Precious Like Rubies
by Soledad
Note: Dr Haydock has been modelled after our old family doctor who'd died a few years ago, at the age of 82. No likeness to any TV-version here; I wanted to pay homage to a wonderful person I'd known half my life.
Some lines of description concerning St Mary Mead have been taken from the novels "The Murder at the Vicarage", "The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side" and "The Moving Finger", respectively, with small alterations to adapt them to modern times. Sherlock said his piece about the little old ladies in the unaired pilot.
Beta read by the most generous Linda Hoyland, whom I owe my never-ending gratitude.
Chapter 04 – First Impressions
John got off the local train at the station at St. Mary Mead, shouldered his small Army-issue duffel bag – he'd packed an overnight bag, just in case – and took an interested look around, leaning heavily on his cane. His psychosomatic limp had returned after Sherlock's death with a vengeance, and he now contemplated the logistics of finding his destination in an unknown village of unknown dimensions with a certain amount of dread.
Where should he begin?
He'd phoned Dr Haydock in advance and got some directions, of course, so he was quite sure he wouldn't get lost. Not very much anyway. Still, he wasn't looking forward to limping around an unknown place, asking complete strangers for further directions, drawing attention he really didn't want...
"Dr Watson? Dr John Watson?" a voice asked from behind him.
He turned around and saw a discretely greying, middle-aged man in an old-fashioned chauffeur's uniform, including a matching cap.
"My name's Roberts; I'm from Inch's Taxi Service," the man explained. "Dr Haydock asked me to pick you up. He thought it would be more comfortable for you than walking all the way."
The all the way phrase worried John for a moment about the possible fare – he was low on founds once again – but his concern proved unnecessary. The cab rolled slowly along what appeared to be the only actual street of the village, and the chauffeur – because calling Mr Roberts simply a driver or a cabbie would have been blasphemous – apparently considered it his duty to explain his passenger the sights of St Mary Mead… which, frankly, didn't seem too numerous.
"This is High Street; the only road of significance running through our village," he explained. "There's Mr Pretherick's office, should you need the solicitors; the butcher's, the new supermarket, the Blue Boar Pub and a few other shops that are more interesting for the ladies."
John nodded, thankfully but with little real interest. He'd have time enough to discover all the useful places in that street, should he actually choose to settle here.
"I saw a fine Victorian mansion a little further up from the railway station," he said. "What was that?"
The chauffeur knew at once what he meant, of course.
"Oh, that's Gossington Hall," he replied. "It used to be the home of Colonel Arthur Bantry – a rather pompous old gentleman, according to my predecessor, Mr Inch – and his wife, Mrs Dolly Bantry. When the colonel died of pneumonia, quite a few years ago, Mrs Bantry sold the estate but continues to live on there in the grounds, in the East Lodge… which is more than enough for an old lady who lives alone, I say; and a very nice place it is, too."
"What happened to the Hall?" John asked, more out of politeness than out of true curiosity.
"Well, it changed ownership once or twice," the chauffeur said with a shrug. "Before it got purchased by Miss Marina Gregg."
"The film star who died a few years ago?" John could still vaguely remember the great brouhaha centred on the 'tragic death of the once-famous diva on her country estate', as the press had put it. He'd been on home leave at the time and Harry, a great fan of Miss Gregg, was quite inconsolable. "It happened here?"
"Oh, yes," Mr Roberts said with deep satisfaction. "Gossington Hall has seen its fair share of murder and mystery, as I'm sure you'll get to hear about in great detail, Doctor. The people of St Mary Mead claim a certain ownership of all that excitement and glamour. After all, little else ever happens here."
John froze for a moment. That last statement had a disturbing similarity to what he'd said to Ella right before meeting Sherlock for the first time.
Nothing happens to me.
He'd come to realise what a dangerous statement that could be. There had been certainly more happening to him in the last three years than he'd bargained for. What was that old saying? Be careful what you wish for – you might get it? Yes, something like that. And he, John Watson, was the living proof for the truth of that warning.
"Who owns the Hall now?" he asked, more to distract himself from his own memories than for any other reason.
"Miss Gregg's husband gave it back to Mrs Bantry for free, can you imagine it?" the chauffeur shook his head in disbelief. "He didn't even give an explanation; just had the document made up and off he was, with his whole staff. Poor Mrs Bantry didn't have an idea what to do with the Hall; still doesn't have one, in fact. It's way too large for her alone, and her children don't want it. But since Miss Gregg had it modernised on the inside while keeping its general looks untouched, perhaps Mrs Bantry can find an investor who will turn it into a hotel or something. It does have its charm."
John didn't feel entitled to be the judge of that, as he hadn't seen the Hall for longer than a fleeting moment, so he wisely remained silent. In the meantime they reached the end of the short row of local shops, and he got a glimpse of an old, beautiful little church further away.
"The parish church, St Andrew's," the chauffeur commented proudly. "It's partly Anglo-Saxon, they say. The setting for the only wall-paintings to survive in their original place from the twelfth century. You should hear the Vicar rhapsodise about it; actually, you probably will. Mr Clement is a decent chap but always happy to show off our church to new people. And he knows what he's talking about, too. He's a very scholarly fellow… if a tad long-winded, if you catch my drift."
John translated the hidden meaning of the Vicar's pontificating being a little boring and suppressed a smile.
The cab then turned to the right into Vicarage Road, between the butcher's shop and a pretty little Georgian house that seemed to have stood empty for some time, pulled up in front of a fairly large cottage, surrounded by a somewhat unkempt garden and overshadowed by a shabby Victorian monstrosity that could only be the Vicarage.
"Here we are, Dr Watson," the chauffeur said, a little unnecessarily, while holding open the cab door for John with old-fashioned courtesy. John thanked him, paid his fare and limped up the narrow path leading up to the house to ring the bell.
A muffled voice from within asked him to wait for a moment, and while he was waiting, he spotted a fragile, bird-like old lady with snow white hair (which she wore in a simple twist, pinned to the back of her head) and remarkably erect carriage working in her garden. At least she made half-hearted attempts to pull out some weeds, while her eyes, intelligent, observant and bright with curiosity, were fixed on John.
A little further down the lane separating the two houses, another old lady was sitting in a wheelchair, with an anaemic, frighteningly thin woman with a ghostly pale face buzzing around her like an excited bee. A live-in nurse perhaps, judging by her economic, practical movements; or some devoted relative with plenty of practice.
"Sizing up my clientele already, Dr Watson?" an amused voice said behind him and, turning around, John found himself face to face with Dr Gerard Haydock.
For some reason he'd half-expected to find some large, beefy, red-faced country doctor here. One who'd grown fat and content in his comfortable environment and had little interest in anything else. Somebody a bit like Mike Stamford, only twice as old.
The man, however, who shook his hand enthusiastically and ushered him into the house, couldn't possibly be more different from Mike if he tried.
To begin with, he wasn't particularly tall. He couldn't have more than a couple of inches on John; and like John, he possessed ample wiry strength, despite his age. An age that didn't seem to have lessened his mobility, which would have put a man of half his years to shame. He had a broad, friendly, barely lined face, crowned by a full head of short, curly white hair. His eyes were hazel and alive with curiosity and amusement.
One couldn't doubt for a moment that Dr Haydock still enjoyed life very much.
"I hope you don't mind if we go directly to the dining-room," he said apologetically. "It's almost lunchtime, and my housekeeper always gets cranky if I let the food go cold. In these days, when only the obscenely rich can afford live-in personnel, one has to keep such skilled helpers happy. I ordered lunch for two, if that's all right with you."
John had nothing against a cooked meal for lunch – it was something he could rarely afford – and soon they were sitting down to a steaming plate of bacon, eggs, roasted tomatoes, baked beans, grilled sausages, toast and even more mouth-watering stuff that would otherwise be considered as every possible ingredient of a full English breakfast. Small home-made pastries and fresh fruit completed a perfectly balanced meal.
"I find that I no longer can start the day with a heavy breakfast," Dr Haydock explained, "So I only wat toast, butter and jam with my breakfast tea. Around noon, however, I usually get fairly peckish and need the calories to get through the rest of the day. And it's better than having a big dinner any time."
John agreed that it might be easier on the stomach that way. (Digestion slows me down, Sherlock's declaration echoed in his mind, causing his chest to tighten painfully), and the two doctors dug into their lunch with gusto under the watchful eye of Mrs Jones, Dr Haydock's housekeeper. She was an attractive though somewhat intimidating black woman in her sixties with the bearing of a strict school matron, so John refrained from asking if there would be any beer in the house.
He could always visit the local pub later, what was its name? The Blue Boar the chauffeur called it.
"So, the two old ladies in the garden; are they both your patients?" he asked his fellow doctor instead.
Dr. Haydock nodded. "And they're likely to remain mine till the bitter end, too. Miss Wetherby – the one in the wheelchair, although she can walk short distances with the help of a cane if she has to – already declared herself too old to get used to a new doctor, and I'm afraid her friends will follow suit."
"Kinda hard to get yourself a new partner if your patients won't accept anyone," John commented with slight disappointment.
What little he'd seen from the bucolic little village he already liked and was looking forward to doing some more in-depth exploring.
Dr Haydock waved off his concern. "Oh, don't worry about that. The old ladies are a diminishing species; the main part of the work takes place at the Development; that's how we call the new housing estate… well, not that new anymore, seeing as it's been built half a century ago, just compared with the rest of the village. Lots of families live there, and in what was once the Old Hall, many of them have reached the second or third generation already, with small children – house calls can be exhausting there, and I don't really feel up to that any longer."
"Which is why you need a partner," John said. It wasn't a question, not really.
"Which is why I need a partner," Dr Haydock agreed. "One who answers the house calls for me and takes over half of my consulting hours. I'm not a young man, Dr Watson, and I'd like to slow down a little; to have some time to visit my sons and grandchildren; to read undisturbed in the evening, or watch a film on the telly, or just sit around in the Blue Boar and chat with what friends are still there – things I always wanted to do. I want to enjoy myself before I get too old and doddery to do so."
Looking at the tanned, animated, bright-eyed face of the old doctor, John somehow doubted that that time would ever come – or, at least, any time soon.
"And you think I'd fit in?" he asked doubtfully.
Dr Haydock shrugged. "I've checked your credentials; you may be a little over-qualified for the job but Dr Stamford assures me that you're capable and versatile, and I know him well enough to trust his judgement."
"Mike's a decent chap," John smiled tiredly. "Although he can be a bit too energetic in his efforts to help people."
"He means well," Dr Haydock grinned. "And I for my part appreciate his efforts."
"So do I," John admitted. "I'm just not sure he's right in this particular case," he gave his own leg a disgusted look. "You know, my leg… I'm not sure I'll be up to running circles around the village; and cycling is out of question, too."
"Perhaps all you need is the right motivation," Dr Haydock suggested gently. "Your limp is psychosomatic, after all, isn't it?"
John stiffened in his chair and gave the other doctor a narrow-eyed glare. "How would you know that?"
"I've read that… what's it called again?... that blog of yours," Dr Haydock confessed; then, seeing John's thunderous expression, he raised a placating hand. "Please, calm down. Dr Stamford directed me to it, saying that I'd learn the most important things about you from it, without you having to talk about the painful events that made you want to leave London in the first place. I thought it was a practical solution."
John deflated, realising that Dr Haydock was right. The older doctor needed to know to whom he was offering a potential partnership, and it wasn't as if John would have been able to discuss either the war or his time with Sherlock in the near future – if ever.
Besides, he'd put all that stuff up to the internet publicly, for anyone to read it, hadn't he? He couldn't really blame people for actually doing so.
Still, knowing that his life had become an open book for Dr Haydock before they had even met was somewhat unsettling.
"I was hoping to escape all that stuff," he muttered. "That was the whole point of moving out of London."
That, and the small matter that he couldn't afford 221B on his own and would rather die before accepting any help from Mycroft-bloody-Holmes. But he wasn't about to discuss the finer points of his decision with a man he'd just met.
Not even though he was seriously considering entering a partnership with said man.
"You can still do so," Dr Haydock said. "I haven't told a soul about these things; nor have I mentioned the existence of your blog. All my patients know is that you've been suggested by Dr Stamford – which would work to your advantage. People really liked Dr Stamford."
John could easily imagine that. Mike Stamford was eminently likeable. Like some oversized, clean-scrubbed toddler of rosy health and an amiable disposition. Especially old ladies liked that sort of doctor and trusted them almost instinctively.
Which meant, of course, that John would have to work hard to get accepted. He definitely wasn't the same type.
"Of course," Dr Haydock added, grinning, "you'll be the centre of village gossip for the next couple of months anyway. Within days, the whole St. Mary Mead will know where exactly you keep your toothbrush and what kind of product you put in your hair. And if, what God forbid, you change your aftershave, it will be a topic of conversation for weeks to come."
"Good Lord!" John laughed incredulously. "People really care for such things? Afternoon tea gatherings must be a riot here."
"Oh, yes," Dr Haydock answered with an emphatic nod. "You must understand them, though; nothing exciting ever happens here… save for the occasional murder in the most unexpected places, but that sort of thing is exceptionally rare. People need a hobby in a small village like ours."
Again, his own statement from three years previously echoed in John's mind: Nothing happens to me.
A most dangerous statement indeed, he reminded himself once again. One should be very careful what one wishes for – one might get it.
"Didn't they have the telly here?" he groused. "That would provide them with enough scandal, I'd think."
"Oh, but that's not half as interesting as what happens right in front of one's doorstep," Dr Haydock smiled faintly. "Who cares about a film star having a love affair with a young male model thirty years her junior when one can discuss the fact that the shop girl from the draper's has been seen in Much Benham with the fishmonger's assistant, although that young man is engaged to Janet, the girl working for Mrs Jamieson, the hairdresser's…"
John shuddered. "It sounds worse than the tabloids!"
"Oh no, not really," Dr Haydock reassured him. "They're not really malevolent, you know… just very, very curious. Our Vicar, Mr Clement, likes to say that the old ladies of St Mary Mead probably eat their meals standing up by the windows to be sure of not missing anything that happens in their neighbourhood."
All of a sudden, John had one of those déjá vu moments again. Moments when he would relive short scenes in Sherlock's company with almost painful clarity. He could see before his mind's eye the two of them, sitting in Angelo's, watching for a sign for the serial killer in the pink lady's case, and heard the deep, beautiful voice of Sherlock saying:
Lauriston Gardens, did you see it? Twitching curtains, little old ladies… Little old ladies, they're my favourite. Better than any security cameras.
"You mean like the two I passed on my way here?" he asked. "But surely, they cannot be that observant! One of them is at least a hundred, the other one sitting in a wheelchair!"
Dr Haydock gave him a pitying look.
"My dear colleague, you should never underestimate the detective instinct of village life," he said. "If you do indeed choose to settle here, be prepared that everyone in St Mary Mead will know your most intimate affairs. There's no detective in England equal to a single lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands."
"That," John declared, "is positively frightening."
He began to question the soundness of the mere idea of moving into such a place. Living with Mycroft's constant surveillance had been bad enough. The press beleaguering 221B during and after the Moriarty scandal had been worse. Much worse. He wasn't sure he could live under such circumstances again. All he wanted – all he needed – was some peace and quiet, and yet not even such a sleepy little village seemed to offer exactly that.
Perhaps going abroad would be a better solution. Working for the Médicines Sans Frontiers or something like that. Preferably in some bush hospital with no phone access.
As if reading his thoughts, Dr Haydock smiled again.
"There's no need to worry," he said. "They aren't really interested in your past. They'd be curious about what you're doing now, on a daily basis: the toothpaste you prefer; how you take your coffee; if you own a decent tea set… that sort of thing. The older generation is quite unique in this matter. And once they've accepted you, they'll be loyal to a fault. That's how they were raised and that's what they stick to. It's a second nature to them."
"Are you sure they will accept me?" John asked. "I'm not Mike Stamford to charm them out of their reserve in no time."
"Oh, I think you'll do just fine," Dr Haydock grinned. "You have this open, honest, down-to-Earth air about you; they'll love it. The fact that you were a soldier will help, too. Our ladies are old-fashioned enough to be drawn to retired officers."
That outrageous statement made John laugh. "Oh, c'me on, I really don't look suitably heroic for that!"
"Never say nay," Dr Haydock deadpanned; then he turned serious for real. "Well, what do you think, Watson? Could this be the place for you?"
"Perhaps," John conceded reluctantly. "For a while anyway. I'm not used to village life, to tell the truth. Have been a city boy all my life. But I might give it a try."
"Then consider this," Dr Haydock said. "Neither of my sons chose to follow me into medicine. Once I'm gone (and let's face it, it's only a matter of time, I'm beyond eighty already), somebody will have to take over for me. I'd let go easier if I knew that somebody; if I'd introduced them to the practice and the patients myself."
That made sense from the old doctor's point of view, of course, but John had a hard time to imagine himself as a country doctor for life. He'd die from sheer boredom after a few years. Still, for the time being it seemed a good place for lying low and licking his wounds.
Perhaps he could even talk Harry into spending some time here. Try to get her away from the bottle after her recent relapse again. Much less temptation here. Not permanently, of course – they'd kill each other if forced to live under the same roof for too long – but from time to time it couldn't hurt. Not much.
"I can try," he finally said. "But I cannot promise that it would work."
Dr Haydock nodded in understanding.
"None of us ever can. I'm relieved all the same, even if it turns out as a temporary arrangement only," he paused; then he added eagerly. "When, do you think, could you start?"
John shrugged. "Any time you want. I'm between jobs right now, and the sooner I can get out of London the better for me. However, there are a few things I need to take care of first. And, of course, I'll need a place to live here. Mike said something about empty houses I could perhaps rent…"
"I can help you with that," Dr Haydock reached for his phone and scrolled down the saved numbers until he found the right one. His call was picked up almost immediately.
"This is Dr Haydock. Is Mr Pretherick available this afternoon? Yes, it's about those cottages up for renting. Three p.m, you say? Excellent. Yes, I'll come over with him. If you could prepare the documents in advance… Yes, thank you."
He hung up and smiled at John contentedly.
"That was Miss Costello, Mr Pretherick junior's secretary," he said. "A very competent young woman. Has a good head on her shoulders and skilled with those fancy computers. Quite pretty, too, if you're into the exotic, oriental type. Her grandparents on her mother's side came from India, and her father was Italian, I think."
John laughed. "For God's sake, Haydock, I'm looking for a house, not for a date!"
"Not yet perhaps," the older doctor winked at him. "But it never hurts to know who's available. Now, they're expecting us at the solicitor's office within the hour. Should we give that leg of yours some exercise?"
John had nothing against a little walk as long as they took it easy. He said so, and the two of them left Dr Haydock's house, being watched by the old ladies from the other side of the lane with unabashed curiosity.
"I think you're wrong about them eating at the window," John commented. "They must be eating in their gardens; or living off thin air. I doubt either of them has left her surveillance post for a moment since I arrived."
"You're probably right," Dr Haydock agreed, nodding jovially to the fluffy, white-haired old lady wrestling with the dandelions in the nearest garden. "Good afternoon, Miss Marple. Have I not told you to leave the weeding to your gardener? You're not supposed to do such hard work, you know!"
"Oh, I'm not doing all that much," the old lady replied in obvious frustration. "And it shows, too. That horrible old Leycock never does things the way I ask him to do." She turned her bright, intelligent eyes to John. "You should have seen my garden while I still had the strength to do all the work myself, Dr Watson. It was a thing of beauty… not such a dreary patch as it is now."
John gave the small garden with its myriad flowers a second look and found it hard to imagine that it had been even more beautiful, no matter how long ago. He voiced his opinion, and Miss Marple actually blushed like a schoolgirl who'd been given an unexpected component.
"That's very kind of you, Dr Watson, but compared with what it once looked like, it's really disappointing these days."
"I see you've already done some snooping around, Miss Marple," Dr Haydock commented good-naturedly before John could have started wondering how on Earth the old lady had learned his name.
"Oh, no, Dr Haydock, I really didn't have to do anything," Miss Marple protested. "Cherry, that's my housekeeper," she added for John, "just came back from the post office where she happened to run into Mr Roberts from the cab service, you know…"
"… and since she also met Miss Wetherby's nurse, the entire village knows by now that Dr Watson arrived," Dr Haydock finished for her.
Miss Marple looked at him in a gentle, appealing manner.
"We're all so very glad that you've finally got some help, Dr Haydock," she said. "You're going to Mr Pretherick's now to see what accommodations are available, I presume?"
Dr Haydock shook his head in tolerant amusement. "Nothing gets past you, Miss Marple, is that right?"
"Not much," the old lady confessed with an almost embarrassed little smile; which she then turned on John. "Welcome to St Mary Mead, Dr Watson. I hope you'll like it here."
"A very nice little lady," John commented when they got out of Miss Marple's earshot – hopefully! – and walked leisurely up the Old Pasture Lane towards High Street.
Dr Haydock nodded.
"That she is. Very kind, very proper, always well-mannered – the textbook old lady, in fact. Unlike Miss Wetherby, God bless her, who's made of vinegar and gush," he paused before adding soberly. "Of course, Miss Marple is the much more dangerous of the two of them."
"That's hard to imagine," John said. Despite the total lack of physical resemblance, Miss Marple did remind him of Mrs Hudson a bit. Of course, Mrs Hudson wasn't quite the silly old lady she liked to play, either.
"Oh, but she is," Dr Haydock replied with feeling. "Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is her perfect smoke screen, even though she can't really do much of it herself; and her hobby of observing birds through powerful glasses comes in handy when she wants to gather information."
"Still, she can't be everywhere at the same time," John pointed out.
"No, but as you've just heard, she's got the perfect information network," Dr Haydock said. "They watch and listen for her where she cannot be present in person. A good thing that she's so charming, or she'd scare me out of my wits – even though I've known her for decades," he added, laughing, as they turned to the left at the butcher's shop and onto High Street.
St Mary Mead had a rather charming High Street, John decided, eyeing the dignified old houses that were set flat back, with their ground floor windows displaying buns or vegetables or fruit. As they slowly walked up to the solicitor's office, he spotted a long, straggling draper's shop called Langdon's, according to the sign above the entrance; one that obviously sold all sorts of wool for knitting and crocheting and belonged to a Mrs Wisley, whoever she might be; an old-fashioned chemist's shop with wooden cabinets that had to be at least two hundred years old and from afar – opposite the pretentious post office – the simple yet beautiful little church again.
The glittering new supermarket with its sliding doors at the other end of the street was quite the contrast, though.
Dr Haydock followed his glance and smiled.
"Not even St Mary Mead can remain unchanged forever, although we do our best," he said. "When some of the shops changed hands here, modernisation was immediate… and sometimes a little intemperate, I'm afraid. Our old ladies never truly forgave the fishmonger for the new, larger shop window with all the frozen fish glaring back at them from within; and you should hear them complain about the supermarket. Actually, you probably will, as soon as you run into Miss Hartnell for the first time. She's very good at pouncing upon people in a heavy and cumbrous way; and she loves to complain just about everything. Well, here we are."
The office of the solicitors Pretherick & Son stood opposite the chemist's shop, situated in a well tended-to, two-storey house. Apparently, the ground floor housed the office itself, while the family lived upstairs, their rooms accessible both through the office staircase or directly through a side entrance.
The outer office was the very image of business-like efficiency. Right next to the entrance stood the desk of the trainee lawyer, equipped with an old-fashioned computer desktop, while the computer itself was presumably hidden under the desk. Behind it sat a young, blond man in his mid-twenties, immaculately clad in a three-piece black suit with a pale blue shirt and a chequered red tie.
The suit, though fitted, was clearly a Marks & Spencer model, and one on the cheaper side, too. Two years of association with Sherlock and Mycroft, both peacocks in their own respective manner, had schooled John's eye for quality clothing – or the lack thereof.
Nonetheless, even if the young man didn't have the money for expensive suits, he looked neat and tidy in his modest way; even had a gold tiepin fixing his tie (or rather gilded silver, considering his possible financial state), and while his shirt wasn't custom-made, it was crisply fresh, even in the afternoon, with every single hair on his handsome head in perfect order.
He greeted Dr Haydock with the easy familiarity of a long acquaintance and the doctor answered in kind, making the necessary introductions.
"Dr Watson – Idris Hopper, Mr Pretherick's trainee lawyer. Idris, this is Dr John Watson. He'll work with me in the practice for a while; hopefully for a long while."
Idris Hopper shook hands with John politely – he had surprisingly soft hands but a firm grip – and gave him a look of more than just professional interest, seizing him up from head to toe. John backed off a step instinctively. This wasn't the first time that gay men had made a pass at him – apparently, being small and compact was appealing to some of them – but it had never been done so blatantly.
"Idris, subtlety!" the woman behind the desk next to the door leading to Mr Pretherick's inner office said warningly, and the young man shrank into himself immediately with an ashamed expression on his face. He couldn't have been out for long.
Johns took a look at his rescuer. She, too, was fairly young, presumably in her early thirties, willowy with olive skin and an unruly mass of dark brown curls that she wore in a haphazard French twist on the nape of her long neck. Her thin, almost angular face was fine-boned yet strong-featured – too sharp and bitter to be conventionally pretty yet of some underlying, almost tragic beauty. It was dominated by a pair of large, almond-shaped brown eyes.
There could be no doubt that this was Miss Costello of whom Dr Haydock had spoken in such high tones.
She, like Idris, was immaculately clad, in a charcoal-grey costume with a comfortable full skirt and a cream-coloured blouse that looked like silk but probably wasn't. A pair of those gold-rimmed half-glasses, suited for reading or writing only, that had come into fashion a few years previously, was perched on the end of her slightly long nose as she was typing away on her keyboard with impressive speed and panache, without even looking at the computer screen.
She glanced at Dr Haydock over the rim of her glasses and stooped for a moment to announce their arrival on the office phone.
"Mr Pretherick will be free for you in a moment, Doctor," she then said before resuming her typing. "He's with another client right now. Please have a seat in the meantime. Can I bring you a coffee? Or a drink of water perhaps?"
"Thank you, Suzie, but we're fine for the moment," Dr Haydock replied with the same easy familiarity he'd spoken to young Idris Hopper with.
He probably delivered them both, considering how long he's lived here, John thought with mild amusement, choosing a comfortable-looking chair and bracing himself for a long wait.
Fortunately, the waiting proved much shorter than expected. About ten minutes (or even less) later the door to the inner office swung open and out strolled a man in a long grey coat, which John recognised as a World War II Royal Air Force greatcoat. With a captain's strips on the sleeve, no less!
On anyone else, such a pretentious piece of period clothing would have looked ridiculous. This man, though, had the height and the breadth to wear it; and to wear it well. He was six foot two at the very least, broad-shouldered, wide-chested and with boyish good looks, although he was about John's own age.
An age that would clash horribly with his spiky hair on anyone else. On him, it looked attractive. He had very bright, intensely blue eyes, a cleft chin and a wide, blinding smile that revealed twice as many perfectly even white teeth than any man should have legally owned.
Like young Idris before, he seized up John with one brilliant blue glance. This time, however, John felt flattered rather than uncomfortable, for in his interest was nothing calculating.
He was simply interested. Period.
"Why hello," he said with a wide smile and an accent that was a curious mix of American and Scottish. "I don't think we've met before; I'm sure I'd remember," he stretched out a big hand in John's direction. "Captain Jack Harkness, formerly US Air Force, nowadays with Torchwood Airlines."
"Captain John Watson, formerly with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John replied with a wicked grin, shaking the proffered hand and enjoying the pilot's surprise. He loved confronting people, who often underestimated him because of his short stature, with his military past.
He could almost hear young Idris Hopper deflate behind his back like a punctured balloon. The boy clearly didn't feel up to the challenge of dating an ex-soldier. Thanks God for small blessings. John, for his part, was sick and tired of explaining people that he wasn't actually gay.
Captain Harkness, on the other hand, seemed delighted to find a fellow soldier willing to move to St Mary Mead. He extracted the promise from John that they'd meet at the Blue Boar for a pint or two eventually – and then left in high spirits.
"Captain Harkness came to live in St Mary Mead just six months ago," Dr Haydock explained while Miss Costello showed them into Mr Pretherick's inner office. "He's not often here, though, as he flies long-distance routes – to Southern Asia, mostly – and hasn't found many friends yet. There haven't been men like him living here so far."
John could certainly understand such a rootless existence. Captain Harkness had, for all his cheerful, flirtatious manners, that hidden steel in his eyes only that men who'd seen real battle possessed. Getting used to civilian life again, even if he'd been lucky enough to keep his job as a pilot, couldn't have been easy.
Perhaps socialising with a fellow ex-soldier wouldn't so bad, after all. There were things no civilian could really understand; and besides, they didn't need to become bosom buddies. A pint or two and someone to talk to would suffice.
The inner office of Mr Pretherick had the agreeable mustiness of a long-established legal firm. Vast numbers of deed boxes labelled "Lady Edith Sheldon-West", "Col. Aug. Abbington", Mrs Estelle Protheroe, Deceased", etc., gave the required atmosphere of decorous country families and a legitimate, long-established business, although the more recent data was doubtlessly being stored digitally like everywhere else.
John had the odd feeling as if he'd stepped onto the set of a film taking place between the two world wars.
Mr Pretherick junior matched his environment perfectly. He was a man of middle height and middle age, with thinning straw blond hair and dull grey eyes; the very image of calm responsibility in his pin-striped three-piece suit that was of much better quality than the one worn by his young trainee lawyer. Not exactly Saville Row, but not mass produced, either, and the gold chain threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat belonged to a vintage pocket watch by the look of it; most likely inherited from his father or grandfather.
He was entirely unremarkable, the sort of man who'd never give a wife – if he had a wife at all; he wasn't wearing a wedding ring – a moment of anxiety. He had a long neck with a pronounced Adam's apple, a colourless, somewhat cadaverous face and a long, thin nose. Nonetheless, there was sharp intelligence behind those seemingly dull eyes, and he spoke clearly and slowly, with much common sense and shrewd acumen.
He'd also clearly found the time to prepare himself for their visit because several manila folders containing the documents of available cottages in St Mary Mead were already lying on his desk.
Several – which meant actually two.
"I understand that you're only planning to rent something for the time being, Dr Watson," he said, "and as you currently have no other income than your Army pension, I selected the only properties you'd be able to afford under the circumstances. You can always find something else once you've established yourself as Dr Haydock's partner."
John shot him a suspicious look. "What would you know about my financial status?"
"We've checked your background on Dr Haydock's request, of course, when you were suggested to him," the lawyer said with a thin smile that reminded John eerily of Mycroft. "Please don't be offended, Dr Watson. This is standard procedure when a partnership is considered – and quite legal, I assure you."
John nodded, inwardly cursing his knee-jerk reaction to any potential assault on his privacy. He knew this was standard procedure; he'd just become deeply suspicious towards any intrusion into his affairs, legal or otherwise. He supposed that this, too, was Mycroft's fault; and of those bloody surveillance cameras of his.
"I understand," he said. "So, what have you got for me?"
"Two rather similar cottages, on the opposite sides of the meadow beyond the Vicarage," Mr Pretherick opened the folders and selected a few photos of each property. "Both are more than large enough for a man living alone and both are accessible directly from High Street."
He handed the photo of the charming little Georgian house John had passed with the taxi over to him.
"Little Gates, which is somewhat bigger and in a better shape, faces Dr Haydock's house from the other side than Old Pasture Lane, while the other one," he handed over another photo, "Mr Redding's Cottage, stands at the same height as the station, surrounded by a larger garden, facing away from High Street."
"What about the rent?" John asked, a little anxiously. At first sight both cottages would do, but it always came down to the money.
"You should be able to afford either place," the lawyer assured him. "The rent is fairly low for both, as the original owners died decades ago and the properties have been entrusted into the care of our firm. Both could do with some redecoration and a thorough paint job, but the plumbing is in a good shape and the heating works in both places. So if you're not bothered by outdated wallpapers and somewhat wacky furniture you can move in at once."
John thought at the fairly hideous wallpaper in the living room of 221B and suppressed a sigh. Given Mrs Hudson's alarming taste in flat decoration, especially her inordinate fondness for the colour purple – not to mention Sherlock's tendencies to shoot or spray-paint the walls and put up skulls or pictures of skulls everywhere – there was very little in the area that could really shock him. He said so.
"I'd like to take a look at the houses first, though, before I'd choose one," he then added.
"Of course, of course," Mr Pretherick agreed. "Miss Costello will give you the keys. You can simply bring them back when you're finished, any time during office hours."
John presumed that there wasn't much left worth stealing in either house if the lawyer would let him keep the keys overnight, but thanked Mr Pretherick nevertheless. Then they left with the promise to return a day or two later to finalise the deal.
For the first time in almost a year John was actually looking forward to the next day. A place to call home sounded nice.
~TBC~
