Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson's acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes' POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don't own them, just playing!

Observations of a Lodger

Professional Service

When one is in a profession such as mine, one expects that the occasional act of violence will be perpetrated against ones person. Expectation and preparation are two different things however, and had I known that there were four men waiting for me in that alley I would have thought about taking another route. Although I try to remain on guard at all times, there are occasions where my concentration is less than it could be, most often due to immersion in my ruminations about the matter at hand. It is a shocking oversight, and one that I have yet learned to correct, but when my mind is taken up with a problem my observation of the outside world can be less than perfect. Brother Mycroft had once suggested the purchase of a dog, preferably one that could be trained to defend me at such times. It is not a suggestion I will be acting upon.

As it was, one of the devilish quartet lurking in the alley had a knife, which unfortunately required stern application of my stick to dissuade him from using it, leading to a rather mixed state of affairs. I emerged from the unexpected yet brief melee knife free, but with an injured hand that increased in pain exponentially the further I travelled from that alley. My usual mastery of mind over body seemed to have deserted me, so I was in rather dire straits when I stumbled into our sitting room at five in the morning. There is apparently a direct correlation between the size of the extremity injured multiplied exponentially by the pain it causes when injured. Thought was quite impossible, as was speech.

The doctor was up, and finishing a cup of tea. From the state of him it appeared he'd had another night disturbed by the dreams of battle, and I vaguely recalled that he was to take an early set of rounds at the hospital this morning. In the weeks since he had been given an occupation he had become more of a presence in our shared rooms. His belongings were as neat as ever and he continued to suffer no small amount of discomfort from his war wounds, which I believe were exacerbated by the combination of cooling weather and work; however the man was making himself known through the unusual medium of notes.

I would go to pick up my violin, or pipe, or beaker and find a note anchored in some fashion to said item, which was sometimes aimed at reminding me of the last scolding my landlady had given me regarding said item. On most occasions the note pertained to his schedule, contained an apology for nocturnal or pre-dawn disturbance, or made some small request of me. When a response was required I took pleasure in secreting my reply in his pockets or the medical bag that he had acquired and stored under his rosewood desk. That he was so able to predict my habits was rather diverting. I had never before lived with someone who took an interest in my movements – not even my brother. It was not entirely unpleasant, as even the notes that could have been termed scolding contained a distinct tone of amusement in them. After some thought on the matter, I judged that amusement was far preferable to acrimony, bearing the mild teasing with the best of graces I could manage.

"Good heavens!" the breakfasting doctor exclaimed upon spying me leaning in the doorway. He stood quickly and I braced myself for either a tirade on the irregularity of a flatmate turning up in such a condition at such an odd hour, or a series of unwanted and noxious medical utterances. Either one would receive short shrift as I was in no mood for it. Therefore I was completely unprepared for the firm grip that latched itself to my person, the firm hand that guided me to our couch and seated me there, or the firm grip that curled around the wrist of my injured hand some countless moments later.

It took everything I had not to swing for the fellow, so unused as I was to being manhandled in such a manner without as much as a by-your-leave. He was lucky that I was so out of breath or he'd have been treated to a blistering lecture of the first water. As it was I had no time to decide which reaction to his surprisingly gentle and competent manhandling was more important.

In an instant he had assessed the injury to my hand, determined a course of treatment and enacted it, all without consulting with his patient; I was not even given the chance to inform him that I did not want anything to do with his medicines and strictures! He made a swift movement, there was a soft click and the pain in my hand vanished as if it had never existed. My rather startled breath was ignored, as was the sudden relaxation of my spine as he continued to examine my now blissfully pain free hand.

"Two fingers dislocated, abrasions to the knuckles and one broken nail," the doctor murmured, "Though it looks like you gave as good as you got."

"I did," I confirmed as a point of honour, and he chuckled rather inexplicably. He seemed to have produced bandages from thin air as he strapped my fingers together in a splint that I would remove as soon as his back was turned, and stood back moments later to survey his handy work.

"Anything else requiring attention?" he asked calmly, and inexplicably prepared a cup of tea for me when I shook my head. My bruises needed no attention or noxious medicines, and I took the tea with my good hand, moodily wondering how long I would have to forgo the pleasures of my violin. The doctor repacked his bag, put a plate of toast by my elbow and limped for the door.

"I'd recommend a warm bath with Epsom salts for the bruises, old chap," he opened the door to the landing, "And a day spent quietly."

"Unfortunately I have matters to attend to," I replied haughtily, in an attempt to discourage him from dispensing a long list of medical advice. Although, if this was an unfortunate taste of his medical prowess, I would have to re-evaluate my stance on doctors, at least in his case. Possibly.

"As you like," he replied peaceably, "I'll be back some time this afternoon. Good morning."

"Good morning," it would have been churlish to ignore him after his assistance of moments ago, and by habit I counted his steps down the stairs. He lingered in the hall for a moment, probably catching his breath, and then proceeded through the front door. I nibbled on a piece of toast for a moment and then drained my cup of tea, kicking off my shoes and contemplating the bandage around my fingers. It was most difficult to see where the bandages had been secured, and as it was my right hand I would risk losing a finger if I went at them with a knife…

It was not until Mrs Hudson arrived to inform me that she had drawn my bath and added the salts that I realised the doctor had paused to enlist our landlady's aid – a decidedly underhanded move that I had not anticipated. As a fellow professional in the field of mankind and his foibles I had no choice but to reluctantly acknowledge that in this particular round I had been bested by a master.

Practice apparently agreed with the veteran surgeon, and I could not deny that I felt like a new man once I had complied with his 'orders'; my estimation of him, him alone, in his chosen field rose considerably. This may well warrant further investigation.

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