A/N: This is a Victorian AU, but keep in mind I am no expert. Poetic license and all that.
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
Warning: There are some violent scenes, be ware. Also, it is decidedly JohnLock-ish.
# #
Sherlock Holmes leafed through his mail with a heavy sigh. Given the surprisingly difficult task to find a suitable flatmate (the last candidate took offense at the chemistry set in the common living area), he had followed through some risky investments under the advice (oh horror) of his brother. The strategy paid up and now he was in possession of sufficient funds to cover the lodgings costs and even indulge in some experiments he had previously put aside due to the price of ingredients. It was all quite well but lacked any challenge. Boring.
A new tenant had moved into 221c, the smaller flat downstairs, while he had been away on a case in Dorchester. The neighbour better not think that his wishes for silent nights took precedence over my need to appease the burning mind with music, Holmes thought darkly. He had to admit though that this addition to the building was a distraction from the mind-numbing emptiness between cases.
A window pane creaked downstairs and Sherlock spun into action, getting dressed in under three minutes clock in hand. The first impressions, after all, were important. Perhaps that chap downstairs could prove useful.
He walked calmly to the staircase, giving the time to the new tenant to exit his abode. The detective froze mid-step as soon as he caught sight of the person struggling with the iron key to 221c.
A lady. Really now.
The woman (blond hair bleached by sun, had recently returned from abroad; the shawl's embroidery is specific to the artisans in Northern India; straight back, good education; no jewellery, the dress is old-fashioned, restricted funds) suddenly stopped fumbling with the lock and half-turned to observe Sherlock in turn. Her gaze was unusually alert for a female member of the society. She slid the quite heavy key in a pocket and walked to the stairs, eyes not leaving Holmes for a second. "Good morning. You must be Mister Holmes."
Her voice, clear and polite, pulled Sherlock from his mildly disappointed observation and he swiftly finished descending the stairs. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss" he greeted, shaking the offered hand (callouses indicate the frequent use of the pen; small cuts in various stages of healing suggest manual work, perhaps cooking… no, no smell of grease, so most likely herbs; faint smell of pure alcohol, she is a nurse).
"Joan Watson, at your service" she offered a polite smile. "Mrs Hudson told me a lot about you. I was looking forward to finally meeting you in person." The detective repressed a frown. He was not used to the polite interest displayed by the blond nurse.
"I hope your stay at Baker Street will be pleasant" he said to maintain the small talk.
"Oh, certainly so" the woman allowed herself a smile. "Please excuse me, I have urgent errands to run, but… We should take tea together this week."
They parted ways in the street with perfectly polite goodbyes. Watson looked like a decent woman, perhaps tight on money but polite and hard-working, which was not uncommon in these days. But there was something in her manner that troubled Holmes, who rarely paid attention to the ladies outside of his work. Something unusual. Perhaps the candour that the strict etiquette stifled in Londoners. It could be attributed to the long time in colonies. I will simply take a walk. It would be a coincidence if my new neighbour goes in the same direction, he decided.
Despite the warm weather, Miss Watson did not bring a hat (what a faux-pas) and trailing the shine of her hair had been ridiculously easy on the morning streets. Her walk was brisk and energetic, and he had the feeling that she was used to making long distances on foot. She slowed down on Great Ormond street and knocked on the side door of the Children's Hospital. A nun with a soft round face opened and smiled. "Joan, we've been waiting!"
"I came as soon as possible, Sarah."
I was right, she is a nurse. A good one, I may say, Sherlock noted while walking around to the main entry of the hospital. He was intrigued by Watson's skills. They might come in handy, after all.
Having bypassed the matron and two harried doctors with suspicions stains on their sleeves, Holmes found himself in the sick bay with rows of beds. The morning light was streaming through large dirty windows, lifting the gloomy atmosphere that used to reign in hospitals. Watson had had time to change into the white (greyish) uniform and was making rounds on the far-left side of the bay. He took time to observe her work. The nurse was kind and compassionate to the sufferers, always a soft smile, a reassuring word. She checked their vitals and scribbled prescriptions with calm proficiency, changed their bandages and applied salves without breaking her smile. Yes, a good nurse.
Not finding anything else to investigate, Sherlock took off. Something was still bothering him about that woman, but he put it aside for later contemplation. The challenge's novelty wore off and he found himself faced with a new bout of boredom.
# #
A month had passed since Watson moved into the flat downstairs. She did not complain about foul smells from the chemistry experiments, nor the violin at ungodly hours of the night, nor even occasional small explosions and gun fire. She always greeted Sherlock with a smile and a hand-shake. Her demeanour was sincere. And yet, he found himself uneasy in her presence. There was definitely something unusual about the nurse. Not sinister, no, but fundamentally different.
His newest obsession had been put on hold by the summons from Scotland Yard. Disappearances of four boys, aged from six to eleven, had been reported in the poorest area of the city. The parents were inconsolable, and the constable finally decided to notify his superiors. Holmes didn't like cases involving children. It rarely ended on a positive note. But he could not refuse.
Having identified the area from which the children disappeared, he opted for a field investigation. Under the disguise of a retired mineworker, he had canvassed the streets for two nights before something of notice happened. There was a commotion outside of a pub, two young lads, encouraged by the alcohol and the small crowd were at it, shouting vague insults. It would have been harmless, aside from some bruises, until one of them pulled a knife.
Before Holmes could intervene, a short man rushed through the crowd and in an impressively executed manoeuvre twisted the knifeman arm so that he dropped the weapon. "Enough!" the newcomer growled, and the crowd fell silent. "What do you think you're doing?!" He released the knifeman who cowered away while cradling his arm. "I have seen enough young ones killed in a battlefield, I do not want to see it at home!" Ah, a veteran. He could not make out the features of the soldier in the badly lit street, but the voice was deep and strong, and strangely familiar.
"But Doc…" mumbled the second fighter, the one who missed his chance to get stabbed. "It's none of yer business!" An army doctor, then.
"Do not make it my business!" the doctor pointed an accusing finger at him. "Your little brother called me to help, and by God I will help you two hotheads." Holmes searched the crowd for a moment, and spotted the small boy fidgeting nervously by a bulky bag. In charge of guarding the doctor's bag. Meanwhile, the doctor pulled both fighters by the ear to a bunch of wooden boxes and made them sit, to the delight of their friends. "What happened?" he demanded. The lads tried to explain their argument, interrupting each other. It seemed that the disagreement came from a game of cards. The doctor shook his head. "Is it worth stabbing your friend over? Is it, Matt?"
"No, sir…" Matt the knifeman muttered.
"No, indeed. Talk first about such small things, you pair of knuckleheads. As I said, do not make it my business." The properly cowed men nodded eagerly. The doctor pulled some coins from his pocket. "Here, have a beer on me."
"Thanks, Doc!" they chorused with huge grins on their faces. The crowd started to disperse towards the pub and the hero of the day (evening?) walked back towards the boy keeping his bag. Sherlock moved through the shadows to get closer.
"Good work, Arthur" the doctor said, patting the boy's head softly. He had the stature of straight man, clothes worn but clean and mended, the bag well used and patched. The blond hair under the bowler hat was perhaps a bit too long for higher society, but acceptable for a medical man working in the slums. Someone that involved in the community will have noticed any suspicious activity. I need to talk to him.
The occasion was perfect. He'd have to approach the man with a minor injury complaint and gain his trust, enough to obtain the needed information. The man had picked up his bag and was making his way towards the back street when Sherlock caught up to him and called out in a Yorkshire accent: "Doc, wait!"
The doctor turned around to greet him and froze in shock. They were just under an old blinking street lamp and they could see each other rather well. Blue eyes, alert and cautious, stared at him in growing horror. "Holmes?"
The image clicked and Sherlock's thoughts screeched to a halt. "Watson?"
The woman, artfully disguised as a man (even her gait changed, impressive), paled significantly. She opened and closed her mouth. Inhaled through her nose. Narrowed her eyes at him. "Have a good night" she finally declared, turned on her heels and walked away, leaving an extremely confused detective in her wake.
Her acting skills are top notch, Holmes noted while trying to catch up to the fleeing doctor (Nurse? Soldier? Which one is it now?). The walk, the posture, even the voice is changed to fit the image. This is not a ruse she came up on short-notice. Watson was briskly walking through silent streets, not quite running yet. She obviously was not happy about the encounter. At one corner, she stopped and turned to glare at her pursuer. It lasted mere seconds, then she took off running in a dark alley. This woman… is interesting, the detective decided, his mind already calculating Watson's trajectory and the fastest way to intercept her.
The chase lasted for four blocks, until Sherlock took a shortcut and blocked the doctor's path in a small passageway. She halted abruptly, almost dropping the medical bag (would she have escaped without this burden?). They were both breathless and could only gasp at each other in the dark. Having recovered enough, the detective was about to talk when a shrill scream echoed from the nearby street.
Without missing a beat, they took off towards it, Watson having an advantage by being closer to the corner. About twenty yards away, a tall man in an expensive coat was trying to drag away a struggling boy. Watson's bag hit the ground with a dull thud as she sprinted towards the abductor, Holmes on her heels. The man took a moment too long to notice them and failed to parry the right uppercut the blond doctor landed to his gut. He grunted, dropping the child, and she swept the sobbing boy away, retreating immediately behind Sherlock who knocked the criminal out with a well-placed hook. The detective busied himself cuffing the culprit, absently cataloguing minute details about him, while Watson tried to calm the child. "It is alright sweetheart, quite alright. You are safe now, do not cry." She ended picking him up in a tight embrace, the boy clutching at her like a lifeline. "He lives nearby, I will take him home" she stated over shoulder and walked off. Sherlock was sorely tempted to follow her, but he had a middle man to question. What a choice, what a choice…
# #
Joan had left the boy with his mother, who broke into tears at their sight. It took some effort to calm the whole family down and get back into the night. Tomorrow is a day off, she decided grimly.
"You dropped this" a baritone interrupted her thoughts and she startled badly. Sherlock Holmes emerged from the shadows, holding out her medical bag. Damn.
Feeling trapped, she took it with a grateful nod. The man was staring at her expectantly. Well, he can throw his expectations to the wolves, because I refuse to surrender. "I presume we are walking in the same direction, aren't we?" She started walking in the general direction of Baker Street without checking whether her companion followed. Soon enough, his light steps matched her pace.
They crossed the town in silence. Watson had nothing to say to her neighbour. He was an interesting fellow, eccentric and intelligent, but her trust was not easy to gain. They reached their destination faster than she hoped. The man stepped back with a small smirk. "You are a cruel man, Mister Holmes" she sighed and resolutely stepped forward to open the door.
As expected, he followed her inside her apartment. Detective, they said. A bloody annoying git, I say. She dropped the heavy bag on the floor and the worn hat on the coat rack and threw a disapproving glare at the figure hovering in the doorway. "Tea?"
Whatever possessed me to offer him drinks, she wondered while they sipped the beverage, settled comfortably in the derelict chairs she had salvaged from the family estate. Holmes remained silent, aside from directions regarding his tea preferences. He had removed his ridiculous disguise and kept on dissecting her with his exceptionally sharp grey eyes.
Fed up with the tension, Joan put her cup in the saucer a bit more forcefully than intended. "Your reputation, Mister Holmes, says you can see through people and read their minds. So, tell me, what do you see?" she asked, leaning forward to look him straight in the eyes. She found that it unsettled most men.
He cocked his head to the side, like a cat about to pounce on its prey. "I see someone who had been to hell. You were a field nurse in the Northern India and saw the war up close and personal. You have been injured and discharged after recovering, collecting a small compensation that you invested wisely, allowing you, a single woman, to rent this flat." His baritone filled the room, with no judgement seeping through. Pure scientific interest. "I see a clever person, who had always performed above what was expected. You have knowledge and experience equal to trained doctors, and this… I suspect this comes from your upbringing. Second child of a provincial doctor, you were born into the profession. Your older brother had been failing to his duties since a young age, and this where your ruse comes from. You had been imitating, perhaps even replacing him at some functions since your teens. Such change in mannerisms can't be acquired over a short period of time, after all." The devil sipped his tea with an appreciative hum. "You are acutely aware of your position in society and you refuse to be limited by it. I see a kind person with high morals. You are not interested in fortune or fame. You work in a Children's hospital by day to supplement your income and you offer medical aid, free of charge, by night. You are athletic and far from helpless in a fight. I see a fighter. I see a dichotomy."
She stared at him, forgetting to breath. Finally, she forced a chuckle and took up her tea again. "Your reputation is… widely underestimated." It made him pause in surprise. "You are entirely correct." Holmes nodded in self-satisfaction. "Although… My father had been a mortician. My mother, a midwife. An interesting couple, these two." The detective muttered something along the lines of "there is always something" but kept quiet otherwise. Joan stood up, uneasy about her secrets being out in the open like this. "What are you going to do?"
"You are not committing a crime, Miss Watson" he drawled in response.
"You have obviously a limited knowledge of the current laws then. This issue aside, no doctor would set practice in that part of town. If you chose to remove me, these people will lose the only medical professional that cares enough to help them. Is that what you want?" She wondered if she was arguing her case too passionately, too strong. But she could not drop the matter. She could not resign herself to a role of a fragile damsel, ready to be married off to some accountant.
"It is not" Holmes stated coldly. "I do not see a problem in letting you pursue your activities, unless your intent is criminal." He raised a questioning eyebrow and she shook her head to deny any ill thoughts. "Then I will keep your secret, doctor" he said, standing up.
Watson stared at the dark-haired man in disbelief. It was the first time anyone had called her female self "doctor". The validating feeling was highly confusing and somewhat pleasant. "Thank you?" she managed to his evident amusement.
He made to leave but stopped after a few steps. "You have been to war. Seen trouble." He rounded up, towering over her short frame.
Joan looked up with defiance. "Yes. Enough for a lifetime."
There was a mischievous spark in the grey eyes. "Do you wish to see some more?"
I should not trust him, she thought, letting herself drown in the simple joy of being recognized for what she was. "Oh God, yes."
# #
After they had busted the human trafficking gang (they were abducting boys to sell them as servants to foreigners), Holmes and Watson kept a friendly relationship. Sherlock sought out the doctor's opinion on medical questions more often than not, and it led to some heated discussions about the use of one herb or another over the diner. Joan let the detective follow her on her nightly rounds and introduced him to some of her charges as the man to contact in case of trouble.
Three months later, Watson joined Holmes on official investigations as Doctor Watson, the war veteran, Scotland Yard none the wiser. Seeing the consulting detective in action had been a revelation to Joan. She felt like she was discovering a new facet to his brilliance every day, be it an obscure knowledge of tobacco ashes or leaps of deduction no one dared to imagine. Holmes found that Watson's input was usually well-reasoned and backed with facts, even if often tainted with emotional involvement. Her medical views could be considered unorthodox, but then again, she was an anomaly. An anomaly he started to appreciate.
# #
Watson had been gone for a week, visiting her parents in the country-side and Sherlock was bored. His experiment regarding the sleep and food deprivation was taking a toll on his physical capacities, and it was infuriating. He had an antidote to refine. He must have stood up a bit too quickly, because his vision darkened for a moment.
"Holmes!" called a familiar voice and soft, strong hands were pulling him up from the floor, guiding him towards the sofa. Grateful for the help, he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
The touch of a wet cloth on his brow brought him back to consciousness. The light had dimmed. He estimated his nap at three hours. "Watson" he whispered, recognizing the faint smell of antiseptic hovering over him.
The wet cloth was removed with an indignant huff. "My dear chap, how long have been starving yourself? Mrs Hudson had been sick with worry."
"An experiment" he weakly waved a hand.
"An experiment" she repeated in disbelief. He managed to crack an eye open and observe the disgruntled expression on his doctor's face. "You are no good to anyone if your body gives up." She was in her lady's clothes, dust on her sleeves, so just recently back from the trip, didn't take time to change in order to tend to him.
Sherlock attempted a smile. "It was important…"
"You were bored" she firmly cut to his excuses. "I presume it is a step-up from cocaine, but honestly, Holmes! You are a grown man, you must have some common sense left in that brilliant head of yours." Watson stood up, running a hand through her dishevelled hair. "Mrs Hudson will bring up your dinner and you will eat it. Doctor's orders" she said sternly and turned to leave.
"But you are no doctor" he tried to protest in an awkward fashion.
She froze in her track, back tense. Oh. I offended her. "I see" the woman purred in an unusual falsetto. "You wish to call a real doctor to examine you. I think your brother left a recommendation. I will see to that." Oh goodness, she is furious.
He forced his weakened body to move and caught her by the wrist before she stormed off. "You are unnecessarily cruel, Watson." It was a pathetic attempt at an apology, he knew that.
Blue eyes glared at him from above. "Will you eat?"
"Yes" he admitted defeat and watched the angry doctor stomp away.
# #
"Doctor Watson, please give my regards to your lovely sister" Gregson said with a wink before disappearing downstairs. Inspectors from Scotland Yard had been coming and going frequently at 221b, and some had met Joan in her lady persona. Holmes had presented her as his colleague's younger sister, running an errand on John Watson's behalf.
When the front door closed behind the Inspector, Watson looked at Holmes, bemused. "What was that about?"
The detective smirked. "I believe, Doctor Watson, that your 'sister' has an admirer." She shivered in denial.
# #
Sherlock dispatched his opponent with a blow to the throat and ducked a punch from the right. He hoped that Watson had not run into trouble. They had separated to investigate the area and he had clearly hit the jackpot. Some imaginative fellow with too much strength to spare joined the fray with a wooden plank wrenched from some box. It was unforeseen and hurt like hell when smashed over the head.
Holmes fell to his knees, seeing stars. I am done.
A shot exploded in the night and a furious voice barked "Back off!" His attackers quickly dispersed. "Holmes! Holmes, look at me." Watson was trying to get his attention, a gun in her right hand pointed to the ground.
"I am alright" he assured but did not attempt to get up. She frowned in exasperation.
"You are concussed, chap. Do not try to fool me."
# #
They had been walking to the pub in company of Lestrade when some drunk idiot decided to mug them. He got Watson by surprise and held her as a shield, an enormous rusty knife pressed to her throat. "Gimme yer coins!" the brute growled. The doctor cringed at the smell of rotten teeth and cheap lager.
"Don't be daft, lad" Lestrade tried to diffuse the situation. "We are policemen."
This had the merit of agitating the man. "Shut up! Yer wallets!"
Watson remained surprisingly serene for someone in her situation. She caught Sherlock's eyes and quirked an eyebrow, as if saying "Amusing, isn't it?" Holmes did not quite partake in the feeling. "Let him go" he ordered.
"Nay!" the man bellowed, the knife digging into Watson's skin.
She narrowed her eyes, amusement gone. Sherlock realized belatedly what was about to happen. Without warning, the doctor went slack in the mugger's grip and he stumbled upon the shift in balance. Watson dropped down, disregarding completely the knife nicking her throat, then thrusted forward under the man's reach. Before any of them could react, she rammed her elbow under his ribcage. The unfortunate soul fell like a sack of potatoes and vomited, while Joan stepped back with an unreadable expression. Shaken out of their stupor by the pained moaning of the wannabe criminal, Lestrade and Holmes approached the scene. While the inspector cuffed the idiot, Sherlock towered over his companion.
No words were exchanged but he thought having expressed his disappointment in her recklessness rather clearly. She gave him a withering look and stepped away. Without a second thought, Sherlock put a hand on her right shoulder. "Show me" he demanded.
She lifted her chin, exposing the small bleeding incision on the soft skin. He was about to say something but the glacial look in her eyes stopped him altogether.
# #
It was a stormy day. Thunder roared over London. Holmes let himself go to melancholy, watching the heavy rain smash against his windows. His unproductive musings were interrupted by a timid knock. Watson stood at the door, unusually nervous and pale, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "Would you terribly mind if I stayed with you for tea?"
"Not at all" he nodded from the sofa. The doctor let herself in and sat on the edge of the plush chair near the fire. Sherlock observed with lazy curiosity her fists clenching around the armrests. As a new crash of thunder cracked loudly above their heads, Watson shut her eyes tightly and took deep breaths. Odd. Joan had proven herself practically fearless. Although, Holmes did not yet have the occasion to be in her company during a thunderstorm. Back straight as a rod, intense stress makes her fall back into military habits; tremors in the left hand, remnants of a traumatic event; flinching at the thunder… Ah. "Cannons, isn't it?"
Tired blue eyes darted towards him in surprise. She had been surprisingly accepting of his tendency to deduce the smallest details of people's life. This time was not an exception. Instead of the usual anger at the indiscretion any other person would have heaped on the nosy detective, Watson simply gave a small nod before shifting her gaze towards the fireplace. "It is not so bad" she said barely loud enough for him to hear. "But today…" – another crash, another flinch – "…It has been a year." Sherlock frowned, trying to remember the whimsical articles about military successes he read in magazines a year ago. He recalled being repulsed by the optimistic tone of the journalist while listing hundreds of casualties.
He objectively knew that no battlefield was pleasant. But seeing how shaken Watson was somehow drove the message home. Sherlock had had hardships in his life, but he could always rely on his family's help to pull him back to safety. He had not experienced the hell many foot soldiers had lived in for months and years.
Joan let herself fall back into the chair, trying desperately to lose some tension. She was biting her lips, apparently on the verge of tears. Holmes absently noted that the burning feeling in his gut was in equal parts pity (how miserable), guilt (there no comfort I can bring her) and anger (she should not have to live through this). It was extremely confusing.
He reached for his violin without registering what his hands were doing, it had been a habit ingrained by sleepless nights and days of contemplation. As soon as the bow touched the strings, drawing the first notes of an obscure waltz, Watson's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Encouraged by this unexpected result, Sherlock stood up and stepped closer to the fireplace. The serene melody flowed under his fingers and Joan seemed to lean into the sound. She didn't flinch at the next thunder crash, too focused on the music.
He continued playing well into the night, even after his companion seemingly fell asleep. The storm passed. The only sounds in the flat were the soft crackling of the fireplace and the barely audible patter of the cold drizzle on the windows. Sherlock gingerly placed the instrument on the sofa and tip-toed to his room to fetch a plaid. As he wrapped it gently over the resting Watson, she breathed out "Thank you" without waking up.
He spent the rest of the night in the second chair, maintaining the fire.
# #
Joan woke to the yelling outside. Four in the morning, thrice damned drunks! She grumbled before recognizing one of the voices. Oh my…
"Sister dearest! Help me!" Harry Watson was screaming from his prime position on the ground while a constable tried to shut him up. There was an empty bottle sticking from the older Watson's pocket. His coat and trousers were covered in mud, and his hair tousled. Overall, he was a mess.
Joan briefly entertained the idea of letting him get arrested, until he cried out: "Please, Jo!"
"Oh, Harry…" She ran down the steps, tightening the shawl on her shoulders. "Officer, please. This is my brother." The constable dropped the drunk's arm but seemed reluctant to leave. "Please. I will take care of him."
"By yourself, ma'am?" the lad enquired, evidently worried.
"I know my brother. Do not worry, he will not cause trouble anymore." Her earnestness ended up persuading the young man, who shuffled away on his patrol. Joan stood over her brother with a groan. "Com'on. Get up."
They managed to make it back inside, with lots of pushes and pulls from Joan and minimal involvement from Harry. The brother dropped on the armchair and begged for a drink. "Tea is all you will get here, Harry" the younger Watson called out in response.
After beating around the bush for half-an-hour (and some stern threats of dousing him with cold water), Harry finally confessed to what brought him at her doorstep. "I need help, Jo."
"Don't you always?" she countered with a frown. After her night rounds, she had only gotten a couple hours of sleep before her sibling showed up.
"I played again" he whined. Harry had a gambling problem, in addition to the drinking one. It was not the first time he came begging for money. Joan had steadfastly refused to lend him anything for years now. "With some terrifying people. They are going to kill me, Jo!"
Joan watched her brother bemusedly. The statement was quite dramatic, even for him. He looked genuinely distraught too. "How much?" she sighed.
"Forty guineas" he said, closing his eyes as if in pain.
"For…" she jumped to her feet. "Forty guineas! Are you insane?"
"Sorry…" the idiot moaned.
"This is more than I make in a year, Harry!" He only sniffed in response. "How bad?" she whispered angrily, afraid to have woken Holmes up with her outburst (if he was even sleeping).
"They cut the nose of the lad who could not pay" Harry announced with the most miserable grimace he could muster.
Joan dropped her head, defeated. She could not, in good conscience, let her brother be disfigured over some coins. She had around sixty guineas in savings, in case of an emergency and for medical supplies. It would be a hard blow on Doctor Watson's budget, but she could manage. "We will think of something, brother. Now sleep it off."
At dawn, she managed to get an address from a hung-over Harry, gathered the needed sum (forty guineas, this bloody daft man…) and sneaked out of the flat. She scribbled a note to Mrs Hudson about the guest and pinned it to her door.
"Going somewhere?" a baritone called from above. Holmes was leaning on the balustrade, looking rested and fresh.
"A family errand to run" she answered easily. "I shall be back for lunch."
He acknowledged it with a polite nod and disappeared back into his apartments. Smiling to herself, Joan stepped outside.
# #
Harry's 'investors' were operating from a shady pub with an Italian name near the docks. Sighing for the hundredth time, Joan pushed the greasy door. There were two dockers chatting in a corner and one lonely drunk nursing a lager two tables from them. The bar tender looked up from his books, surprised to see a woman walk in. "Can I help ya, Miss?"
Joan walked to the bar with a chin held high. My brother may lack self-respect, but I do certainly not. "I am here to pay Harry Watson's debt" she said calmly. The man's eyes widened, and a sleazy smile crept on his face.
"'Course, Miss. Let me get my books." He rummaged through a filing cabinet and pulled out an enormous folder. "Let us see… Watson, Watson… 'ere he is!" he pointed to the page and pushed the book towards Joan.
She leaned forward to verify the amount when a dirty cloth was forced over her mouth and nose. Startled, she jerked her head away, but the meaty hands of an unknown attacker held her in place. Chloroform, she realized with budding panic, as her vision darkened.
# #
Lunch time was nearing, and Watson had yet to return. Sherlock was bored. He thought briefly about starting a discussion with the not-interesting Watson downstairs but dismissed the enterprise as fruitless. What could that man say that he didn't already know?
For some time, he amused himself by reviewing and updating his mental listing on rare embroidery patterns from the colonies. This lasted until a loud crash resonated from 221c. Revolted that Harry Watson would start drinking again so soon, Holmes hurried downstairs. The flat's door was left ajar, and he could hear someone pacing and swearing inside. Carefully, the detective pushed the door open and observed the oddest situation.
The only material damage seemed to be the armchair, fallen sideways. A half-dressed man bearing strong resemblance to Joan was pacing the room, hands tearing at his greying blond hair and mumbling obscenities. "What in the world happened here?" Holmes asked loudly.
Watson the older stopped in his tracks, seemingly unsurprised to see a stranger in his sister's flat. "I am a disgrace" he announced after a hiccup.
Sherlock blinked, surprised to be in agreement with this individual. "Do elaborate."
"I asked for her help" the drunkard started to explain. "She always thinks of something to help, you know. But I am her brother! I should not have sent her there. Oh gods, what have I done? What should I do now?" He sat directly on the floor and started rocking back and forth. From this rambling tirade, Holmes concluded that this debris of a human being came to his sister for help with a dangerous affair. Evidently, Joan had accepted. Still, it was no reason to drown in despair hours after the fact.
"What happened?" he repeated his question more urgently. Harry pointed to a crumpled piece of paper on the floor by the door.
Feeling a cold dread creeping up his spine, Sherlock picked it up. "Dear Mister Watson, your debt is considered paid in full. Your sister is a lovely collateral, but we shall keep the coins nevertheless. We hope to see you again at our gaming table."
He felt all blood drain from his face. They dared to abduct Joan Watson. "Get up" he growled at the pathetic man. "You will help me rescue her."
# #
It was a very small, very dusty space, and it was moving. Am I in a trunk? Joan kicked and screamed, until the movement stopped. "Let me out!" she yelled. Suddenly the lid opened, the daylight blinding her, and chloroform-imbued cloth was shoved into her face again. Damn…
# #
The workers Joan visited with a medical bag at night had been very helpful as soon as Sherlock explained the situation. "Doc's sister in trouble? Count on us." A small mob had formed with Holmes at its head, and they stormed the pub indicated by Harry Watson. The buggers had no chance. After checking the books pulled from a creaking filing cabinet, he stumbled upon a coded list of buyers and goods sold. A fairly simple code, at that, they could have put more effort into it. The last inscribed transaction indicated the sale of a "blond lass to Chestridge, 55gn". Taking a passing look at the other lines, he found that women were sold to that "Chestridge" at least once a month, but for a cheaper price. The poor girls must have been taken from the streets. Their upbringing did not justify the price. What is he doing with them?
While he was puzzling over the books, Joan's patients had made a number on the criminals. Sherlock just had to stroll towards the bloodied bar tender and glare at him. "Chestridge. Give me the name and the address." The miserable wreck cowered in fear.
Once he had the information, he jolted down a note to Lestrade and sent Watson to deliver it. The mob had been sent home with reassurances of a competent handling of the case. And then he ran to catch a train.
# #
Her head was splitting. While scarily effective, chloroform gave the worst headaches. Joan felt dizzy and sick. At least, she was not in a trunk anymore. Where am I? She forced her eyes to open. It was a dimly lit bedroom, in dark colours. She was laying on a poster-bed, fully closed. A fire was crackling in the hearth. I need to get out. But her first attempt to move was halted by an unforeseen obstacle – her hands were tied to the headpost.
Panic started to rise again, as Joan pulled at the ropes with little to no success. No, no, no, oh god, what is going on? The door creaked open.
The man who entered looked very average, chestnut hair, good quality shirt. He looked harmless and perfectly normal. "Who are you?" Joan asked loudly. He grinned at her, eyes full of madness.
"You are the best one of my dolls" he stated with glee. "You cost the most."
Cost? Was I sold? Damn it, Harry, see if I help you next time! "I am not a doll" she said instead.
"But you are!" He bent over her, still grinning. She could smell his breath (lemon and basilic).
No. I refuse. Joan glared at him, as it was all she could do. It was not the clever thing to do though, as the grin morphed into an angry snarl and he slapped her. The dizziness returned ten-fold. Still, she turned back to glare again at her captor. He slapped her again. Then long fingers wrapped around her throat, tightening slowly their grip. No, no… Watson trashed uselessly on the bed, trying to dislodge the hands from her neck, gasped for air, before her body gave up and she passed out.
# #
The telegram from Scotland Yard had reached Luton in time and four constables were awaiting Holmes at the train station with carriages. He gave them brief instructions and they were off.
# #
She felt sick. Her whole body ached. Joan moaned in pain.
"Good doll" said her torturer. "Can you cry?" She weakly shook her head. "You will" he 'reassured' her.
Her limbs felt heavy like lead. Breathing was painful. Then there was iron cutting her dress over her stomach, just enough to expose some skin. Joan tried to jerk away but was just slapped again for her troubles. Damn it.
The man was muttering something under his breath, he sounded perfectly content. She closed her eyes to gather some strength. Something sizzled in the madman's hand. Then it burned. Joan screamed.
# #
They had barely knocked on the door when the ungodly scream echoed from inside. Overwhelmed with fury, Holmes kicked the door under the lock, and it flew open in the face of a middle-aged butler. With no regard to the man moaned on the carpet, the detective rushed inside, following the commotion.
Some harried servants tried to intercept him but were taken down by the policemen. Joan's screams resumed. He kicked off another door and was met with the scene that made his blood boil. A man - Chester Floridge - was standing over a bound Watson, pressing a hot iron on her stomach. It took Holmes all but two seconds to break the man's arm and smash his head on the bed post. The madman fell in a trail of blood, his torture tool sliding to the floor with him. Aware of the incendiary risk, Holmes tossed it in the fireplace before tending to Joan.
She was barely conscious as he cut through the rope on her wrists. The distinctive smell of chloroform hit his nostrils and he winced. She would have beaten them all silly if not for this chemical. "Holmes…?" her whisper brought his attention back to her. Left cheek swollen, he hit her; eyes unfocused, bloodshot, possible concussion; red marks under the collar, she had been strangled.
"Who else did you expect, Watson?" he snapped without malice. His nerves were frayed as well.
"I don…t feel so well…" she shared before passing out completely. Taking great pleasure of stomping on Floridge's broken arm, Sherlock pulled a blanket from the bed to cover his friend. Once he finished wrapping her up like a mummy, he gathered her in his arms and left the room without looking back.
Joan is surprisingly light for someone who exercises regularly, he noted while barking orders at the constables.
# #
The carriage took them back to London. Sherlock kept Joan cradled in his arms for the whole trip, afraid to worsen her injuries. He carried her to 221c where most of the medical supplies were and sent Mrs Hudson to the Great Ormond Street Hospital to fetch 'Sarah'. It took way too long in his opinion for the nun to arrive, followed by a grey-haired doctor. They pushed him out of the room and busied over the sleeping woman. The minutes were excruciatingly long. Finally, the pair left, leaving precise instructions about the patient care.
And Sherlock was left to simmer in his murderous rage towards all and sundry (except Watson). He was angry at Harry Watson for dragging his sister into this mess. He was angry at the muscle-heads at the pub for daring to abduct Joan Watson and other girls before her (God knows what happened to them). He was even angry at Mrs Hudson, Sarah and that doctor for taking so long to treat Joan. He was furious at himself for letting it happen and at Scotland Yard for never noticing the abductions. He was ready to snap the neck of Chester Floridge for being a mad killer.
And the worst, the worst of all, was that he had no way to vent all this rage, because he refused to leave Watson's side even for a second.
# #
Joan woke up the next morning with a spectacular migraine. She moaned in pain and nearly jumped out of her skin when someone's soft snoring ended in a snort. "Watson!" exclaimed the familiar baritone.
Joan squinted at her neighbour and friend through eyelashes. "Present." She could barely see his face. The man had clearly been sleeping in a chair. Isn't he a little too pale? "How are you, Holmes?"
"How…" his voice caught in a hitch. "How am I." Joan felt perplexed as to why her innocent question brought so much emotions to the man's voice. Meanwhile, the detective stood up and left the room without a word. What just happened?
# #
Three days later, she was strong enough to leave the bed, thanks to Mrs Hudson's mothering. Holmes did not deign to show up since that first morning. Harry, however, came crying and begging for forgiveness, which she readily granted as soon as he reminded her about the events that led to such an emotional display. Her brother left the city with a promise to stop gambling (should hold for a year at least, she assessed clinically).
Joan climbed up the stairs to 221b, cursing the weakness in her legs. The flat was literally filled with tobacco smoke, thick as a wall, and she started coughing uncontrollably. There was a loud crash somewhere inside, hurried steps and a window opened. Soon enough, the air cleared, and a haggard-looking Sherlock stood before her. It took her only one glance to assess the damage. "Have you eaten?" she asked dubiously. He looked at a loss for words. "I came to apologize for the whole debacle" – he started frowning dangerously – "and to thank you for saving my life." The lost look was back. Men are such children. She smiled. "On the grounds of owing you a life debt, I will take it upon myself to keep you alive by making you partake in regular meals. Are you agreeable to this arrangement?"
It must have been the first time Sherlock Holmes stared dumbly at anyone. Then he chuckled, a bubble of a rich laughter finding its way out. Seconds later, they were both laughing to the point of losing their breath.
"Agreeable?" he managed between hiccups of mirth. "I am not letting you out of my sight ever again."