Baker Street
John stepped down from the carriage carefully. He was healing well, regaining most of the strength in his leg, but it still sometimes weakened unpredictably. His shoulder wound had healed better, despite the infection, but John attributed that to the time spent in sickbed. He was certain that with regular walks, he would continue to improve.
He swung the door knocker after assuring himself this was the right address given him. A young man opened the door, affecting a staid and proper aspect.
"Doctor John Watson for Mr. Sherlock Holmes." John offered his card forward. The young man received it and nodded to someone just inside. Another footman emerged to lift his trunk down. John was ushered inside.
"Yes, sir, of course. Mr. Holmes told us to expect you. We will bring your belongings upstairs. You may take tea in the downstairs sitting room, if you wish, or follow Alfred upstairs to take a rest."
"I believe I will have tea." Tea was good, tea was calming, tea was every single day. It was the last vestige of normal in John's life. Even at war, there was tea (though its authenticity was often questionable).
"Very good, sir." The footman showed John into the sitting room, where he made himself comfortable. He wondered when Sherlock would make his appearance, whether he was even at home. While he waited, he had far too much time to examine his own choices and behavior. What was he doing here, preparing to play lover for some stranger for the promise of money? What guarantee, besides the promise of an unfamiliar man, did he have that he'd receive the money he needed? And even if he found himself able to pay, he would still be trusting that the faceless, nameless criminal would do as he promised and turn over the incriminating letters.
John tried to calm his thoughts, reasoning with himself. He had Mr. Holmes' IOU in his pocket, a luxurious roof over his head for the next few weeks, and the freedom to explore the most sinfully titillating appetites this man inspired. His situation was little more precarious than it had been the day before when he'd struggled to win steadily against the odds. Maybe for once, the odds were in his favor.
He ought to enjoy it, for what did he have to return to after the month was up? A mouldy room with a snippy landlady who constantly harped on the fact that John returned to his room quite late at night? He couldn't return to the estate house as it was let for the year. His sister Harriet had been living with her godmother since their father's death and would do so until the wedding but their mother's friend had expected John to take his own lodgings after his recovery. Soon, Harriet would marry and be safely away on her honeymoon trip, and he would have only the most distant family and tenuous connections and few of either in London.
John listed the good that could, that would, come of this. Harriet had a welcoming home until the wedding; John would have the money by the extorter's deadline and ensure his sister's happy marriage. John would find a job more easily as another month of rest and recuperation would surely benefit his limp and could begin to consider his own future. He may even meet someone in true need of a personal physician through Mr. Holmes, or at least be able to search for a position at a hospital. All this for a spending a month of his life with Sherlock Holmes. A month may go by quite easily, if he could quiet his conscience and assuage his shame. And surely Holmes would not need him every moment of the day; there would be plenty of time for him to make inquiries of acquaintances and colleagues.
John was hopelessly optimistic about their future intimate relations; their kisses in the office of the Diogenes Club made his blood run hot in simple remembrance. John hadn't quite placed the man at first, but he'd finally recalled seeing him at Gentleman Jackson's Saloon, stripped to his linen shirt, lean and rangy with a roguish air. John had smiled at him; perhaps the first spark between them was already there. If he hadn't already been apprised of the blackmail, he might have considered that Sherlock Holmes had masterminded the whole plan just to trap John into his bed. Of course, in the way of novels, a few flirtatious winks and honeyed words would be too simple for a brilliant and jaded protagonist. He would have to play an elaborate game to win his conquests.
If he had, John mused, he was flattered in a twisted way. It would be a lot of trouble to go through to seduce a retired army surgeon who hobbled around London on a cane. He may have succumbed to a simple flirtation if his pride hadn't overruled his loins.
John read too many novels during his convalescence.
The tea arrived, but Sherlock Holmes did not. The footman acting as butler bade him to feel free to use the library as he pleased, and John spent a pleasant afternoon being astounded by the vast collection of sciences and philosophies. Dinner was served informally, but there was still no sign of the man himself.
After dinner, the servant offered John a bath, and he was properly ensnared by what awaited him. The tub was ridiculously luxurious and large enough to recline in. The rising steam was scented with something subtle and masculine, spicy and foreign and was hot enough to soften his whiskers. John washed and relaxed in the water until his fingers and toes wrinkled. To John's amazement, when he was finished, the water drained away through pipes installed in the townhouse walls.
He'd never felt so pampered before. But as soon as the word fluttered into John's head, he stopped enjoying it so much. Of course he was being pampered. He was essentially a rich man's mistress, being tempted and seduced by luxury and wealth, only to ease the master's way into his bed. The realistic side of John wanted to keep enjoying it; at least Sherlock Holmes was interested enough to make the effort rather than just demanding John submit.
The footman helped John into a silk robe once he'd dried off and showed him into the adjoining bedroom. It was elegant and pristine in appearance, but somehow cold and impersonal. John wondered if it was Sherlock's or if it was a guest room. Surely such a fine bath-room would be adjoined to the master's bedroom; however, there were no mementos, no trinkets. He explored a bit. A tall wardrobe did contain clothing, neatly pressed and folded shirts and waistcoats, with drawers of various neck cloths and smallclothes. The desk near the window had paper and ink set out for use, but all the little drawers and cubbies were locked. Still, John did not feel entirely confident that Sherlock Holmes actually slept here. He moved to the bed, piled high with down pillows and what had to be the most expensive sheets he'd ever lain upon.
Most people found they couldn't sleep in the face of anxiety. But John had been to war, had needed to sleep whenever and wherever he could. All the terror for his life was nothing when faced with sheer exhaustion. As it was, he only had uncertainty for what might happen that night, or the next, or the twenty-eight after that. That uncertainty, coupled with his stress and worry for his sister could be boxed up and shoved underneath this magnificent bed fit for the King. John Watson threw his robe over the end of the bed, huddled under the covers and fell straight to sleep.