Not so Shakespearean
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlockor anything that pertains to BBC's hit-show. I only own my original character (OC) Ophelia Doreen Watson and minor plot. Please enjoy and don't forget to review, alert, or favorite! Thank you.
Author's Note: Drama, drama, drama! It'll settle down… sort of. Ophelia is the time of person to feel bad for a lot of things, even the littlest things; you'll see why dearies. Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy it!
2. My Job as an Assistant
Ophelia opened her compact, looking as her reflection stared back. Today was the big day, wasn't it? She nearly sprung a leak from the shameful amount of glee that coursed through her veins. She closed the compact, throwing it back in her purse which seemed more of a black hole than anything else, and walked across the street. She had finally gotten a job, after a ridiculous amount of interviews and call backs she finally landed a job. It wasn't much, she was working as an assistant for the morgue technician at St. Bart's hospital. It wasn't exciting, it was quite macabre, and it suited her just fine. Opening her compact again, she lined her lips with some nude lipstick, already nervous.
Her heels clicked on the pavement as she paused before the doors. She took a deep breath before pushing the doors open to the hospital.
"You must be Ophelia Watson." Ophelia wasn't expecting to find a chipper red-head working in the morgue, but there she was: Molly Hooper, her colleague and some what boss. Molly stuck out her hand and Ophelia gladly took it, smiling at the woman, "yes I am, and you must be Molly Hooper." The woman meekly nodded before letting Ophelia's hand go, "I'll give you the grand tour." Ophelia followed Molly around for about ten minutes, getting used to the layout of the morgue, and Molly's timid attitude.
"I usually go to lunch at about half past eleven, seems the slowest time of the day," Molly said, smiling a bit before directing Ophelia upstairs and into a room with counters littered with microscopes and Petri dishes, "you'll be helping me with the bodies, but for now I'm sticking you on clean up duty. I hope that, that's okay?" Ophelia covered the chuckle with a cough, nodding her head, "of course, I have to start on the bottom of the food chain don't I?" Molly looked a bit flustered but didn't comment on the jest, but instead turned around and started working on the toxicology reports for the recent bodies brought in.
"How's your first day going? I hope your bum hand hasn't gotten in the way of your job." Ophelia shook her head, and replied with a simple no, "I'm glad." He sounded relieved, and she could faintly hear that he was walking, possibly in the park. Ophelia didn't want to mention that her hand hurt, didn't want to mention that all she wanted to do was cry from embarrassment when Molly saw her neck.
"Do you want to go out tonight? My treat." She mentally cursed herself, he probably heard the hurt in her voice, "I don't think I'd take no as an answer." She smiled, "I think that'd be fine. Just no place with chopsticks." She joked quietly as she opened a bottle of water to sip on.
"How long is your lunch break?" John asked, and she could faintly hear someone call John's name, "shit. I gotta go, I'll call you later?"
"It's a date." Before long Ophelia said her good-byes since her lunch break was coming to a close. Ophelia pocketed the phone into her lab coat before making her way back to the morgue. When she got back it was deathly quiet, well except a faint noise of what sounded like something being hit. She peered down the hallway that led to the actual morgue, and not just the lab. She did a double take as she saw Molly standing, staring through the window with a large smile on her face. Ophelia looked around, confused before walking down the hall the meet Molly.
"What are you-"
Oh.
Oh.
That's where the hitting noises were coming from. A man was standing at the feet of the cadaver that had just rolled in with a riding crop in hand, smacking the dead man. If he wasn't dead, he surely was now. The man looked furious as he brought the leather piece down upon the dead flesh, making the most horrific noise Ophelia ever had the pleasure of hearing, "who's that?" Ophelia almost hissed at Molly. Her colleague didn't even look at Ophelia, just turned her head slightly.
"Sherlock Holmes, isn't he lovely?"
Ophelia looked at Molly as if she grew a second head. Sherlock Holmes. It was the man who had saved her almost a week ago, she watched breathlessly as he continued to whip to corpse. She didn't know whether to be glad or frightened. Ophelia took one more glance towards the man standing in the morgue, shook her head deciding it wasn't her business, (if Molly authorized him that means he's suppose to be here, right?) and went back to cleaning the lab. She hiked back up the stairs and went into the lab, cleaning up what Molly had left. She was carefully not to touch anything set on the counter opposite of her, "Ongoing things is all, he always uses that spot." She remembered Molly's exact words, and didn't fuss over the mess.
When she heard the door to the lab open, she assumed it was Molly and turned towards her, "Molly, did you want me to-" the words died on her lips as she turned and saw the man from earlier, except she could clearly see him now, "oh, my apologizes, thought you were Molly." She tried explaining. He didn't say anything, in fact Ophelia would say he down-right ignored her. He turned back to the counter, drying the beakers that she just washed. There was perfect silence for a few moments before she spoke: "thank you for saving me the other night Sherlock." Her voice was quiet and she stuttered, but she hoped that he heard her. She heard nothing. No reply or affirmation that he had indeed heard her. Again the door opened behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder,
Confusion spread over her face like wild-fire, what was John doing here? She ducked her head down as he looked around, she heard him stumble. He obviously saw her, but quickly covered it up: "a bit different from my day." She left his eyes glued to the back of her head. Another male voice came from beside her, "you've no idea!" It wasn't quiet for long before a deep baritone voice asked a question.
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." She heard Mike step over to the counter and lean against it, "and what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text." Was the eloquent response. Ophelia rolled her eyes, looking over at John before mouthing at him: what are you doing here? He shrugged, looking at Mike as he told Sherlock he didn't have his phone on him. John dug into his back pocket, "here, use mine." John barely walked a few steps before holding it out for Sherlock to take. "Oh, thank you." She heard the squeak of the stool and some foot steps. Ophelia propped another beaker up since it was dried.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Ophelia froze, her eyes glued to the counter in front of her. Even her hand stopped moving, oh God; what did he just say?
"Sorry...?" John replied and she could see his confused look in her mind, it probably matched her own. How did he know? Ophelia's mind scrambled around to find an answer before she turned to look at the two men.
"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" She saw Sherlock look up at her brother, his eyes even slipped over towards her, and then back down at the phone.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" She was amazed, the exact observation just like nights earlier.
The door opened once again behind Ophelia, effectively making her jump a bit. Molly came through the doors smiling as she carried a mug in her hand, steam rolling off of it. Just by the smell, Ophelia knew what it was: coffee.
"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He handed the phone back to John, who still looked confused about what just happened, and grabbed the mug. Molly smiled, even looked a little flustered, "what happened to the lipstick?" Ophelia frowned, lipstick? Molly wasn't wearing lipstick when I saw her last. It occurred to her that Molly had put it on especially for Sherlock.
Molly smiled, a bit awkwardly, "it wasn't working for me."
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He turned away from her, sipping on the coffee, and she could see Molly's face fall, a tint of embarrassment shading her cheeks. Ophelia felt deflated even if the words weren't directed at her and looked sympathetically over at Molly; she looked like she was going to cry.
"...okay," She turned around, looked up and saw Ophelia, "oh. Ophelia, when you get a chance can you run by the ER for me and pick up some records?"
"Of course Molly." Ophelia gave Molly her best and brightest smile, which in turn made her smile as well. Molly left promptly, holding her hand up to her face. Mike looked over at Ophelia, "did you have a sister named Ophelia?" Abashed, Ophelia looked at John and smiled weakly. Both of them didn't answer.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
"I'm sorry, what?" John tried again, his eyes narrowing in confusion once more. He seems to be saying that a lot.
Sherlock was typing on his laptop, didn't even bother to look up when he replied, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he turned towards John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Flatmates? Ophelia thought, looking back and forth between the two men and then at Mike. John looked as Mike as well, confusion once again clear on his face.
"Oh, you ... you told him about me?"
Mike shook his head, "not a word." John turned his attention back to Sherlock, "then who said anything about flatmates?"
Sherlock looked indifferent to the question as he picked up his coat, "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."
"How did you know about Afghanistan?"
Sherlock ignored him, wrapped a blue scarf around his neck, and picked up his phone to check it, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." The mysterious man towards John, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The sudden flash of him hitting the cold corpse over and over again came to mind; she shivered. Sherlock dropped his phone into his pocket and went to open the door. John turned towards him.
"Is that it?"
Sherlock stopped and turned to look at John, "is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're gonna go look at a flat?" The disbelief was clear, so was the confusion, and a number of other emotions.
"Problem?"
The disbelief increased as he looked at Mike for help, and then at Ophelia. His gaze looked like he wanted help, but what would she say? What would she do?
"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." John began. She glanced back at Sherlock, watching as he took in a deep breath.
"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Your younger sister is worried about you, but you can't ask her for help either - what kind of older sibling would you be then? You're protecting her from yourself - no." He stopped momentarily, looking like he was thinking, "you're protecting her from the world around her; always the white knight it seems. Oh, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock looked down at John's limp and John noticed, shuffling awkwardly. Ophelia gaped at him.
How.
How did he know all that. He was brilliant.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The smugness in his voice was suffocating. He turned on his heel and began walking out the door, but stopped, looked back, and spoke once again: "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one-B Baker Street." He winked and promptly left in a swirl of coat and scarf. John looked at Ophelia then at Mike.
"Yeah. He's always like that."
"You're not actually considering..." Ophelia started, looking dumbfounded by even the idea that John was thinking about moving in with Sherlock, "I mean - he's a good man in all, but," she stuttered over her words, her good hand playing with her hair as she looked down the images of him hitting the corpse resurfaced, "he seems … off." John chuckled into his wine glass.
"Everybody is a tad off Effie, no one is perfect." Ophelia played with the idea of retorting with I think you are, but her mother's words rushed over her and she stopped, nodding in fake agreement. If he had noticed it was fake he didn't say anything, which she was glad for. She sipped her white wine incredulously, she really hated wine, but John ordered this in celebration of her new job, "wait, you said he was a good man. Not seems, but is. You met Sherlock before?"
"He was the one who saved me when my attacker broke in." She heard him choke on his wine, and the coughing that followed it. She sipped quietly without looking up. "What?" His voice was hoarse when he finally responded, he dabbed his napkin against his mouth, "are you sure?"
"He said his name, Sherlock Holmes."
"I - he.." He was quiet before taking out his wallet, putting down a pile of pounds, "and you're saying you're worried about me moving in with him? He saved you." He looked angry before he collected his cane and jacket, leaving with a rushed good-bye. Ophelia wanted to cry and scream, like a child, but held it in as she thanked her waiter and walked home.
Good going Watson. And when she got home, she felt the over-flow of tears, and she threw her bad hand against the wall immediately feeling the repercussions for the spur of the moment action. Now she cried for making her brother angry and cried for the pain swelling in her casted hand.