Part 2: Job Interviews
"It is my humble opinion on the matter that Sherlock Holmes is not only the most prolific killer in London for the last hundred years but also the most successful con artist of all time. Holmes worked with New Scotland Yard on a regular basis for five years and an untold number of years before then in an 'unofficial' capacity. This man was the London police's dirty little secret, solving all their homicide cases for them in record time with evidence that, get this, only he could see and understand.
Here I do not think it is so outrageous to claim that Holmes was actually the perpetrator of all these murders, and this is how he miraculously 'discovered' the clues that lead police to arresting someone else in his place. He found the perfect cover story in orchestrating the case against someone else. Many estimate the numbers of victims to be thirty or forty based on evidence discovered in his home and in his journals, but I have found in my research that he assisted NYS on dozens of more cases and we must assume that as he improved his vile methods on his killing spree that most of his victims went completely undiscovered and unreported. And who is to ever know what he did in his youth? I believe it is not unreasonable to say the count of the dead left in his wake may number well into the hundreds." -Kitty Riley.
I scoffed and closed the book. Seriously, this woman was looking to turn something already extraordinary into a complete circus. It was difficult to pick out the truth from among the ridiculous opinions and inflammatory language, and this was the biography Holmes himself had recommended I shutter to think what the others must be like.
I took a bite of my sandwich. I had been reading the book during my breaks at the surgery once I found it to be more entertainment than reporting. I thought I might as well get a few laughs out of it.
Anything was better than being bored.
But this turned out to be a mistake as I nearly choked on my tea, Molly had just walked into the cafeteria I rarely saw her at the hospital and even then it was only a glance or a kind hello, but the book in front of me was predictably as offensively colorful on the cover as the wording on this inside so it drew her attention directly.
"The Fake Detective, that's about... Sherlock... isn't it?" she stuttered. "I've never read it, you know. If I want to read about him I just read my own diaries... er... sorry. That's a bit weird isn't it?" Molly's nervous titter echoed in the otherwise silent room. The poor thing was just so awkward and I had certainly only made it worse by bringing up such thoughts by reading that trash. I can't imagine what she thought of me.
Setting down my tea slowly, I tried to find something to diffuse the situation, "Um, yes, well you aren't missing anything. Complete rubbish, the lot of it. I don't know why I'm reading it. Just curious I guess."
Molly smiled at me strangely and sat down at my table, "that's not really true, is it?"
"Sorry?" I raised my eyebrows. What was she on about?
Molly ducked her head a bit, tucking her hair behind her ear, "well... it's only... I actually came in here because of a rumor I heard. That..." she cleared her throat unnecessarily "well... I heard that you visited Sherlock, last week."
Taking a sip of tea, I took a moment to curse the hospital rumor mill. Damn Mike, that's the last time I tell him anything in confidence. I forced a smile, "yeah, I did. I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, Molly."
"Oh no, no not at all," her smile softened. "He won't see me," she glanced away, "I've... tried to visit, but he won't..." Molly just shook her head. "I was just wondering... if he's alright? Did he seem... okay?"
"Yeah, yeah he was fine," on one level I wasn't too surprised to hear he wouldn't see her when she visited him. He was blatantly uninterested when she was brought into the conversation before, but on another level it made me question why he agreed to talk with me. After that, I wasn't sure what else to say. She seemed to be looking for more from me, so the rest of my lunch was spent looking away to the wall. Was I supposed to ask about her journals? I was a bit curious about a more honest account of his life before, I was starting out with little notes and such that might turn into a book. But that was an even more awkward conversation than this one, I couldn't imagine reading something so personal.
I looked at my phone to appear busy, but only opened Holmes's texts to me once more. I swiped my thumb over the electronic words contemplatively. Here before me was a woman who understood this man's draw, possibly the only other person in the world that could. For whatever reason, I felt protective of my association with him. I didn't want to share anything, even with this woman who no doubt knew Holmes so much better than I.
But Sherlock wouldn't speak to her, and that made me feel special. It was a petty emotion, no doubt, but unavoidable all the same.
Also unavoidable was the fact that I was, indeed, going to accept his invitation. Against my better judgment, I was going see him again.
It was the weekend, and the weather was nice enough that I took a cab over to Trafalgar Square. My dwindling social life had lead me to be a bit of a shut-in, so getting out among the crowds was good for me. I've always had a love of people watching and a general aversion, read: incompetence, with technology so the square was always a good place to go think with pen and paper in hand.
I wanted to come up with good questions to ask Holmes, but having never been any sort of reporter or writer before left me a little out in the water as to where to start. I sighed, scratching the back of my head with the pen. I watched the flow of people for awhile, and as they came and went a man sat down beside me. It wasn't an occurrence that I would usually note, let alone remember, but he turned to me with eyes that I recognized and a question that frosted me with fear.
"What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
How did...? Did everyone in the world know? What was this?
A great anger riled up in me then. Why the bloody hell did people think it was proper to worm their way into my life. There was no connection between us. I had only met him once for God's sake!
"I could be mistaken," I veritably growled, turning to the man, "but, I think that's none of your business." His penetrating gaze was familiar, though it took me a moment to connect the dots. This man was like Holmes, but the similarities might have been coincidental. I had no way of knowing who this stranger was.
Yet somehow, he knew me.
"Doctor Watson, is all that hostility really necessary? It was a friendly inquiry, I assure you." He brushed absently at his coat collar, the entire outfit simply radiated money. "Who are you?" I asked, not placated in the least.
"Ah yes, how rude of me. I'm an interested party, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock therefore being, of course, my younger brother." Somehow he formed his mouth around those words but I could hear the mild disgust behind the sentiment. Well, at least I knew who he was. After read that laughable biography, I knew that this was the man responsible for Sherlock's peculiar place of imprisonment. Supposedly Holmes was given special privileges, being the only prisoner in what was effectively a military bunker. Said bunker itself surrounded by the most bizarre rumors of cutting edge science experiments and what amounted to cheesy sci-fi plots.
This elder Holmes was someone of telling influence to get Sherlock in such a place. Perhaps he thought he was helping his wayward brother, but I knew better. I had been their and seen his bare feet on those frozen floors.
There was no comfort for Sherlock at Baskerville.
"Well yeah? That's just great, but you see... it's still none of your business." I pointedly turned away back to my notepad. Still from the corner of my eye, I could see his calculating look. He cleared his throat, "I've done a bit of looking into you, Doctor, and I have certain concerns when it comes to the people Sherlock is influenced by. You, Doctor, concern me."
I couldn't have been more incredulous, "... Are you saying that... that I'd be a bad influence on him? Sherlock Holmes? Do you even know who he is?"
"I am well aware, yes," he sat up a bit straighter, "as I am also aware of a little hobby of yours."
I rolled my eyes, "yes, the gambling. Sherlock deduced it within seconds and I'm supposed to be afraid because you saw my debts in 'checking up on me,' was it?"
"I was referring to this," he tossed a glossy photograph in my lap. A photo of me... shooting a gun. I swallowed heavily. "Bit of an odd pastime for a London surgeon, isn't it?"
"Steady hands, keen eyesight, focus, the skills from my profession actually do transfer quite perfectly. It isn't illegal." And it wasn't, it's not like I actually owned a gun or anything.
"No, of course not. Just a bit of fun at the shooting range, hmn? Letting off a bit of steam after work?" He raised his eyebrows.
"Look, I don't know what you want but-"
"I'd like to offer you a job actually," a slick smile manifested, "I had to sure, you understand, that you were the sort for the job. And now that I can see that you're telling the truth about your unfortunate idea of fun, I am confident that you are... suitable."
"I'm not looking for a job," I stood up, at this point tired of the pompous git. I began to walk away when his words caught me, "it's to do with my brother, Sherlock. Since your visit, he's been... more himself than he has in years."
"And that worries you?" Looking back over my shoulder I couldn't see a bit of honest emotion on his controlled face. He stood as well to meet me and held out a card, "you don't have to say anything now, in fact, I'd prefer it if you didn't. Call this number, once you've thought about my offer."
With trepidation, I took the card and put it away in my pocket, "what exactly are you offering?"
His politician smile stretched uncomfortably wider, "a position as Sherlock's doctor."
I just blinked at him. Was he serious? "But I haven't any experience in psychology or psychiatry, I do surgeries. I'm a trauma specialist." This almost got a chuckle from him for some reason.
"Quite... just think about it, Doctor," he turned and melted into the voluminous crowds. I pulled out the card and looked at it. The thing was totally blank but for a number in red, to short to be a normal telephone number. I wasn't sure what to think of the whole thing. I was getting ready to retire from medical practice not embark on a new field. But even through my simmering anger, there was a curiosity. Working with Holmes? That would give my budding novel something more credible to stand on, something more than a spattering of visits. Otherwise, who would even listen to what I had to say over the experts?
"Before, during, and since his trial the Great Fake Detective has remained silent. The only one's who know his voice are the orderlies he deigns to insult. My report will be the closest we will ever get to the truth." -Kitty Riley
It meant getting closer to Sherlock.
So what was the harm in considering it?
Part 2: End
A.N. This chapter is short with no Sherlock, I know, but I wanted to get it out there. I should probably clarify that in this universe John was never in the military. Guns are a hobby of his picked up from family members in the army. We'll be back to Baskerville next time.
