La belle Paris, circa 1877.
The City of Light, they called it, shining, gaslit Paris, with its monuments, its salons, and the giggling girls and their admirers picnicking on the banks of the Seine. The smell of croissants, espresso, cigarettes and manure floated along the boulevards still stained with the blood of the revolutionary idealists of the Paris Commune. All seemed peaceful but for the chunks of human flesh that kept turning up at insane asylums.
In the city of lights, of luminaries like Stravinsky, Proust, Zola and Degas, lived a sandy blond man with wooden cane and flecks of paint on his clothes, not a luminary, but a conductor of light.
Springtime in Paris, and John Watson was alone at the Folies-Bergere.
Perched on a wooden stool, leg dangling uncomfortably, he was one solitary, morose island among the giddy denizens of the famous raucous dance hall. Around his table music swirled, the petticoats of girls dancing the galop winked and swished brazenly, and the fug of cigarettes hung heavy around the gilded ceiling where a trapeze artist swung overhead.
He nodded to the bartender who he vaguely remembered meeting at a gathering of Manet's. A woman named Suzon, a prostitute and Manet's model, he remembered, jolted by the dish of oranges on the bar, a symbol of favors for sale. He tapped his fingers on the wooden table, narrowly avoiding a sticky patch of gin and nursed his pint.
To a casual observer he would seem unremarkable. Sandy blond hair, stocky build, thin lips, mobile face. Plain working clothes, brown trousers, white linen shirt, rumpled brown waistcoat, with the sole pop of color a somber maroon ascot. A scuffed wooden cane leaned precariously against the wall behind him.
The casual observer would form an image of a pleasant, industrious looking, generally forthright man, perhaps a bit careworn, a little creased, a little raw, but generally an honest looking fellow.
A talented observer would have seen more, noticed the man's military bearing, the tightness of one shoulder, the flecks of dried paint on his clothes and boots, the charcoal stains on his fingers, the tremor in his left hand, and the carefully disguised sorrow in his eyes.
A talented observer could have deduced his whole life story from the marks on his boots and the creases of his eyes, but said talented observer was currently at the bar, pouring absinthe down his lily white throat as if he was trying to drown himself and splashing viscous, green drops on his unbuttoned, artfully disheveled shirt.
John sighed, the sound lost in the swirl of accordions, shrieking laughter of the prostitutes, and the thumping of wooden floorboards from the frenzied dancing. He shifted his weight on the hard wooden stool and flicked his eyes around the room, wondering how Degas could stand the chaos of this place, and even more improbably, draw inspiration from it.
His eyes landed on his friend, who was leaning against the stage chatting up some of the dancing girls. He looked alive and vibrant, his brown eyes dancing as he visibly sucked creative inspiration from the scene. John remembered the nervous man who served alongside him in the National Guard in 1870, so worried about his failing eyesight and what it would mean for his artistic career, and a slanted smile crossed his face. By the way Edgar was leaning towards the flirtatious, scantily clad girls, his eyesight was just fine.
John tapped his fingers on the table decisively. Degas had his best interests at heart bringing him here, but this was not where he would find his muse. He wasn't sure where he'd find the inspiration to paint, but it wasn't here. His mind drifted to his art, and his lips twisted.
Little limping John Watson with his lovely landscapes and cityscapes, selling his paintings in the market. He was a magnet for old ladies with a few coins to spend, and he didn't mind painting the placid scenes. It paid the bills, which is more than some artists could say. It wasn't fulfilling however, and it wasn't bragging to say that he was capable of more than insipid scenes of the Champs-Elysee, or the Arc du Triomphe.
He was settling into a rut, John thought ruefully. He painted uninspired cityscapes, limped to and from his rooms, occasionally went out with the other painters of his acquaintance, dined simply, lived within his means, and at night, the dreams of the Semaine Sanglante, the bloody week at the end of the rule of the Paris Commune haunted him. Frenchmen killing Frenchmen, chaos in the street, a woman screaming as if her heart was breaking, blood running through his fingers as he frantically staunched wounds, his old medic kit lying forgotten, blood seeping into the rough duck cloth, entrails soft and pliant under his fingers-
A drunk staggered into him on his way to pick up one of the pretty boy prostitutes that leaned enticingly against the wall, and the spell was broken.
John sighed, scrubbing at his brow, feeling suddenly too old for this place. After his service in the Franco-Prussian war and his time as a medic for the Paris Commune he had been shaken to his core. The sight of the madness and bloodshed in the beautiful bustling rues of Paris that he'd grown up in had shaken something loose inside him. He had found himself unable to see the streets as anything but a war zone until Degas had come to visit him, bringing a box of paints and a canvas and coaxing him gently to paint the very real beauty of the post war, scrubbed Paris.
It had soothed him to paint the sweet golden light that danced on the storefronts and cafes, the streetlight's flickering glow, the bridges across the Seine, and to have tangible reminders of the new quiet and peace in his streets. He'd used what remained of his army pension to rent a tiny room with a studio and purchase a paintbox, canvas and easel, and he had been content in his quiet life.
John rose to his feet with a weary groan, dodging drunks and dandies, workers and ladies, as he tipped his cap to Degas and headed out the door. His cane was a constant thumping companion as he meandered down the street. Dodging a puddle of horse manure, he tripped over a prone foot and almost flew head first into the asphaltum. He caught himself with an almost forgotten agility that made him smile grimly despite himself before turning his attention to the body in the alley.
Slumped against a brick wall was the owner of the foot that had tripped him, a thin, pale man, clearly teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
He was being harangued by a belligerent drunk who grabbed the man by his grubby linen shirt, shaking him before attempting a sloppy kiss. The gaunt man turned his head away listlessly, seeming unable to muster much energy to fight.
John sighed, he'd seen men try to take what wasn't offered before. He strode quietly into the mouth of the alley, and with a shout and a few deft blows of his stout wooden cane the sot fled, trailing curses as he staggered off. Rolling his eyes, John turned to leave the alley and continue home, before his eyes fell on the man again.
But this was no man, this was an angel.
John gawped like a country rube seeing Notre Dame for the first time. The slim figure, with his halo of dark curls, slanting eyes rimmed by sooty drooping lashes, flawless skin- John immediately pictured how he'd paint that pristine porcelain skin, with a dash of cream, highlighted with gold and pinks- and that mouth, those sensual plush lips -pink, carmine, faint hints of maroon, his brain helpfully supplied- and he had to suppress a gasp as the man's eyes opened and looked dazedly into John. Lovat, emerald, juniper, aquamarine, flecks of gold, John would need to buy a whole new paint box to capture those eyes. Aware he was staring, he promptly blushed and stammered as those eyes looked at him uncomprehendingly.
"Are you feeling alright monsieur?" His only reply was a dazed murmur. Bending closer, he was hit by a pungent whiff of anise.
Absinthe. He should have realized.
The man's wan complexion and vacant eyes were familiar. He'd seen eyes like them staring from alleys, bars, and most recently, from a painting of Degas' he'd called L'Absinthe. This man's eyes had more splintering intelligence in them than the listless woman in the painting, but he was essentially helpless, and the night was quickly turning chilly. With a last, fuzzy blink up at John, the man's eyes slid closed, seemingly dead to the world.
John's stomach sank. He couldn't just leave this extraordinary man alone in the alley. Anyone could come upon him, and then an unwanted kiss would be the last of his worries. With a sigh, John's mind was made up.
Bending down and tentatively wrapping his fingers around the man's frail but sinewy wrist failed to make him dissipate, as his fey features would imply. John slung the pale arm around his own shoulders, swinging him up onto his feet.
"Up you get then…" he muttered, mostly to himself. The pale, disheveled body was deadweight, and leaning on his bad leg.
With a muttered curse, he lifted him bodily, amazed at the solidity of the man with the birdlike bones, and began to drag him down the street. With heaving and prodding, they slowly wended their way through the streets, John thanking his lucky stars that he lived relatively near.
On seeing the flight of stairs that heralded his rooms, he heaved a sigh of frustration, depositing the man at the bottom of the steps, darting up to unlock and open the door, and rushing back to drag him up again.
Quickly realizing that there was no way to make the man's feet cooperate enough to climb the stairs, he gritted his teeth, swallowed his embarrassment and, lifting the man beneath his shoulders and knees, as a bridegroom would carry his blushing bride over the hearth of their new home, he staggered forward, up the steps, and into his rooms.
Notes: Many thanks to my beautiful beta, callous-and-strange! The Folies-Bergere and Suzon the barmaid: wiki/A_Bar_at_the_Folies-Berg%C3%A8re L'Absinthe, the painting John thinks of when he sees Sherlock: wiki/L'Absinthe As a historical interpreter and artist's model, this is going to be as accurate as possible. If I deviate, I shall declare.