your rewards, her father once told her. That memory was enough to lift her spirits to where they were supposed to be. Even though she didn't like to admit it, she couldn't wait to be wrapped in her father's loving embrace again. Every time it made her feel like a little girl, his little girl because she was his only daughter. But she didn't mind that. Girls were dramatic. Girls were thick-headed and full of silly hopes. And, unfortunately, she was one of them.
"Experiment, by all means, Holmes, but not on the damn dog!" Watson shouted.
"I reiterate," Holmes replied, irritated. "Does it look like he minds?"
Gladstone promptly snorted and went right back to sleep.
"You're impossible," Watson seethed. "And you wonder why you've driven Mrs. Hudson away? I'm surprised she's lasted this long!"
Strangely, Holmes was silent, and when Watson looked up he was as still as a stone. It was in that instant that he knew he'd struck a sensitive chord. He opened his mouth to apologize but nothing came out because what he had just vented was, in fact, true. It wasn't just Holmes' eccentricities that were driving people away, it was his inability to openly empathize with others. To those select few who knew him as well as possible, Holmes did care, if you knew where and when to look. But to the rest of the world, the 99.9 percent of the population, he was a cold and calculating machine in the visage of a man. He was a man who was incapable of changing his nature as a person, of adapting for the sake of keeping a relationship or friendship alive.
And Watson would have believed that had he not taken the care to know Holmes for who he truly was and not for who he was expected to be. He knew Holmes cared about a great many things, but he also knew that Holmes' cares were carefully guarded. He rarely let anyone in to see the state of things. And Watson had been one of those cherished few. So he knew. Watson knew what Holmes was like, but he also knew what society was like, and time spent with Mary, away from Holmes had changed him a little. It was if he'd just woken up from a long nap, remembering who Holmes was, remembering who he used to be. He would have apologized, but Holmes spoke over him, quietly but with force.
"I suppose I've driven you away as well?"
That, was a clear punch in the gut if Watson ever knew one. And…it wasn't undeserved either. "No," he sighed. "Holmes, I didn't marry Mary to escape from you. You know that. Love, it…makes a habit of sneaking up on you."
Holmes scoffed and wandered over to the window, stopping by the table that Watson knew had Irene's picture on it. Though Holmes did a good job at hiding it, Watson knew he turned the picture down…again, hands flying back up to hold the lit pipe between his lips.
"Mrs. Hudson will be back after a few months," Watson said. "This is her house after all."
It was true. Sure, Holmes had finally driven the poor woman to her limit but she wouldn't abandon her house, nor Holmes after all these years, Watson was sure of that. Sometimes all a woman needed was time away from it all to recover. And Mrs. Hudson was certainly one of the most resilient women that he'd met in his lifetime.
"Who is man without his flaws," Holmes whispered. "He's not a man at all, is he, Watson?"
His facial expression revealed nothing, but Watson heard the somber tone beneath the words that normally would have been laced with contempt or actuality. It had taken Watson a long time to perceive what lay beneath the layers that Holmes projected in front of others. Well, rather that Holmes let him see what lay underneath. It was a matter of trust, just as it was with any other sensible person, but trust to Sherlock Holmes was paramount. The detective didn't even flinch when Watson walked up to him by the window. He leaned his weight against the side of the window opposite Holmes, careful of his shoulder, which had been aching since the early morning. From that vantage point he began his silent study. And oddly enough, Holmes allowed it…or didn't care. Watson wasn't quite sure.
"Since when have you ever cared about what others think of you?" John asked.
No reaction. A long pause. He continued to stare out the window and fiddle with his pipe in his hands. Watson gritted his teeth in a moment's frustration and then let it pass away.
"Alright," he conceded. "Yes, Holmes, you are a mess of a human being. I could go through an endless list of traits, hobbies, habits, everything that makes you different from me, from those practical people on the streets…but I won't, Sherlock, because to do that would grossly understate the man that you are as a whole."
"Don't flatter me, Watson—"
"I'm only speaking the truth you dunce, now listen before I change my mind about this. You are a genius and you've proven that to me, time and time again, in all the years that we have known one another, through all the cases and events you've dragged me through. And out of it all you've done me the greatest service that any man could do to another."
Holmes was silent when Watson paused. The detective had finally turned his gaze on his old companion, and said companion fought hard not to squirm under the heated gaze. But Watson persevered, determined that before he leave this house all the issues for his part be laid bare.
"You saved me from myself," Watson admitted, straight-faced. "When all I had were nightmares from Maiwand and ghosts of a family to return to. I was an orphan in many ways and you opened your door. In some strange way, you reminded me of who I was, and who I wanted to be. It's because of you, old boy, that I am the one thing I feared I would never be after my service in Afghanistan. Happy. I am sorry, for the time that slipped by us. It's time that can't be taken back, but…we're here now. I'm here now because of the person that stands before me, a social outcast perhaps, but an exemplary example of a human being that I am proud to call…brother."
It wasn't an outright apology, but rather a pleading for one. Watson knew how pitiful it may have sounded but he was beyond caring. He trusted Holmes to get the hint. And, a moment later, Watson knew he did when Holmes looked away, clearing his throat, and blinking furiously. For a split second there was something in his eyes, and although it was short, it still brought a small smile to Watson's face.
"All these years," Holmes started, lighting his pipe. "And you still hold onto those silly notions of romanticism..."
Watson laughed, really laughed, this time. And a great smile burst forth on his face at the knowledge that with that simple statement, he'd been forgiven as well. "But you don't mind it."
"Perhaps not," Holmes said, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards.
"Lord knows how much stress and frustration that you cause me on a daily basis, but I did mean every word of it. You've taught me a great deal, old boy."
Holmes smirked, and for a brief moment his features warmed. He stuck the lit pipe in his mouth and sighed. "Too much it seems," he said, softly.
A quickly scrawled note lay on the counter that was littered with spots of flour and sugar. Caroline silently fumed as she wiped it clean, crumpled the note, and tossed it in the trash. After she was done she searched every cabinet and the pantry to take an internal inventory of what she was, now, to deal with for the next few months. A family emergency that required an indefinite span of absence…her arse.
Now it was also her job to buy the food and cook it. Mrs. Hudson would, no doubt, be furious when she returned. But that, thank God, wouldn't be any time soon. Should Caroline write to her? She did leave the address where she'd be staying in case Caroline had any questions. But that piece of information would surely cause her more distress than she deserved…at least from what she witnessed today. The poor woman deserved a reprieve. Caroline bit her lip and decided to keep it to herself for the time being.
The pantry door shut quietly. There was only enough food for about another day or so. She held her head in her hands, trying to stay calm. How was she supposed to do this? It was bad enough that she'd been thrown into an entirely unfamiliar household in a heavily urban environment she'd avoided for the past five years as an interim landlady when she had practically no knowledge of how to manage a tenant nor a household on her own. And now she was supposed to find the food markets on her own, purchase enough for the week on a budget…with her condition, and find her way back without getting mugged or killed?
The whole situation was completely ridiculous! Caroline started to giggle. Then she started to laugh outright before her throat started to spasm. As funny as it was, she clamped her mouth shut and forced herself to stop laughing before it started to hurt. After a few tense moments she sucked in air as her throat opened up again. Today it needed rest, and probably the day or the week after as well. She sighed, longing for the few days she had, every now and then, when she could actually speak full sentences without gasping for breath. But those days were coming fewer, after longer and longer spans of time of silence between. Her old fear of never being able to speak a single word or make a single sound ever again crept up. But she beat it back down with her father's smiling face. Raspy voice or not he would be beyond happy just to see her. And if she was good enough for him, then she was good enough for anyone else.
So she resolved herself to at least making an attempt at the markets today, while she had the time. Hopefully, she could be back before either men knew she was gone. As quietly as she could, she trudged upstairs, threw her satchel over her shoulder, stuffed some money into it, and snuck downstairs. She stopped at the front door and double-checked the presence of the house key. Then she threw a shawl over her shoulders and reached into her skirt pocket, grabbing a firm and comforting hold of a ring of sharp keys that she kept on her at all times. She fingered each one and found a few dull ones that would need sharpening soon. She latched onto the ring for a few seconds and kept it from making noise as she closed the door behind her as softly as possible. At least she wasn't completely defenseless…she was simply clueless.
"Just try to find something to do that doesn't involve maiming others or yourself," Watson continued.
"Now where's the fun in that," Holmes asked, sifting through his various discarded and failed experiments on his desk. Once he found what he'd been looking for he started across the room…towards his mirror. Watson smirked and glanced out the window, finding the red head of Ms. Collins rather easily. When he turned back Holmes back was still to him.
"I'm serious, Holmes. These moods you fall into does no one any service. You've driven the worry out of Mrs. Hudson, but you'll never beat down my resolve—"
"So stubborn," Holmes muttered, shrugging on his overcoat and hat. "Do calm yourself, mother hen, you've nothing to fear. Care for a walk?"
"No, thank you though. I should be getting home soon."
"Mmm, pity."
Watson grabbed his cane after shrugging on his coat. No doubt Mary would be climbing the walls with curiosity once he got home. He readjusted the pocket watch attached to his vest and watched the detective as he stowed away any evidence that he had used the little vanity. Watson paid it no mind, making for the door.
"Do, at least, make an effort with her, Holmes."
"Yes, yes," the detective said with a dismissive wave.
"And, Holmes?"
The detective spun around with an innocent smile, "Yes, old chap?"
"Don't bother using the stair window. I doubt she'll notice you walking out the front door," he said with a smile, before disappearing down the stairs.
Holmes frowned and his shoulders sagged. "Spoilsport."
My other extended fic is ending soon so after that is done I will be able to devote more time to this little sprout. Things will develop gradually between Caroline and Holmes for a little bit, so the main conflict won't come into play for a few chapters yet. For the beginning they'll be getting used to each other and hopefully not wanting to kill each other. Let the madness ENSUE!
More about Caroline's condition will be forthcoming once Holmes decides to let us all in. Maybe reviews will nudge him along...? I'm certainly not above bribery :)
-Rainsaber
