Turn Left – The Veteran's House

by Soledad

Summary: What if John didn't meet Mike Stamford in the park on that fateful day. Would his and Sherlock's path ever cross?

Author's note: The details from John's CV are taken from "The Blind Banker", together with a few lines of dialogue. The part about the rugby lads are from John's online blog. By considering John's financial situation I based some things on wellingtongoose's excellent article. Only very loosely, though. Just as much as the story needed it.

Mr Fortescue and his pompous office have been borrowed from "A Pocketful of Rye" by Dame Agatha Christie – for the simple reason that I 'cast' Peter Davison to 'play' a necessary banker character in this story, and Davison once played Lance Fortescue in the TV-version of that novel. So yes, everything that seems familiar is meant to seem familiar.


Chapter 02

The next week finds John in a small, shared GP's practice, somewhere halfway between Ella's office and his miserable housing. It was actually Ella who recommended the place to him, knowing they were looking for a doctor because one of their colleagues was going on maternity leave, and the administrator of the practice, now sitting across from John behind her desk, is an old school friend of Ella's.

She's a lovely woman, this Doctor Sarah Sawyer, despite being a bit harried-looking. She's about John's age, or not much younger, with the potential to be beautiful, but that potential is thwarted by loneliness and too much work, apparently, if the fine lines around her eyes and in the corners of her mouth are any indication.

She studies John's CV carefully, her eyes widening in surprise here and there – especially when reading through Page #2, where the special qualifications are listed. The ones he needed when on retrieval missions. The ones he won't need here, or in any other GP's ever again. He's seriously overqualified for the job, and they both know it.

Doctor Sawyer returns her attention to Page #1, where the basic skills and proficiencies of an emergency doctor are listed.

"It says here that you're able to recognise and give immediate and appropriate treatment in a wide range of medical and surgical conditions," she says and continues reading the printed CV out loud. "Including myocardial infraction, acute coronary syndrome, pulmonary embolus and Sickle Cell Crisis, deep vein thrombosis, acute asthma attack, severe exacerbation of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetic keto-acidosis, community and hospital acquired pneumonia, seizures, poisoning or overdose, acute abdomen, post-operative oliguria hypotension and post-operative infections."

"Yes," John answers simply. Every junior doctor with basic emergency training is supposed to recognise those symptoms. Treating them properly is another cup of tea.

"You do realise this is just locum work," she says a bit uncertainly.

John tries to smile at her but it doesn't really work. He's too nervous, his left hand clenches into a fist involuntarily. "No, that's fine."

He needs this job desperately. He's not giving up on working in London just yet. Not without a fight. But his savings are in long-term investments and he won't be able to get them without considerable financial losses. He didn't expect to get shot and be invalided out of the Army, after all.

"You're, um ... well, you're a bit over-qualified," she points out the glaringly obvious.

John tries the thing with the smile again; this time it works better. "Er, I could always do with the money."

And isn't that the understatement of the decade! If he weren't aiming for disarming honesty, he'd die of embarrassment. Fortunately, she seems to be charmed by his winning smile. Good. Apparently, he hasn't lost his touch completely.

She's leafing through her papers. "Well, we've got two away on holiday this week, and one's just left to have a baby," she clears her throat apologetically. "Might be a bit mundane for you."

John already knows about the vacancies from Ella, of course, and is desperate to get the bloody job, so he brings forth the legendary Watson charm again.

"Er, no; mundane is good sometimes. Mundane works."

Which is true, but she clearly isn't buying. Looks down at his CV again.

"It says here you were a soldier," she says softly.

"And a doctor," John returns promptly. "A very good one. Still am, in fact."

She seems taken aback by his answer, and perhaps his tone was stranger than simply necessary, but he's sick and tired of his fellow doctors not taking him seriously. It's no excuse for taking out his frustration on her, though. In fact, it's definitely a stupid thing to do, as he's trying to get hired by her.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," he mutters, embarrassed. "I'm usually not his rude. Chalk it up to nerves."

Again, she clearly isn't buying it – the part with the nerves, that is – bit she lets it slide graciously enough.

"Anything else you can do?" she asks instead, and while it is teasing, at least it isn't mean-spirited at all.

"Well," John replies, with a sudden return of his sense of humour, "I learned the clarinet at school."

"Oh!" She laughs. "Well, I look forward to it!"

For an absurd moment, John imagines himself giving a concert at the reception of the surgery; then he laughs, too. For the moment, things look just a little bit better.


And for a while things do take a turn for the better. He quickly becomes a fixture in the surgery; with his level of experience, there's very little he hasn't seen, and he's easy-mannered, so both his patients and his fellow doctors soon become fond of him. The work is dull, true, but he's had enough excitement for a lifetime recently, and right now the dullness is almost welcome. He's still healing, both mentally and physically, and now that he's got a purpose again – such as it is – he's willing to take the time to actually let it happen.

The only remaining problem is his living conditions. The place may be called a one-bed flat (ha!), but is barely more than a bed-sit, really, and a lousy one, even for that. Especially the thin walls make any restful sleep almost impossible. As if his own nightmares weren't enough, he's forced to live through the ones of the other wounded veterans on his floor, too.

And on the floor above him.

He's used to surviving on very little sleep, but after a while the near complete lack of it gets to him nonetheless.

And so it happens that after a couple of weeks Sarah Sawyer walks into the surgery for her shift to find quite a crowd – not to mention commotion – in the waiting room. Their harried-looking receptionist is looking up apologetically at the first person in a queue of patients waiting to speak to her.

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting," she says. Someone in the queue sighs pointedly. "But we haven't got anything now 'til next Thursday.

The woman at the front of the queue turns aside with an exasperated look on her face. Sarah can't really blame her. It's flu season again, and even with Doctor Watson's help, the surgery is chronically understaffed and overcrowded. Knowing that doesn't help the patients, of course.

"This is taking ages," someone complains.

"Er, sorry," the receptionist replies timidly.

"What's the point of making an appointment if they can't even stick to it?" a woman in the background mutters angrily, and several other patients voice their agreement.

Sarah walks to the receptionist's desk. "What's going on?" she asks. The receptionist – Mandy – looks up to her in relief.

"That new doctor you hired – he hasn't buzzed the intercom for ages," she explains quietly.

Sarah is surprised. That doesn't sound like John Watson at all. He's usually a good, reliable doctor; something must have happened to throw him off-kilter like that.

"Let me go and have a word," she says and Mandy nods gratefully.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Excuse me," Sarah says to the queue as she walks past them, ignoring their protests. She goes to Doctor Watson's consulting room and knocks on the door. "John?"

She waits a few seconds but gets no reply, so she knocks again. "John?"

When there's still no reply, she opens the door and looks inside. Doctor Watson is sitting behind the desk, his head propped up on one fist, and is fast asleep… even snoring gently. There are dark smudges under his eyes, his face is hollow and appears more deeply lined than before. Something definitely must have happened, but Sarah is fairly certain she won't learn what it was.

She crosses the small room and carefully pats his shoulder. "Doctor Watson? Your patients are getting… well, impatient."

Afterwards John is mortally embarrassed, of course, and when – much later – he comes out of his consulting room, and puts his coat on, he'd like nothing more than slip out of the surgery unnoticed. But that would be a coward's way out; and besides. He owes his colleagues an apology. So he walks over to Sarah who is standing behind the reception desk, checking tomorrow's duty roster. He clears his throat awkwardly.

"Um, looks like I'm done. I thought I had some more to see."

"Oh, I did one or two of yours," Sarah replies nonchalantly. John feels the blood rush into his face again.

"One or two?" he repeats. Somehow he has the feeling that there might have been more.

"Well, maybe five or six," Sarah admits with a shrug.

John is so embarrassed he can't even look at her, so he chooses to examine the tops of his shoes instead. "I'm sorry. That wasn't very professional of me."

He hopes she's not going to fire him. He's just begun to breathe a bit easier, thanks to his locum pay; he'd hate to lose that.

"No," she agrees. "No, not really," then her eyes soften a bit. "What happened, John? You've been so reliable, until now."

John is still avoiding her eyes. "I had, um, a bit of a late one."

"Oh, right," she raises an inquisitive eyebrow. "And what were you doing to keep you up so late?"

It takes John a moment to realise what she's hinting at; it makes him very sad.

"It wasn't a date," he clarifies.

He wishes with all his heart that it had been. Shagging someone half the night would have been infinitely better than trying to talk the wheelchair-bound veteran in the flat above him out of shooting himself in the head… and failing.

He spent the rest of the night talking to the police and to the others on his floor, not to mention looking for a good place to hide his own illegally-kept pistol, just in case the authorities decided to search the flat of the other veterans, too. Where was one illegal weapon, there could be other ones as well.

But he's not about to tell that this gentle-faced woman who's looking at him expectantly.

"And I don't have one tonight," he says instead.

It is perhaps the cheesiest pick-up line he's ever used, but – surprisingly enough – it works.

"Want one?" she asks coyly.

"Is that an invitation?" he asks back.

She grins. "Sounds like one to me."

He grins back at her feeling a lot better all of a sudden. "Then I accept. When and where?"

"Right now, at the Tapas Bar?" she suggests. "I'm long overdue for dinner; what about you?"

"Starving," he admits, still baffled a bit by this unexpected turn of events. Oh good grief, he thinks, I've just pulled!


And so it begins between them. They have a few dates in the following weeks, mostly dinner dates and even the occasional shag in Sarah's place. It isn't terribly romantic, mostly of the 'friends with benefits' kind of relationship, but it is normal, and it distracts him from the profound bleakness of his life.

It eases his conscience that Sarah obviously doesn't expect more from their non-relationship, either. Unlike him, she's way too busy for anything more; and, unlike many women, she values her independence too much to bind herself. Not yet, in any case.

So, for the moment, it's the perfect match.

John even gets in touch with the rugby lads from Blackheath again. Their first get-together is surprisingly pleasant. They haven't changed in all the years in-between. Still downing pints like they're in the twenties. Still all taking the mickey out of each other. None of them mentions his leg, so John decides to do it again. Even if Ella isn't happy about him missing one of their therapy sessions in favour of the pub night.

He doesn't care. Meeting the rugby guys is the second event he actually mentions in that pitiful excuse of a blog (the first one was telling the world about him getting a job), even if it leads to a drunken call from Harry, with tearful attempts to make up for most recent mistakes. They even meet in person for the first time since John was released from the hospital, and only now, in full control of his senses, does John realise the destruction the alcohol has wrought upon his sister.

There are only two years between them, but now Harry looks a decade older. She was always on the slim side, but now she's almost painfully thin. She never tanned easily, but now her skin has taken on that unhealthy pallor so characteristic for habitual drinkers. Her eyes have grown large in her face and even her hair has lost its lustre, becoming faded and brittle.

And yet John knows the loss of physical attractiveness isn't the reason why Clara's left Harry. Clara isn't a shallow person and she loved – still loves, John is fairly sure about that – Harry very much. She simply couldn't bear watching Harry destroying herself.

John understands that. It isn't something he can deal with well, either. Of course, in his case the memories of their father make things even harder to bear. So he doesn't suggest a second meeting any time, soon. It might not be the nicest thing of him, but there's only so much he can deal with at the moment, and Harry's drinking is well beyond that margin.

True to her word, Clara calls him from time to time. The intervals are irregular, but that's good… this way, the calls always are a pleasant surprise. Sometimes he thinks Clara is the only person he really cares for – and it is apparently mutual. The marriage of Harry and Clara may be over, but Clara is still showing interest for his future – supposing he still does have one.


Therefore it isn't surprising that Clara is the one who's trying to help him find better accommodation. As she works for a bank, she's naturally thinking in financial terms.

"It is a slim chance, of course," she explains during one of their semi-regular meetings at the Tapas Bar, "but we could try getting you a small loan based on your savings. Just enough to pay the first six months of rent, should you find a more acceptable flat. Perhaps you'll manage to find permanent work in the meantime."

John seriously doubts that; and, if he wants to be honest, he isn't even sure if he wants a permanent job. Locum work is relatively well paid, because locum doctors have flexible working hours – meaning that they can be called in at impossible times – and he likes the fact that he can choose to work at a certain time or not. Besides, his savings are on the meagre side; bailing Harry out of trouble had emptied them several times in the past… before Clara would come into her life. He has the feeling that now that Clara has left, it would be his dubious honour to do so again.

But Clara is so eager to help him find a better place to live that he doesn't have the heart to flat out reject the idea. So he gives in, despite his doubts, and Clara whips out her phone to make them an appointment with Mr Fortescue personally. She gets them one for two days later, and that's it.

Clara accompanies him to the office of Mr Fortescue, for which John is grateful. He's never been comfortable in such places, so it's good to have an insider on his side; and one in an important position at that.

They go through to inner office, where the junior employees work (and pretend not to see them), through the waiting room, where the more important clients are sitting (they give John unfriendly looks, since he obviously isn't important at all and yet is given preference to them), and finally to a small, up-to-date anteroom, where Mr Fortescue's special PA works. Clara checks their appointment with the glamorous blonde, and they're allowed into the holy of the holies – Mr Fortescue's office – without further delay.

Which only proves Clara's position of importance within the bank hierarchy.

Mr Fortescue's office is a large room – a gleaming expanse of shiny wooden floor, on which expensive oriental rugs are dotted… the genuine items, not some cheap copies. It is delicately panelled in pale wood, and there are a couple of huge stuffed chairs, upholstered in pale buff leather. Behind an oversized sycamore desk, the centre and focus of the room, is sitting Mr Fortescue himself, working on something on his computer with a frown.

Mr Fortescue is less impressive than he should be to match the room, but he's obviously doing his best. He's a large, somewhat flabby man, with slicked-back hair that might once have been ash blond but is now mostly grey and visibly thinning. Pale, almost watery blue eyes, a broad, bloodless mouth and a relatively large nose complete the strangely colourless impression of him. Those pale eyes, however, are shrewd and observant, revealing that he hasn't come to his current wealth and position by inheritance alone.

John doesn't know much about tailored suits, but he's fairly sure that the dark three-piece one with the subtle windowpane check and the double-breasted waistcoat the banker is wearing is a Grieves & Hawkes model. One of his more pretentious professors at medical school preferred tailored clothing, much to his students' amusement, so they all learned to recognise a bespoke suit. Like Professor Bell, the banker leaves the last button of his waistcoat open, to accommodate his extending waistline, but it still looks good on him and matches the floral-patterned red tie and pocket square. The golden tiepin is clearly just for show, as the tie tucks into the waistcoat, the wearing of which is made necessary by the man's choice of using a pocket watch, the golden chain of which is threaded through his buttonhole.

He must have been reasonably handsome in his younger years, in a rather harmless way. Now, at the age of fifty-something, he still looks presentable enough, but there's nothing even close to harmless about him. He's clearly a shark, and John suddenly becomes even more doubtful about their visit. Clara might be carefully optimistic about the outcome; John is not. Not anymore. Not now that he's actually seen the infamous Mr Fortescue.

It is Clara who presents her boss their case, using a language probably only people working in the financial world could hope to understand. John certainly doesn't. But he can see the honest effort his soon-to-be ex-sister-in-law has put into the presentation. She is earnest and factual, not trying to appeal to Mr Fortescue's compassion (which would be likely a lost case), pointing out instead the safety of the potential loan and the guarantees that it would be paid back in time.

Unfortunately, John's meagre savings cannot support her claim fully, and he can see that Mr Fortescue spots that fact immediately. The banker cuts into Clara's arguments and tears them to pieces mercilessly.

"You cannot seriously expect me to grant a loan on the basis of such miserable guarantees, Ms Fowles," he says with a cruel little laugh. "This is a bank, not a charity fund. Perhaps you should apply to one of those to help your… friend."

"Doctor Watson is my brother-in-law," Clara corrects coldly. She's never been one to back off easily. "Not that that would be of any importance when deciding about a loan request."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Mr Fortescue replies smugly. "Based on what I know about your ex-wife, the Watson family isn't one I'd willingly trust with my money. Good day, Ms Fowles."

And with that, they're dismissed. Clara is fuming, but John is simply resigned. He's never been so humiliated in his life… unfortunately, it seems to be a recurring event lately.

"Leave it be, Clara," he says tiredly. "The man may be an arsehole, but in a manner he's right. I'm broke; I wouldn't give myself a loan if I were him, either. I guess I'll have to get used to the rat-trap in which I live."

"Nonsense, there must be a way!" Clara protests, the proverbial little cogwheels clearly on overdrive in her pretty head. "What about the house?"

John stares at her in confusion. "What house?"

"The one in Hampshire that you inherited four years ago from that distant uncle of yours, what was his name again? Garbler or Gabler or whatnot?"

John is honestly surprised by the shift in their conversation. "How do you now about that? I've completely forgotten about the house myself."

"Harry wanted me to see into it," Clara admits. "She wanted to have it sold when she was broke, but as you are named as the sole heir, there was nothing she could do. Still, if it is in any acceptable shape, maybe you can try selling it."

"I have no idea," John confesses. "I've never seen it; never been to that godforsaken little village where it stands, either."

"Nether Wallop," Clara supplies absent-mindedly. "Not the most ideal location, granted, but some people are daft about what they call picturesque little places. And it is a real estate in any case. It should have a certain worth. We ought to take a look."

"We?" John echoes and she shrugs.

"I haven't got any plans for the weekend. I can drive you to Hampshire. Or we can take the train."

"No," John is touched, he truly is, but he can't expect her life to rotate around him, now that she finally made the all-deciding step and separated from Harry. "You've done more than enough, Clara, well beyond the demands of friendship. Including making a fool of yourself in the eyes of that godawful boss of yours. No need to sacrifice you weekend on my behalf. I still have a few old buddies in town; one of them surely will drive me, should I decide to take a look."

"It wouldn't be any hardship," Clara argues. "I do like spending time with you, John."

"And I with you," he replies. "But you shouldn't burden yourself with concerns about me, love. I belong to your past; you need to look into the future. To live your own life, without any broke Watsons holding you back."

"And what about your life?" she asks with surprisingly shiny eyes.

In a moment she'll break out in tears, and John would hate to be the reason for her tears. Harry took up that role often enough.

"I don't have one," he replies simply. "Not anymore. And it's time for me to manage my continuing existence on my own."


Clara protests, of course, but he remains unmoved, and for the next couple of weeks they barely have any contact, save for a few text messages. John is dangerously close to giving up and doesn't want her to realise that. She's got enough grief with her upcoming divorce, doesn't need another Watson to weigh her down.

John's tentative non-relationship with Sarah drifts off to nothing in the meantime, but he can't make himself care. She deserves better than him anyway – someone who'd actually like her for herself, not just use her as temporary comfort, even though the feeling is mutual. Of course, their break-up – to call it that for the lack of any better word – doesn't make his working at the surgery any easier, so when another crippled veteran shoots himself to death in his building John quits his job and for a while he simply exists, hobbling around in London, trying to spend as little time in his bed-sit as possible. It isn't a solution, he knows, but since he isn't planning to work again any time soon, at least he can avoid going to Ella.

Bill Murray, the only constant in his current existence, watches his slow downward slide with genuine concern.

"You can't go on like this, Cap," he says; they're sitting in St James's Park and John is feeding his vinegar-flavoured chips to the already overfed pigeons. "Is there really nothing you could do to free yourself from that foetid hole?"

Thy both know that if John stays there, one day it will be him putting a bullet into his own head with the illegal firearm he absolutely doesn't possess. And for the first time since that frustrating visit to the Fortescue Bank, he thinks of the house again.

"It depends," he says. "What do you think about a trip to Hampshire?"

"Whatever gets you out of your rat-rap, I'm game," Bill, loyal souls as he is, replies promptly. "What is in Hampshire?"

"A village named Nether Wallop," the mere idea makes John grimace in distaste; London is the place he always wanted to live, and he generally despises country life. But sometimes needs must… "Where I happened to inherit a house from an eccentric uncle. A distant one I never even met. Clara suggested that I should try selling it."

"That's actually a good idea… assuming it isn't a complete ruin," Bill agrees. "So, you want to take a look?"

"If I manage to find the actual address, then yeah, I do."

"Good. Call me if you've found it, and we'll go. It might be fun."

John very much doubts that, but at least it's going to be something different. And Bill has always been a great travelling companion. Perhaps a change of scenery will do him some good, after all.

Not much else does.

"All right," he says. "As soon as I have it, I'll call."

~TBC~