Disclaimer – I'm still not Conan Doyle (although I may be the tooth fairy… or perhaps not…)
I own Sweetie though…
Observations of a Boswell
The Scar
I was not displeased to see several familiar faces as we reached the section of offices that the Inspectors used and was even more pleased to see my dear friend so warmly greeted. In my absence Watson had become a Police Surgeon for the Yard, something that I approved of to some degree; it remained to be seen how beneficial this arrangement would be to our agency, or to what degree it would hamper him from joining me in my work. I was determined that he would rejoin me – three years of his absence was long enough: I would have my Watson at my side again or know the reason why.
Lestrade and Hopkins took charge of the air rifle, though Hopkins was more interested in speaking to me it seemed, than examining the weapon. In the end, several of the Inspectors came to see the infamous air rifle and spent some time experimenting with its assembly and operation.
"Doctor Watson!" a voice called sharply, and I saw Lestrade wince. The reason for that was clear when the man shouting the length of the corridor at my friend continued without waiting for acknowledgement.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your social time, but I really do need the file on the Wintergast murders."
"It's where I left it, Inspector," Watson's voice carried that patient calm that came right before he verbally dissected the unwary. He moved out of the group of men clustered around the air rifle and towards a nearby office. The man's identity was no great feat to deduce: Barnwell was a tall man, slightly overweight, with unfortunately pale wiry ginger hair. He was bug eyed and square handed: altogether not at all an aesthetic sight.
"Nothing more unaesthetic as a policeman," Lestrade murmured beside me, a small smirk upon his face. I remembered that quote well and restrained a chuckle.
"I believe, Doctor Watson, that your desk is over there," Barnwell boomed. It seemed the man had no other volume and I wondered how his wife and children could stand it. Then again they were probably accustomed to such volume and thought nothing of it. I glanced in the direction that the man was so rudely gesturing in: sure enough Watson's desk was set up by the small window in the chimney nook. It was readily identifiable as his from the meticulous layout, the organisation of the reference books resting upon it, the black medical bag carefully deposited on the wooden seat and the lurking form of Sweetie, collapsed watchfully underneath it. The other side of the chimney nook held the common supplies the Inspectors used for making tea – my Watson was being kept in company then, as just about every Inspector in the building, and several constables and sergeants besides would stop there to make tea.
"I left it on your desk," Watson's voice recalled my gaze, causing me and several others to hastily disguise a smile at the stern look he was giving the Inspector as he held out the file he had retrieved from mans' said desk. Barnwell grunted, took the file and pushed into his office. Watson had barely cleared the doorway when the door slammed shut, and Sweetie let out an indignant growl.
"Here, here," Hopkins seconded under his breath.
"Doctor Watson, I know that you're likely busy today," Lestrade spoke up as his colleagues finally drifted away to their duties, "But there was a woman brought into the morgue that I think you should have a look at. If you could spare me a few hours…"
"Of course, Inspector," Watson smiled at me ruefully and I shrugged signalling that I didn't mind. I did, but I wasn't going to be petty about such things in our first few days together. Besides, I had to give my statement to Lestrade, which would take up some of that time. A constable was summoned to witness the external examination and I followed Lestrade into his cluttered office.
"So formal, Lestrade?" I asked as I settled into the chair opposite his, "I was under the impression that you were friends."
"I pay him the respect he is due on the job, Mr Holmes," Lestrade's answer was the only acceptable one; "We aren't so formal after hours. Now then, Mr Holmes, let us get to the matter at hand."
Giving statements had always been a tedious business; the outmoded policies of the Yard making the simplest of things take much longer than was strictly needed. I resented the time spent away from my dear friend and was pleased when Lestrade suggested we proceeded down to the morgue when his paperwork was finally appeased.
Sweetie was sitting outside the doors, looking quite disgruntled. I was in total agreement with Lestrade's statement that the morgue was no place for a dog and left her where she was with no compunctions. Watson was in one of the small bays to the side, his voice even and clear as he dictated a series of his findings to the constable witnessing the examination.
Watson had discarded his jacket and rolled his crisp white sleeves up past his elbows. He wore a dark green apron to protect his clothes, and was leaning over the face of the woman on the trolley, his left hand braced beside her as his right carefully held her mouth open.
On his left forearm, bared for the entire world to see, was a scar peculiar to those that attempted to take their lives. The ones that were serious always slashed diagonally along the forearm, severing the blood vessels as well as the arteries lurking beneath the skin. I must have made some noise, for Lestrade abruptly took hold of my arm and pulled me out of sight of my dearest friend.
"He didn't," Lestrade said firmly, before I could dishonour Watson with the questions crowding the tip of my tongue, "That was the case that ended up with him being given Sweetie."
"Explain," I glared, struggling behind my impassive mask to marshal my thoughts. Even if it hadn't been self inflicted, such a grievous wound would have threatened Watson's life. It was shocking to me that I had sent him home to be safe and thus exposed him to more danger and hardship than if he'd remained at my side. I was beginning to wonder if I should have insisted my Watson come into exile with me where I could watch over him, Wife or no Wife.
"There was an impostor," Lestrade sighed, "I take it he hasn't told you about this? Well, after you died a series of nutters came out of the woodwork, all of them claiming to be you. There was even one who claimed to have been possessed by you… and they all went after Watson as their 'proof'. It seems that they thought if they could convince him that their claim was true then they could convince anyone. One of them went too far. Just four months after Mrs Watson died; this loon kidnapped Dr Watson and tried to beat him into submission. When the good doctor continued to refuse to agree that the nutter was you, the man attempted to fake his suicide, obviously unaware that the signs of the beating would raise automatic questions with us, even if we had somehow managed not to notice one of our best Police Surgeons had been missing for a week. We got to him in time to stop the second arm being cut, but it was touch and go…"
"Dear god," I wanted to be sick. The very idea that my Watson had been seen as easy prey to these jackals, that he had been forced to deal with their false claims… I knew my Boswell; each time a new claimant came forth there would have been a stubborn spark of hope that this time the claim was true.
"In fact," Lestrade only now released my arm from his tight grip, "One of the things I wrote in that little note yesterday was that no matter what it looked like you weren't a nutter. That's something I never thought I'd say about you, Mr Holmes."
I didn't bother to dignify that with a response.
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