Chapter Notes: Short chapter. I will let you decide if it was worth it.
I actually feel wrung out from writing this.
Absolutely no words!
Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard
Chapter Four
The Doctor's practice in Kensington was not what Lestrade was expecting.
He spent some time watching the clientele as they came in and out. There were some middle class families, that suited the neighbourhood, but the majority were of the lower class. There was one notable woman who had at least eight children , they were stair step ages with the youngest carried in her arms less than a year, and she was noteworthy because she was obviously pregnant..
Lestrade pursed his lips in disgust as he smoked another cigarette to add to the several littering the ground at his feet. He needed to talk to Doctor Watson, but he knew the conversation was not going to go in predictable channels. Watson was honourable and he would be kind, but if his mind was made up about his work at Scotland Yard, Lestrade had no chance of changing it. Lestrade sighed and leaned against the gas light now lit against the dusk, putting off the confrontation.
The Doctor's visitation hours ended a half an hour ago, but he had one patient who persisted, so Lestrade waited. Finally, the elderly woman was at the door, she talked in low tones with the Doctor as he assisted her down the stairs. He was coatless with his sleeves rolled up; she patted his arm lovingly as he flagged a cab for her. Lestrade had backed into the foggy shadows of an alleyway to watch her departure. Suddenly the cab left, its wake revealed Doctor Watson standing on the stoop, his arms crossed, and he was staring directly at Lestrade.
Lestrade chuckled and mashed his last cigarette out with his toe, crossing to the doctor. Watson, however, did not say a word as he turned and limped back up the stairs into his practice.
He seemed to have not only anticipated Lestrade's arrival, but to have already resigned himself to the inevitable conversation that would shortly take place. He led Lestrade past the entrance to his living quarters through the small, cosy waiting area, into his office.
Lestrade, having never visited the seat of Watson's business before, had to admit it was well suited to the man.
It was tasteful, not expensively so, but it was well appointed and had a military order, but the draperies and other touches showed a feminine hand. Lestrade could see that Mary Watson had been more than a supporter of her husband's endeavours, but a participant as well. The walls had the usual degrees, and certificates to set patients at ease, but there was only one other frame on the panelling. It was a framed note.
Lestrade realized that Doctor Watson was sitting on the edge of his desk, arms crossed casually waiting Lestrade out, as the man studied his surroundings. He knew Lestrade and his curiosity well it would appear. "Is this the actual note?" Lestrade inquired. Watson's face revealed no emotion as he nodded. "It is."
Watson seemed to have no timetable for this encounter; the man was entirely distant, as if he was saying. "This is your time Lestrade, impress me."
Lestrade had no idea how to proceed. This empty equanimity from Watson was setting him on edge. He wanted the man to give him some energy back, to let him know how to approach the matter. Watson's lifeless apathy was as intense as his railing would be.
"Will you let me know what you are thinking? This silence is crawling my nerves." Lestrade demanded. He knew he had given up any advantage he might have had in this battle of wills, but he would have lost anyway. No one could match Watson's will.
Watson sighed. He went over to a small washbasin and began to clean his hands. "What do you want me to think, Lestrade? What do you want me to say? What will get you out of my parlour and away from me?"
Lestrade felt stung by the man's words, but his instinct told him that there was something happening underneath those words. Something that needed to unearthed.
"You tell me, Watson. I'd sincerely like to know what is going on with you," he prodded. He hated to be so abrasive, but that was the only tact left him.
However, he did not anticipate the man's reaction.
"I'm tired, Lestrade. So tired I can barely function. Too tired to sleep, too exhausted to think, and so worn out that I often imagine I am becoming transparent. Wishing I were transparent, so then I could be a ghost, like I already feel I am."
Those words, spoken with the man's back to him, the set of his broad shoulders slumped in weariness. Lestrade was afraid to speak, frightened to even move. This man in front of him was not one for confession; to get this inner truth from him was a sign of a disturbing state of mind.
"I see him, Lestrade, in my dreams; I often feel he is still on this earth somewhere. I keep expecting him to show up in my office, whip off one of those dreadful disguises and ask me for a smoke. At times, I wonder if I am going quite mad. Other days, I wonder if I have been mad for some time and was not aware."
He turned, his hollowed out eyes piercing Lestrade. "Is this the sort of man you wish to work with? A man who might be better off in a dark room dosed with Laudanum?" (4)
Lestrade finally understood. He remained silent.
Watson wiped his hands on a towel tossing it into the basin in disgust. "I make no connections, Lestrade, I talk to no one, and I am more at home with a graveyard, with a corpse than I am with the living. The dead ask no inconvenient questions, they make no speculations or inquiries. They never ask how I am.
I cannot accept my weakness, but weak I am, so disgustingly feeble I can barely stomach myself. I help others; I assist in their health restoring them to strength, something I cannot do for myself. I have managed to keep my distance, so others would not know my fragility. I can no longer attend concerts, I weep at Mozart now...at Mozart!" he bellowed his fists came down on the washstand causing the basin to nearly tumble, but the porcelain vessels righted themselves.
His head rested against the mirror behind the basin, as if he could no longer find the strength to hold it erect. "You wished to know my state, now you do, I should appreciate it if you would leave now."
Lestrade knew that a better man would have a speech ready, have ready words to sooth to comfort, to restore, but he had none to share.
Watson was a man of dignity and integrity, but he was a man of pride who had just revealed his suffering in an effort to back Lestrade away. He obviously thought that Lestrade would be appalled and disgusted, but he did not know Lestrade as well as he thought.
Lestrade walked over to the man, he placed the credentials beside him on the washstand. "These belong to you, sir. I should like you to make yourself available for the difficult cases; we will of course bear in mind restraints due to your practice. The paymaster will work out an arrangement, but we will expect you to keep note of your own time."
He started for the door.
"Why are you doing this?" Watson called.
Lestrade turned to the man. "Have you ever wondered why Hopkins was the only officer from the Yard at Mary's service?"
Watson shook his head bewildered.
"We heard about the press and their behaviour towards you even as you grieved. Therefore, we endeavoured to cordon off the block for the service, so you could have your peace. It took most of the duty shift. Hopkins we sent as our representative because he knew Mary better than we, his wife was a friend."
Lestrade paused to let that sink in. "We take care of our own, Watson."
Watson seemed to absorb that information. "We will never speak of this conversation?"
Lestrade gave him a befuddled look. "To which conversation, are you referring?"
Watson chuckled.
Lestrade tipped his hat and left, he hailed a cab when he reached the street. As he headed for his own home, he realised that he felt better about himself than he had in a long time. He actually felt that he had done something right. That was not a feeling common to him.
Story Notes: Doctor John Watson is a strong man but if you add up all he suffered at this point in his life...somethings got to break. Even the strong branch must bend before the wind. I was surprised by his confession, it just started to come out when I was writing. I have rarely had a character this determined to do his own thing. I guess that should not come as a surprise!
(4) Check out the Watson angst in my profile!
