Prompt 31: From Wordwielder – Anew.
Anew
"Is she well, Doctor Watson?" Lady Denver peered at Watson anxiously over the top of her handkerchief, the fabric crumpled tightly in one hand. Her husband stood at her side, hands clasped behind his back, an air of calm on the surface despite his taut posture.
Watson studied the baby he had carefully placed in the cot, all pink flesh and unruly curls the colour of sunlight. He bent to stroke the smooth cheek, warmth against his fingertips. Something tightened in his chest, and he swallowed hard, terribly moved.
When he was certain his voice would not betray him, he said, "She is perfect, Lady Denver. A mild temperature, however this should ease soon."
The Lady dissolved into relieved tears and Lord Denver's shoulders relaxed instantly.
"There now," said Lord Denver gently, touching a hand to his wife's wrist. "Do not fret any longer, my dear." Turning to Watson, he added, "We are indebted to you, Doctor. You must allow my driver to return you home safely."
Watson nodded. He had no desire to attempt to hail a cab, unfamiliar with the area as he was.
Outside, Lord Denver produced a cigarette case. His fingers trembled as he took out a match and struck it, the flame wavering brightly in the dark, but neither man mentioned it. He offered a cigarette to Watson.
"She does not allow me to smoke inside the house," Lord Denver explained. "I am only too happy to oblige, for young Emily's sake." A wry smile touched his lips. "If not my own."
"You have tried to quit, sir?"
"I have. I am not ashamed to say I failed in that regard." He grimaced. "I suppose you shall lecture me on the benefits of a cigarette-free existence?"
"If I were to do so, I should not think it fair to be smoking myself."
"Indeed." Lord Denver chuckled. "I am pleased to have called upon your services tonight, Doctor."
"I am curious as to how you knew of me, Lord Denver," Watson said. "Is there not a local physician residing near here?"
"There is. However, Doctor Foley is getting on in years, and your name came highly recommended."
"May I enquire as to whom from?"
Lord Denver tipped his head to the side, regarded him carefully as he smoked. "You may, though I believe you already know the answer."
Watson fell silent, kept his eyes on the curved driveway. The frost clung to the stones like scattered diamonds, glinting moonlight.
"We were sorry to hear of Mister Holmes's passing." Denver's voice was quiet, openly apologetic.
The tightness returned to Watson's chest, thin threads of pain looping around his ribs. They felt fragile, splintered bones he had been carrying for over two years.
"Lady Denver and I met Mister Holmes after we were wed," Lord Denver continued. "We first approached him as clients."
That Holmes had a life before Watson stepped into it did not surprise the doctor, but he had no recollection of the name Denver, nor did he recall Holmes once mentioning this couple.
Lord Denver seemed to sense his thoughts. He dropped his cigarette, crunched it gently beneath his boot, and straightened, smiling softly at Watson. "He would not have mentioned us, Doctor, as this was prior to your acquaintance with him. The matter was of a delicate nature, and we insisted on upmost discretion. Some years after, our paths crossed with that of Mister Holmes, and my wife was keen to exchange pleasantries. From your expression, I see we were wise to have placed our trust in him." The man offered his hand, still trembling, but Watson knew this was now from the cold. "And from tonight, I see why he would place your regard most highly."
Watson couldn't trust himself to speak. He shook the proffered hand, feeling a similar warmth from earlier tinge his fingers.
/-/-/
He returned home to the ghostly smell of tobacco and life, of freshly washed skin and a meek attempt at warmth. Brandy in hand, the phantom scents followed him as he ascended the stairs.
The nursery stood at the end of the hall, the locked door black and ominous, the key hanging like a dark secret. The hinges creaked loudly as he entered the room.
The curtains were pulled back, moonlight picking out the empty cot beneath the window. Shadows touched the floor, dusty prison bars. A rocking chair stood in one corner. He tried to imagine Mary sat there, her hair brushing forward as she swayed softly, yet the person he envisaged in the chair was not that of his wife, but of Lady Denver.
The pain returned, tenfold, and he was not prepared for it. The glass fell and shattered. He fancied he heard the cracking of his ribs as loud as rolling thunder, giant fingers of bone pried open, and his heart emerged to bleed anew.
End
A/N: ... Someone is spiking my teacup with angst again.