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 notes: A few lines of dialogue are taken from the unaired "Sherlock" pilot. Brownie points for those who catch the Babylon 5 reference.


Chapter 11 – Epilogue

That was definitely the oddest proposal I've ever heard," John declares two days later in Mrs Holding's drawing room. "And in the absence of the bride at that!"

"Justin knew he had to ask Sergeant Bradstreet first or there would be no marriage at all," Miss Morstan laughs. They're having tea with Mrs Hudson and a hideously bored Sherlock who makes no secret of how tedious he finds the whole conversation – without actually saying a word.

"So, are you actually selling the boy the house?" Bill Mummy inquires. He and the Missus have postponed their departure, planning to take John back to London with them.

"I already have, sort of," John explains in obvious relief. "All we have to do is to sign the documents. It will be payment by instalments, for sure; he's not that rich. But the instalments will hopefully cover my rent until I've found another job in London. So, with that and my Army pension I ought to be able to manage on my own."

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asks suddenly, out of the blue.

John blinks in surprise. "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock replies. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"

"Not particularly, no," John answers honestly. Classical music isn't exactly his thing, but he assumes it would be lots better than the trains going by the house every twenty minutes or so. "But why…?""Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock interrupts and John blinks again.

"Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," Sherlock points out the obvious. "I rent a nice little place from Mrs Hudson in central London. Together we could afford it, without me having to ask my brother who's still controlling my funds."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Mrs Hudson enthuses. "I'll give you a special rate, too, Doctor Watson! Sherlock needs somebody to look after him; he always forgets to take proper care of himself."

"I don't need a minder, no matter what my ridiculous brother believes!" Sherlock declares, clearly annoyed. "But he would perhaps be willing to release my funds if I had a trustworthy flatmate; and having a live-in doctor with me could be useful for the Work."

The capital is obvious by the way he emphasises the word and John finds that oddly endearing. Besides, this is the best offer he had since coming back to England.

"I can't really see how I could be of any help for the world's only consulting detective," he says though, because he is an honest soul. "I'm not a genius like you. I'm just – me. An invalided-out ex-Army-doctor with a damaged shoulder and a psychosomatic limp."

"But you are a doctor," Sherlock says. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Yes," John says a little warily.

Sherlock give shim a sidelong glance. "Any good?"

John straightens in his seat, professional pride breaking to the surface. "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then," Sherlock muses. "Violent deaths…"

"Well, yes," John still isn't quite certain what the madman is up to.

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," Sherlock speculates.

"Of course, yes," John replies quietly, memories of war resurfacing unasked-for. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Sherlock's strange eyes began to twinkle, although his angular face remains impassionate. "Want to see some more?"

And all of a sudden John can feel the surge of adrenaline rush through his entire body – a feeling he thought lost forever after leaving the Army.

"Oh, God, yes!" he answers with feeling.

"Good," Sherlock gives him a tight smile. "I need an assistant at the crime scenes, but the idiots of forensics at the Yard won't work with me."

"Well, I'll be happy to help out," John replies, and he means it. "But I'll have to stay here for a couple of days yet, until the house is properly sold and I can pack up a few things I'd like to keep from my uncle's stuff."

Which isn't much, truly. John Watson is a man of simple tastes who travels lightly. But there's a beautiful old wall clock that hasn't found a buyer and is too valuable to be left behind; a few picture frames Harry might like for the family photos; and, of course, the tea service he wants to gift to Clara. He's already given some of the remaining china to Mrs Holding and Miss Morstan, and there are some scientific books and journals he'd like to keep for himself.

Sherlock reluctantly accepts his decision – he is clearly a man used to get what he wants and to get it now.

"I won't stay here to wait for you, though," he announces. "The case is solved – it was barely a six, mind you – and there's nothing I can do in a dull place like this. You can move in as soon as you're back in London. The address is 221B Baker Street; you can recognise the house from Speedy's Café on the ground floor," he stands and picks up his coat and his scarf, ready to leave. "Later!"

And with that, he's gone. Mrs Hudson shakes her head in fond exasperation.

"That boy! Always dashing about! I hope you'll be a calming influence on him Doctor Watson; he certainly needs one."


That's something they all agree with and the conversation turns back to the revealed mystery of John's house. Some time later Sergeant Bradstreet joins them, too, having finished his duty shift at the police station – and he has news.

"I've just got a call from New Scotland Yard," he tells them, gratefully accepting a cup of tea. "Reno Reyes was arrested when trying to leave the country by ship. He was questioned thoroughly, and it seems that our Mr Ponsonby and a banker from London called Fortescue will have to answer some very uncomfortable questions, soon."

"Fortescue was in it, too?" John isn't really surprised. He's just glad Clara no longer works for the man.

Bradstreet nods. "Apparently, when Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby died, our Mr Ponsonoby found a diary among his late uncle's personal belongings. It was written in some sort of code, but he managed to break it and figured out that Prescott's stuff was hidden somewhere in The Veteran's House. Unfortunately for him, he couldn't lay hand on it, as it was bequeathed to Mr Garbler, who moved in immediately."

"But how does Reyes come into the game?" Bill asks.

"As Mr Holmes said: he was a low-ranking gang member in Florida," Bradstreet explains. "It's assumed that Prescott had a plan in his possession – sent him by Alexander Hamilton Ponsonby – that showed the exact place where his equipment was hidden in The Veteran's House as well as the access to it. Both Reyes and Evans were after this plan – and it seems that Evans was the one to find it."

"Do you think he killed Prescott for it?" Bill presses on, eager to learn the whole truth.

The sergeant shakes his head. "No. According to the post mortem done in Winchester, Prescott died of natural cases: a weakened heart due to malnourishment and his previous injuries. No, I think Evans must have found the plan somewhere earlier; my guess would be at one of the times he visited the house while you and the young folks were sorting out Mr Garbler's collection. I'm afraid we'll never learn the truth about that little detail."

"And Reyes?" John asks. "Did he really murder my uncle?"

Bradstreet nods grimly. "Oh, yes. He confessed after Detective Inspector Lestrade had a little chat with him at the Yard. He states it was an accident; that he only wanted to scare the old man into giving him the plan."

"But Mr Garbler didn't have the plan!" Miss Morstan points out logically. "He probably didn't even know it existed."

"True," the sergeant allows," but Reyes had no way to know that. So he turned to our Mr Ponsonby after Mr Garbler's death, and the two decided to work on the case together; trying to find a legal way to get into the house and search it."

"Were there truly other people sent by Reyes to the house who never returned?" John asks. "Or have Doc and Leon dreamed that?"

"Oh, no," Bradstreet says. "Two local thugs from Andover have been missing for a couple of years, and there are hints that they might have been connected to Reyes in some way. I won't be surprised if we found their bodies either somewhere near the house or in the small wooded area just outside the village."

"And who killed them?" Miss Morstan asks. "Prescott or Evans?"

"My money would be on Evans," Bradstreet replies. "He was a pro; killing someone in cold blood wouldn't have meant a thing to him. Of course, Prescott might have killed them in self-defence, just as he killed Manolo Gomez; but Evans is the more likely candidate."

John knows in agreement. It is a known fact that white collar criminals usually aren't violent – unless they are cornered. Or drugged up to their eyeballs; and Prescott wasn't known as a junkie, according to Sherlock.

"So, what happens now?" he asks.

Bradstreet grins broadly. "Well, apparently I'm getting promoted."

"Congratulations," several people present say automatically in unison; then John asks:

"Based on this case?"

Bradstreet nods. "It seems Mr Holmes told my superiors that my contribution was vital in solving the case – whatever his reasoning might be."

"He didn't lie," John says. "You had all the local knowledge, you had the right suspicions – all you needed was some solid evidence."

"Which I couldn't find on my own," the sergeant reminds him sourly.

"Oh, don't feel bad about it, Sergeant," Mrs Hudson intervenes. "Sherlock helps out the Yard all the time; and he never takes the credit. It's the puzzle that attracts him; he doesn't care for the fame," she gives John a motherly smile. "I'm so glad you've decided to move in, Doctor Watson. Sherlock needs somebody to ground him, and you seem to be the sitting down type."

Sometimes," John doesn't want to shatter the old lady's illusions. She appears to genuinely like Sherlock, which means the madman must have some redeeming qualities. But the truth is, what John hopes from the association with the eccentric detective is the end of his current boring, pointless existence; a chance to do something meaningful again.

Something exciting.

And if it proves to be dangerous, well, he's used to that, too.


On the next day John goes to Stockbridge, where he and Justin sign the contract – under the wary eye of the older Mr Parker-Smythe – and thus The Veteran's House becomes Justin's property in exchange of a reasonable sum of money, half of which is paid in advance, the other half due in monthly instalments during the next two years. They are both quite content with the agreement, which enables Justin to move out from under his mother's suffocating control and eventually marry Kate Bradstreet. The latter is planned for when Kate starts studying law and John is invited to the wedding in advance. The only person decidedly unhappy with those plans is Mr Parker-Smythe senior, but there is little he can do about it.

On their way out John notices that the office of the estate agent is closed and briefly wonders what will become of Mr Ponsonby's employees now. He hopes that the resolute Miss Noble will have sufficient means to tide her over until a new owner comes along. It would be a shame if the employees had to pay the price for Mr Ponsonby's shady business activities.

After that, he packs the few things he's brought with him to Nether Wallop, takes his leave of Mrs Holding, who clearly hates to see him go ("It was so good to have a doctor in the house, just in case," she explains innocently) and promises Mrs Hudson to show up at 221B Baker street as soon as he's got the rest of his affairs in order. He promises Bradstreet to email him if he learns any more details about their case, and the Sergeant-soon-to-be-Inspector promises the same.

The only thing left is to say his good-byes to Miss Morstan; something he finds himself strangely reluctant to do. Surprisingly enough – or perhaps not – she seems to share his reluctance. At the moment, however, they have no other choice.

"Perhaps one day, when you've got your own practice, I'll come to London and work for you," she says and laughs at his surprise. "I am a trained nurse, you know. That's how I ended up in Nether Wallop. I came here as the carer for Mrs Holding when she broke her ankle. Then I got a job at the local school, teaching science, as no actual teacher was willing to come here… and I had nowhere to go."

"I'd certainly enjoy working with you," John admits. "But if you want to wait till I get a practice of my own you'll waste your entire life waiting, I'm afraid."

She gives him a dimpled, slightly mischievous smile. "Well, then I'll have to find another excuse to come after you, won't I?" she laughs, leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "Go and get your life together, John. Right now, I'm not the person you need for that. But perhaps one day…"

"I'll stay in touch," John promises, and he means it. As a rule he's lousy at it but for her, he'll try. She's nothing like the women he has had short-lived flings with in the past – and it has nothing to do with her rather plain looks. She's an adventurer at heart; Nether Wallop won't be able to keep her forever, either.

And thus the hour of departure arrives inevitably. John shakes hands with everyone and climbs into Bill's Land Rover (the Missus decided to go back a day earlier, after all), and when they leave the little village, he doesn't look back at The Veteran's House at all. He looks forward, literally and figuratively: to a life in London again, under the same roof with the world's only consulting detective.

He hopes it will be an exciting life; one where he'll be able to make a difference again.

"And so it begins," he murmurs quietly.

The noise of the engine swallows the sound of his words but he doesn't expect Bill to answer anyway. He has the feeling that this is one of the most important turns in his life and cannot wait to see what it will bring.

~The End~

Soledad Cartwright 11.03.2017.