John was also having a bit of a challenging evening.
Still giddy on artistic success, he had painted several new landscapes, each more beautiful and inspired than the last before he ventured out for a bite to eat.
Limping gamely along the boulevard with a bit of a spring in his ungainly step, he didn't notice the sleek black barouche pull up beside him until it was too late. It was an imposing carriage, drawn by a matched pair of black Arabians. The driver was hooded, unusual for the early May warmth. Warning bells rang in John's mind as the driver tied off the reins and, climbing down gracefully, opened the door of the barouche. A silky voice issued from the dark interior.
"Doctor Watson. Care to join me for a little drive?"
John peered cautiously into the vehicle, trying to make out the inhabitant.
"I really would rather not," he called guardedly.
A sigh issued from the velvet interior. "Get in, monsieur. I'd rather not do this the hard way."
"What do you want with me?" John tightened his grip on his cane stubbornly.
"I have a few...sensitive questions for you. I'd prefer not to shout them at you like a fishwife."
John remained impassive. The voice relented a bit.
"It's about Sherlock." John surveyed his surroundings. The boulevard was crowded, and enough people were watching the elegant carriage and the stubborn little painter shout at each other to make it unlikely that this was a kidnapping, or an effective one, anyway. He couldn't deny that he was curious about the mysterious Sherlock LeBeau, and since when had John Watson ever turned from danger?
With a sigh, he awkwardly clambered into the low slung carriage. The lone occupant was an immaculately attired, obviously wealthy gentleman sitting primly upright on the seat opposite him. His coat and waistcoat were dove gray, and his cravat was snowy white silk. As John watched, he inhaled a bit of snuff from a gold, monogrammed snuffbox. He managed to make out the initials MH before it was whisked away. Two sharp raps on the barouche's wall and they were pulling smoothly into traffic.
The man leaned back and examined him minutely. John stared defiantly back. He noticed no guns hidden on the man, no signs of concealed weaponry, and as it became clear that the man was content to examine him, John studied him right back. He noted the sumptuously textured fabric of his clothing and the encroaching bald spot on his pate, as well as his pinched lips and frown lines. No wedding ring.
"Doctor Watson. What is your affiliation with the young man you brought home two days ago?"
"I could be mistaken, but I don't believe that's any of your affair." John replied evenly, with a slightly unpleasant smile. "Who are you? I don't believe we've been acquainted." The man leaned against the back of his seat superciliously.
"An interested party. I am perhaps the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock is capable of having."
"And what's that?"
"An enemy."
John tried not to let the surprise show on his face. "An enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly." He pursed his lips slightly. "If you continue to see him, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money in exchange for tidbits of information. I worry about him so."
"No. No, I'm not interested, thank you very much."
"You're very loyal very quickly." The man noted, eyebrow raised.
"No, I'm just not interested." John repeated stubbornly. A tiny part of him was screaming that this man could pay his rent thrice over and still have enough to buy him a new easel, but it was quashed by his conscience, and yes, camaraderie with Sherlock Lebeau. He had tended his wounds, created art around him, and broken bread with the man. He would not say one word about him to an unctuous man with a golden snuff box who so baldly proclaimed himself his enemy.
"Are we done here?" John inquired coolly, hoping to extricate himself from the barouche.
The man regarded him with displeasure, and something that John struggled to place. Was it a brief flash of respect?
"Yes, I believe we are, Doctor Watson. Please send my regards to your new...friend."
The carriage drew to a stop, horses stomping as they were pulled to rest. John nodded once, and began to carefully clamber out of the carriage, dragging his injured leg and leaning heavily on his cane. The man, MH, spoke suddenly.
"A word to the wise, monsieur. When one walks with Sherlock, one begins to see Paris as a battlefield. I suggest you reconsider your association with him if you aren't ready for war." A dispassionately pointed glance at his leg.
"Good day monsieur." John bit off, taking the last ungainly step onto the asphaltum and scowling. Damn my leg, he thought to himself. At least he wasn't far from his studio on Baker Street.
He blinked and looked around. As a matter of fact, he was steps from his door. John briefly entertained the thought that MH had planned the entire exchange thusly, before he noticed a discordant jangle in the sounds of Paris.
As he pricked up his ears, he heard the sounds of a man crudely trying to pick up a prostitute and then a shriek of pain. His lips quirked. He imagined Sherlock being propositioned, and the haughty way he looked down his creamy nose at the world. John wouldn't put it past the proud man to refuse customers who didn't ask politely enough. He hobbled to his door and began to make himself a cup of tea.
As he pottered with the kettle and tea, he focused on a niggling blossom of suspicion.
What did a man as important and wealthy as MH want with a lorette like Sherlock? The man had called Sherlock by his Christian name, indicating that he and Sherlock were roughly equals. John, although inexperienced with the aristocracy, understood that that was uncommon. What could Sherlock possibly have done to incur the enmity of someone so powerful? Why was MH so concerned with his movements?
John flicked through possibilities in his mind as he cupped his steaming mug. The only one that made the slightest bit of sense was the idea that MH was a lover of Sherlock's and their affair had turned sour. Although a man with MH's power surely would have taken on a courtesan or a mistress rather than a street clandestine. Perhaps they knew each other from the time of the commune, when things were more equal? Perhaps Sherlock was some sort of spy?
Speculation would get him nowhere, he told himself, but his mind kept returning to the subject, poking at it like a loose tooth.
He couldn't really imagine Sherlock with MH. They were too similar in a way, both long and lean and pale. For purely aesthetic reasons, Sherlock would look best with someone the physical opposite of him.
John let himself picture alabaster paired with golden skin, long, elegant limbs matched with a strong, sturdy chest. How well he could envision the scene! And what a striking image it would be.
He would paint the two figures at rest in a Classical grove, perhaps as wood nymphs. Yes, a grassy, shadowed stand of trees would offset Sherlock's artful pallor and the other figure's tanned glow beautifully.
Absentmindedly, John grabbed up his sketchbook and blocked out the proportions of the scene. Filling in some brief details, he held it at arm's length and studied the Classical pastoral romance.
There was Sherlock, flung luxuriously on a bed of green, and there was the other man, kneeling over him protectively. He looked oddly familiar.
John studied the sturdy, shorter figure, taking in the watchful guardian-like stance, and winced as he slammed up against the realization that he'd drawn himself into the painting. He tossed the sketch away from him as if it had scorched him.
John Watson would be Sherlock's perfect aesthetic opposite.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, resolutely pushing away thoughts of the juxtaposition of silver and gold in a dark forest. Rising, he tidied his rooms from force of habit, and then retired early. No need to be awake any longer to think such dangerous thoughts.
The next morning, John awoke, and in a rare moment of self indulgence, strolled down to the cafe on the corner, bought himself a copy of Le Figaro, and savored a croissant and some espresso while he watched the people go by. Though he'd boasted about his observational skills to Sherlock, John privately didn't consider himself particularly observant at all, especially compared to Sherlock. But John was remarkable in one way.
John knew bodies.
His background as a soldier had taught him all the ways a body could break, and how to spot danger from body language.
John's experience as a battlefield medic had taught him both how to heal bodies, and how to diagnose ailments and injuries incredibly rapidly. John could spot a cholera patient at fifty meters, and consumption at twenty.
And John understood bodies from painting them. He focused both his military and medical understanding to capture the curve of a hip and the smoothness of a shoulder. The scars and dimples of fat and birthmarks he painted were almost photorealistic, so deep was his understanding of the human form. He also prided himself on being a thorough and considerate lover.
John's observational skills were perhaps not as impressive as Sherlock's, who could glean that information and more from accents and thumbs, but John didn't specialize in theory. He specialized in practice.
John had the sneaking suspicion that despite or perhaps because of his line of work, Sherlock avoided bodies if he could help it. He certainly didn't take good care of his own.
Interesting that, a prostitute that let his wares get so thin and scarred.
The drugs often went with the territory, John understood that, but the protruding bones and scars from what appeared to be chemical burns and knives? Not to mention the callouses on his fingertips. An instrument, perhaps the violin?
He had assumed by the way Sherlock had almost succeeded in seducing him, John who was emphatically not a sodomite, that he was a very good prostitute indeed, but his body told a different story.
Sherlock's body hinted that he either hadn't been a prostitute for very long, or had a deep sort of inner loathing.
John let himself examine his suspicions as he absently paged through the newspaper. Flipping through gallery openings, society pages and classified adverts, a headline grabbed his eye. Le Boucher Massacre Prostitué de plus! The butcher slays another prostitute? A prickle of worry ran down John's spine. He anxiously skimmed the piece.
No mention of names, but it seemed that there was a murderer on the loose that the press had nicknamed the Butcher for his habit of scattering chunks of male prostitute all over Paris. Suddenly anxious to see Sherlock, John got hastily to his feet, flung a few centimes on the table for the garcon, and limped home as quickly as he could.
Notes: Sorry this has been so long guys, I've had my wisdom teeth out and been basically the soul cousin of a Nubian fainting goat on hella drugs for a week. So that happened. Anyway, here's another chapter! Happy Christmas!
Barouche: a sleek, lovely carriage type, favored by the upper class. Drawn by two horses, closed, with two seats facing each other and a driver on the outside. I did borrow some dialogue from Study in Pink for this, but adapted it to fit rough ye olde speech patterns.
Differing gradients of prostitution in 1870s Paris! When John is pondering Mycroft and Sherlock's association, he thinks that Mycroft wouldn't have picked a prostitute of Sherlock's assumed station, and he is correct! Prostitutes in this era ranged from the fortifications whores (called la paillase, or, the mattress) to courtesans, who were often kept in fabulous style. Sherlock is posing as a low to mid range prostitute here. Because there's far less data about male prostitution I've had to fudge it all a bit. He's a street clandestine, who is not openly selling wares, or in a brothel, but makes it pretty clear that they're available.
The scene John draws is a traditional one, one that the Academy would love. They were the main art institution, and essentially what John and the Impressionists were rebelling against. They basically thought that the only good art was painting or sculpture of Classical, historical, or religious material. John's sketch, however, is subversive in that it's two men in repose, not two women or a heterosexual couple. Le Figaro is the oldest French newspaper, and it's still around!
Consumption: I believe this is now tuberculosis?
Tell me what you think. I thrive on feedback like a flower feeds on shit.