Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "Vulnerable" by Secondhand Serenade.
September 13th, 1894: 10:12 PM
From their illicit kiss in the doorway of Cavendish Place, things could only progress for John and Victoria. From Madeline's point of view, their courtship was sweet, entirely lovely. To be sure, it was nothing like hers and Sherlock's rise, but then again, John was an altogether different breed of man. He actually courted the woman, rather than going the complicated friendship-turned-romantic tryst route.
Sherlock merely commented, good-naturedly, that with the doctor ensnared by yet another female it would only stand to reason that the practice would suffer. John cuffed him upside the head when he heard that, but the remark was otherwise let go.
It began with walks around the city, often with little William acting as their chaperone. More than once they were passed on the street, and someone would comment on the adorable boy and the fine family they were together. At first Victoria blushed and guffawed at such phrases, but as time wore on, she and John would look at each other, smile, and nod in agreement. They were becoming their own unit, the dear boy bonding them together. But out in the world, walking arm in arm was the extent of their affection, albeit with a few hidden kisses here and there.
They were discreet about the house, and in public, and especially in front of William. For being three years old, the boy had a great amount of intelligence, and so Victoria suggested not letting him know about his father's intentions. Watson agreed, but in his mind knew that, with the intended direction he wanted to take with this relationship, it would be wiser to reveal the truth sooner than later.
For all of July, they were contented in each other's company. Victoria, never knowing such tenderness could come from a military man, basked in the warm glow his icy eyes would cast upon her. Quietly, subtly, he grew bolder with his attentions, even taking her to plays and dinner. Thanks to her assembled costume trousseau, she went out in elegance, her understated style belying the true ladyship within.
However, sweetness was not all they had with each other. Beneath all the charm, the grace, there lay a deeper passion, one that neither was bold enough to encourage but both knew was there. A fire was ignited within John whenever she walked by, her scent of soap and rosewater burning his soul. And he was not the only one being scorched; Victoria, having been pursued by men before, was not used to this nobility that the good doctor was engaging. Treating her like a lady, nearly like a princess, endeared him to her, set her heart aflame.
Near the end of August, John began to notice her agitation, the feeling of nervousness she had been hiding quite well. She had a habit at glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly her dark irises would flush in a sort of disappointment. She looked as though she felt out of place. Watson understood, from his marriage with Mary, that when a woman began to feel that way, everything she did and everything she was a part of could suffer. Victoria became a little more distant after flashing her glance at him that way, slightly more reserved. She was reverting to her chilly demeanor that she'd adopted at the beginning of her employment around the house, when they were being watched. The doctor, chafing under the pressure, knew a confrontation would be in store. And one evening, when the housekeeper and William were both in bed, John guided Victoria into his study, locking the door behind him. Nestling into an armchair before the fireplace, he motioned for her to come over. Boldly, she decided to sit at his feet, almost like a child ready to hear a good story.
She did not enjoy confrontation, but he wasn't about to have her walk out in the middle of it in a rage. But before he could say a word, she cut him off.
"Tell me about Mary."
John sat bolt upright in his chair, utterly taken aback. In all their time, he'd not mentioned his deceased wife's name. Certainly, there were times in conversation when he'd reference her, but…
"I know she meant a great deal to you, that you loved her. I…I want to know what she was like," Victoria explained, not looking him in the eye. John raised an eyebrow.
"For a basis of comparison?" he asked suspiciously. Her gaze flew up to meet his, hardened by the statement.
"You never speak of her, not really. I want to know about her. Tell me," she said, not backing down. Watson closed his eyes; it felt like the peeling of bandages off a fresh wound. It pulled at his heartstrings to speak of Mary, but he would meet Victoria's request.
"She was…beautiful. Red hair, sweet face freckled by the sun, lovely grey eyes. Mary was…well, a governess when I met her. She was a client of Holmes' when we first met, and I knew from the moment I met her that I would marry her. She had a kind soul, but she was strikingly intelligent, and sweet. Not that she didn't have a vicious streak in her, goodness no. She could ring a peal over my head when she was disgusted or offended, and she threw wine in Sherlock's face when he insulted her the first time they officially met for dinner. He never met with her in person on that case, but had received letters about details and such, you see," he murmured slowly, delving headlong into the memories. He suppressed the urge to tear up; he refused to cry again over the matter, and would never do so in front of Victoria. He never wanted to appear weak. "She…bailed me out of jail. More than once. Not because of anything I'd done, but because of my association with Holmes and his unusual methods. She was there for me, when I was torn up in hospital. Mary…knew that she was competing against my blood brother, but accepted it."
Risking a glance downward, he saw the nanny's face becoming increasingly lined with sadness.
"I loved her. I married her. Had a son with her. We intended to have more children, but…it wasn't meant to be."
Hesitantly, Victoria's thin voice came through the haze. "How…how did she die? What did she die from?"
The deepest cut of all was just rubbed raw with salt. "From consumption. It was a miracle that William, being so young, did not get the contagion as well. I tried my best to save her, but-"
"But there was nothing you could do," she finished for him. Gently she took his hands in hers and kissed his rough fingers. There they sat in complete silence, both their hearts weighed down by the sorrow. John could not look away from this dark beauty sitting before him. She was no Mary, but she was incredibly good to him, allowing him to grieve before her and to stay with him. Leaning forward to kiss her forehead, he was surprised when she turned away.
Rising off the floor, she stepped away, shaking her head in denial.
"Why?" he wondered, pivoting in his chair to face her. The tears began to drip from her eyes, but she stood her ground.
"John," she started, her voice strong in spite of the tears, "I needed to know about her…to know who I was replacing. And now that I know…how can I ever possibly replace her? Mary was good, respectable…she was your Mary. I just…John, I just cannot be your next Mary. I'm not her, at all. I'm not like her at all. So I have to wonder: do you really want me, or do you want someone to take her place?"
"You're not her replacement!" John objected, trying to stand swiftly. His damaged leg caused him to stumble, but he caught himself at the last moment.
"I need proof. I need proof that you care about me…for who I am. Not for being a woman who happened to be around after Mary's death, but for being the woman I am."
Her piece said, she turned her back on him, unlocked the door, and walked out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her, and a new pain erupted in John. This time, it wasn't his leg, but his heart was being twisted.
Here he was, two weeks later, the damage still not repaired in his heart. It had long since grown dark, but he was still laboring at his office, sorting through patient files to avoid going home. It was a menial task, one that could've been saved, but it was almost mindless, and he needed something to busy his hands while he thought.
It was true, he realized, that she was the next woman he loved after Mary. But that wasn't to say he didn't love Victoria for who she was. She was not, in any way, a way to fill the part of himself that belonged to Mary. How could he tell her that she was chosen, seemingly, by Mary? That she was approved of by his first love? How could he show her that he loved Victoria for her stubbornness, her drive, her strong will and defining loyalty and courage? How he could express that in words, and have it make an impact?
Idly he scratched his injured leg, bemoaning the bandages he placed there habitually. As he continued to relieve his itch, Watson's mind began to race furiously. He was struck with an idea, a way to prove his affection was not groundless. The walk outside the building and back home was a blur, and later on John would marvel at his own litheness and speed. Still, driven by his purpose, he tramped back into Cavendish Place, pausing only in his pursuit to ensure that William was safe and in bed. Tucking his son in, he stiffened his spine and prepared himself mentally for what he was about to do.
Tiptoeing back down the stairs, he proceeded cautiously towards Victoria's bedroom at the back of the house. Having not spoken to her beyond exchanging pleasantries and reports on William's behavior, he was more than a little nervous about sitting her down and talking again. With that compounding his mission, he adopted his military nerve and tapped on the wooden portal. In an instant the door flew open, revealing Victoria in a state of undress. Her blouse had been removed, reveal the corset and chemise reside beneath, but her skirt was still secure around her waist. Her dark hair was loosened, extending the length of her back. Her arms, he noticed, were slim, as well as her neck, with a scar running along her clavicle. Catching himself ogling her, he stepped back and coughed.
"Perhaps…perhaps this is not the best time," he managed to get out. Victoria shrugged, leaning against the doorframe.
"On the contrary, I find your timing impeccable, doctor," she replied impertinently. It was not the first time she had been slightly undressed before a man. Tight spaces and close acting quarters made one lose their shame eventually. She for one was glad to have found a suitable weapon against the doctor, and wasn't about to let it go. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Doctor Watson?"
Swallowing hard, John merely whispered, "May I come in, please? We have much to speak of, and I would rather do so in private."
Wordlessly, she gestured him into her small room. The bed took up the majority of the space, with one other door leading to the bath. A trunk lay at the foot of the bed, propped open and clothes arranged neatly inside. Letters littered her dresser, and a single lamp lit the space. Pressing himself into a corner of the room, John watched as she closed the door, entrapping them both.
"Say your piece, sir," she quipped promptly, settling against the wooden panels. She said no more as he stepped forward, opened his mouth, and faltered. Inwardly she cringed at his bright discomfort, but she kept it to herself. Finally, he sat on the edge of her bed, laying his cane aside.
"Two weeks ago, you asked for proof that I care for you as yourself. Honestly, I couldn't think of anything up until this day, not from lack of trying, I might add. And then, it hit me: you want me to prove I care for your character, your fortitude. I came to this solution."
Pulling the blade hidden in his cane deftly out, he gritted his teeth for a moment before slitting his trouser leg. Victoria's eyes widened at the sight; he'd just destroyed a suit, for the sake of revealing his bandages underneath.
"You told me once that you cared for own brother's injured leg after he came home from battle. From what I understand, he has fully healed now?" the doctor asked, dropping the blade to the floor and methodically loosening the bandages.
"Yes, John," she responded, unable to tear her gaze away from his flying fingers.
"Well, what I am about to show you is a twice treated, badly healed one. Combat is not a pretty thing, and taking damage from it is far worse. And the same can be said of pursuing one's desires, in caring for another person. Damage is taken if one partner falls, or leaves the other behind," Watson confessed, slowing in his ministrations greatly. One layer of bandages lay between his leg and open air. One layer lay between his cover and her scrutiny. "Let me show you the damages left behind."
Just like that, he peeled off the final layer, the hidden contents coming to light. Being one who'd seen her own brother's injuries, and a good friend set upon by a mob until they drew blood, Victoria still gasped in shock. His leg was a bloody mess, she thought crudely. Taking his now outstretched hand, she was pulled closer to see the wreck it was in more detail. The skin was flayed in some areas, in others there were deep gouges taken out. His knee was mottled with scar tissue, evidence of stitching dotting the entire limb.
"I was performing a sweep with the other men in my battalion. The enemy was waiting for us, though, and ignited some explosives underneath us. Over half the men died just in that attack. Somehow I managed to get up and fire a few volleys with my gun before collapsing. Hours later, I woke up in the hospital tent, the doctors wrenching shrapnel out of my leg. They said, within my hearing, that it was a miracle I was even alive. The evidence was that I must've been standing near one of the explosives for only this leg to have taken the damage. I was in and out of consciousness for the next two weeks, only vaguely aware of what they were doing to my body. Morphine was the only thing that made me forget about the horrifying reality," Watson relayed the memory, his leg's distorted muscles twitching as Victoria let go of his hand and brushed along the ridges with her fingers. Her fascination was a dark one, and he let her touch.
Knowing that some part of her was still listening, he continued, "Having just left medical school for the army, I decided to stop wallowing in self-pity and drugs and remove the last of the shrapnel myself. I took it all out and stitched myself up. The other doctors were shocked to find me the next day putting in the last few stitches. The muscles and tendons were ravaged, the bones obviously broken, but I was still alive. After six months of working towards recovery, they shipped me home to London, and I've managed to get by, to survive. I was beyond proper care and now I have to handle the repercussions of that bloody day."
Removing her hand from the scars, he clasped it tight. Reaching under her chin, he lifted her face up so he could look her in the eye once more.
"I'm telling you all of this-no, I'm showing you this-as a comparison. Think of my leg as relative to the damage left behind by Mary's death. I've had no one to really turn to, to nurture my wounds. I thought it would always be sorrowful. I believed that for the rest of my life I was going to just get by, survive, and live with the repercussions. I thought I would have to treat myself for the heartache and the pain, and never enjoy full health again," he whispered, pausing for just a moment to catch a breath, "but then you came into my life. It is your temper and your lively attitude, your backbone and your loving demeanor that has been curing me of heartache. You've done so since we first met. I ask you, do not abandon me in my recovery. I want to live…live with you as part of my life."
Letting her go and picking up the pieces of his cane, he sheathed the blade again and stared straight ahead at the wall. She hadn't said a word, but let the quiet of the house wash over them. Thinking that perhaps he was too late, John tightened his shoulders and went to stand, only to be held down by Victoria's firm grip.
"I have the proof I needed," she said, leaning into him and capturing his mouth in a deep kiss. Relieved, John's heart swelled and his breath gave out as he responded to her attentions. It was not to last, though.
CRASH! THUMP!
"WATSON!"
Both partners groaned aloud. Leave it to Holmes to have just perfect timing. There was no time to dwell on the fact, though, as his voice was laced with urgency. Thinking it was just another case Holmes wanted him to assist on, John made his way out into the hall just to tell him to sod off for one night. However, the desperate way Sherlock's eyes rattled in his head dispelled his thoughts.
"Holmes? What's going on?"
The detective beckoned him to the door. "Fetch your bag, doctor. Come with me at once!"
Striding forward and clutching his shoulders, John held him in place. "Is somebody injured?"
A strained smirk met his eye. "No. Madeline is in labor, John. She's having the baby now."
Author's note: Now that I've got the time, I'm actually updating within a week. Hope you all had a merry Christmas, or happy holidays if you don't celebrate Christmas. Mine was great, got the Iron Man 2 dvd for the holiday…can never have enough of Robert Downey, Jr. I must say.
Yeah, she's having the baby! Woot woot! And yay, issues are resolved in the Watson household. Hope you enjoyed this chapter (it leads into the next one, by the way), PLEASE REVIEW, and I'll see you for the birth of the Holmes baby!
