Chapter 2
(present day)
The patient is alert and oriented x 3 in moderate distress secondary to chronic low back pain. He is 5'6" tall and weighs 250 lbs. Blood pressure is 115/74. Heart rate is 75. Examination of the lumbar spine reveals patient ambulating with an antalgic gait. Transfers on and off the exam table are difficult for this patient.
Information that should easily make sense now seem more like a jumble of letters that a kindergarten pupil has scrawled across paper. She runs a hand across her face, focusing on the corner of the computer screen. The numbers of the clock tell her that it's time to knock off work, and a sudden wave of fatigue makes the final convincing argument that the report will have to wait till tomorrow. She exchanges the doctor's coat for her winter one, grabs her scarf, and slings her purse over her shoulder.
Night duty has never been her optimum choice.
As she heads down towards the exit, Jeremy, a dark-haired intern and self-proclaimed jester of their department, calls amiably from across the hallway. She stops in her tracks as he saunters over, his red-and-green striped tie just a little crooked.
"Good morning, Ms. Watson. Care to grab a coffee before I start in about," he checks his wrist where his watch is noticeably missing. "Ten minutes?"
She gives him a wry grin. "Wish I could, Jeremy, but I've had more caffeine I should be allowed to in a lifetime. I'm going home to get some sleep."
"Tomorrow? Next week? The following month?"
"Have a great weekend, Doctor," she tells him, amused at his exaggerated sigh of resignation, and bids him goodbye.
More vehicles are filtering into the parking lot. The world has barely started its waking hours, and she is ready to snuggle into her warm bed to catch up on some sleep. She tightens the red woolen scarf around her neck. It is a chilly wind that blows this morning. The weather report has predicted snow flurries for the day, and it seems there is a high percentage of the prediction coming true.
Her phone vibrates. A friend has texted to ask if she is available tonight to make up for the missed dinner date. She takes a moment to deliberate before replying with an affirmative.
It is about half past eight when she gets home, and she drops her keys into the woven reed wicker bowl on the little oblong teak table by the door. Unopened letters lie beside, a reminder that she has yet to catch up on her mail.
So much to do, yet few things ever seem to get accomplished.
Thankfully, her house companion is around to distract her from cumbersome thoughts. She plants herself by the terrarium that will need to be cleaned and rubs the tortoise's patterned shell fondly. The pet, the epitome of indifference, continues crunching on a piece of lettuce.
She heads on into her bedroom, feeling some of the tension between her shoulders melt away at the sight of the familiar environment of comfort, uncluttered and inviting. Dropping her purse on the bed, she quickly sheds the clothes she has worn to work, and steps into the shower. The spray of hot water thaws the numbness from her body, and she emerges in a cloud of steam, fingers wrinkled from its extended exposure to the water. Comfy in flannel pants and a cotton shirt with sleeves that are too long, she crawls into bed, burying beneath the covers in exhaustion.
There is no need for sleeping pills to attain something as natural as rest.
Not this time.
Her eyelids grow heavy, and after what seems like a mere second, her eyes flutter open.
The room is dark and soothingly quiet. Soft rays light the edges of the curtains pulled across the windows. Somewhere beyond the walls of the apartment, the faint sound of a passing vehicle seeps through.
She sits up, blinking in the shadowy darkness, and runs fingers through disheveled hair. The bone-weary feeling is gone. One look at her mobile phone on the nightstand tells her that she has gotten a good five hours of sleep, an achievement that she is thankful for. Anything more than two hours straight is an accomplishment.
The idea of lazing in bed is tempting, and she takes a minute to burrow under the covers, reluctant to relinquish the soft warmness that envelopes her. When the call of chores becomes too strong to ignore, she stretches and tumbles from the bed.
Maybe she'll even have time to go for a run before her evening appointment.
She browses through a wide collection of music from classical to jazz to selected rock albums. Today is a day for orchestral pieces. As the beginning strains of Barcarolle from The Tales of Hoffman fill the gaping silence in the house, she grabs her mail, the first item on her list.
Bills, advertisements promoting Christmas deals, postcard from a holidaying colleague, letter from her pen pal in London.
She tosses the advertisements into the trash, and her stomach gives a growl, a reminder that she hasn't eaten anything since dinner before her night shift. She wanders into the kitchen, postcard in hand, reading the neat cursive spelling out the most recent adventure of her world-travelling colleague. The sharp-edged claws of envy are hard to ignore. When was the last time she took a vacation?
The card is secured to the fridge with a round magnet. As she leans against the counter, spooning fruit-flavoured Greek yogurt into her mouth, the picture of Mont Saint Michel stares at her in the face. It is alluring.
Perhaps next year, she'll take a short trip to who knows where. Venice, maybe, or Paris. Somewhere in Europe.
She finishes the last spoonful and drops the empty yogurt cup into the bin.
Maybe.
The laundry is easy business to take care of, the terrarium slightly harder, but she manages. The letters to be sent out are placed on the teak table as a reminder that they have to be dropped in the mailbox.
At five, she steps out onto the concrete front steps, decked out in jogging gear. The sun still struggles to break through the thick canopy of clouds overhead. She slides her headphones over her ears and starts off towards the neighbourhood park.
There isn't much traffic at this time of the day, nor many people out in the streets. Her schedule has always seemed to be at odds with the society she finds herself immersed in. Where plenty of her friends spent nights out partying in college, she'd be burning midnight oil or catching up on her sleep. After graduation came the job, and her ever-changing schedule saw many friends dropping off by the wayside as meet-ups and reunions were unintentionally forgotten.
Sometimes, intentionally, she admits as her conscience nudges her.
A new song comes on, and she picks up the pace, matching the beat of its quicker tempo.
It isn't so bad actually. Being in a new environment. Life had been taking too much the form of a routine cycle. For someone who has always had a goal to work towards, to strive for, she suddenly found herself lost without direction. Motivation, her constant companion, had chosen to abandon her, leaving her well and truly alone.
Hard to believe that a year ago, she was resistant to the whole idea of packing up and moving. It took a while to get adjusted, even for the one who adapts easily to change, but she thrives on challenges.
Or, to put it more accurately, she thrived on the very idea that a change would magically reveal her purpose in life again.
A pigeon perches on the back of a wooden bench, staring at her out of its beady eye. The rest of its fellow compatriots ought to be nearby. If she came a little later, she would probably witness the old man with his stooped shoulders tossing feed to the birds. They never speak to each other, but there is the occasional nod and exchange of courteous, slightly bashful smiles.
By the time she finishes a complete round of the park, snow flurries have made their long-awaited appearance, and they bestow little icy kisses on her face. It's about time to head on back anyway. As she crosses the road, she blinks away a snowflake that has landed directly on her eyelashes. A car honks in disapproval when she doesn't move fast enough, and she lifts her hand in apology, a warmth spreading across her face that has nothing to do with the exertion of energy. Someone once told her she was a menace to traffic wearing her headphones out. She has no doubt the driver would be in full agreement.
The clock shows fifteen till six when she steps back into her house. There is ample time to clean up and get prettied up for the girls' night out.
Who knows, she just might be the earliest. The location of the diner is within walking distance after all.
The chatter of the dinner crowd spills over into the night, where snow is gradually accumulating on the streets. Multi-coloured lights hang on the outside of the restaurant while various Christmas decorations ranging from a Nativity set to stockings patterned with Santa on a sleigh fill the interior. A large tree laden with sparkling ornaments stands in a corner with a gold star glittering at the top.
The diner has spared no expense in creating festive cheer, and her friends seem to be caught up in the mood as well, ribbing her about her often MIA status in a light-hearted manner that she doesn't take to heart. All the same, she is thankful when the waiter arrives to take their orders.
Charlotte, a ginger with deep, red locks, adds in an order of wine. "To celebrate the festive season," she says in defense. "That, and the fact that Joanie's together with us again."
"I don't care what you order. Anything that doesn't look like a McDonald's Happy Meal or mashed up peas, I'm in." Betsy wrinkles her nose as she scrolls through her phone. "The things I sacrifice for motherhood, not that I would trade it for anything."
"Rule 4 of GNO, Betsy!" Charlotte exclaims, aghast. "No mentioning kids, remember?" She turns to Joan and winks. "Joash and Lucille. Betsy will be entirely willing to show you the photos. They're growing so fast, I almost couldn't recognize them."
The waiter returns with a basket of bread and a bottle of wine in tow, and her red-haired friend wriggles her perfectly arched brows as the wine is poured. "So, Ms. Independent, found any cute patients lately?"
Almost instantly, her mind presents her with the image of the man she stitched up last night. Cute might not be the word she would use to describe him, though there was something about him that she found attractive. She wrinkles her nose. "I've been at this new job a year, Charls. I've other things to do besides gaining a reputation for picking up cute patients."
Somehow, she doesn't fancy the gleam that has come into her friend's eyes. Typical Charlotte behaviour would be to probe her for more information on her love life.
The revelation comes a couple of seconds later when the redhead tells her about the cute guy at the bar with a mischievous grin. "He was there when we arrived, and Betsy and I think he'll look really good with you." She tilts her head. "You should talk to him."
There is but one customer at the bar, and his back faces her. There's no way to tell what he looks like. Not that it matters. Picking up guys has never been a habit of hers.
"He's probably waiting on someone," she says nonchalantly as she reaches for a piece of focaccia bread and daps it in olive oil. "I think I'll pass."
"Come on, Joanie," Charlotte groans. "No one's coming. Just go talk to him."
"It'll make up for the last two times you missed our dates," Betsy adds for good measure with a twinkle in her eye.
She doesn't know how, but for some inane reason, they manage to cajole her into doing as they ask.
Wineglass in hand for moral support, she hoists herself up onto the high cushioned stool as gracefully and inconspicuously as possible, dreading the notion of having to chat up a stranger. She can't remember the last time she hit on anyone. If she did, it must have been an utter failure because she has erased the memory from her mind entirely.
This is clearly out of her comfort zone. She looks back with one last unspoken plea, but her friends don't budge, expectations written all over their faces.
Not getting any help from that front.
She clears her throat, reprimanding herself for her absurdity. It isn't middle school. Why would any perfectly self-sufficient woman fear holding a simple conversation?
From the corner of her eye, she takes a look at the profile of the person sitting next to her and does a double take.
"Sherlock."
She doesn't realize she has said his name out loud until he looks at her, and she utters an unprepared "Hi". Her face burns, and she musters her most confident smile to cover it up. "Joan Watson."
It doesn't seem to register.
"From last night?"
Perhaps he doesn't recall. Many of her patients don't recognize her without the signature white coat.
"I stitched—"
"I remember."
She attempts another smile and self-consciously tucks the strands of hair that are impeding her view behind her ear. For someone who has spent years conversing with strangers, she's failing miserably at this particular connection.
Perhaps that white coat grants her more confidence and competence than she realizes.
The live band starts up again, complete with sleigh bells to accentuate the celebratory mood. She toys with the slender stem of her wine glass. Neither of them would win the Conversationalist of the Year award, that's for sure. She sneaks a sideway glance at him. He is examining the cup in his hands, turning it this way and that. There is a darker shadow on his jaw that wasn't there last night.
What she'd give to have an inkling of what goes on in his head.
"You have a question," he states out of the blue, still fiddling with the empty cup.
It catches her off-guard, and her mind scrambles to grasp a topic, determined to give it one last shot before she retreats to the fortress of friends, licking her wounds in defeat.
"How are the stitches doing?"
Of course her doctor persona would come to the rescue.
"As well as they possibly can," he says in his distinctive accent, tapping his nails against the glass. "I kept them out of water like you asked. No need to fret."
It strikes her that his brusqueness might be an unspoken request for her to leave him alone. Perhaps he finds her presence an invasion of his privacy.
"I'm not," he starts the moment she is about to slip off the seat, and it stills her motion. He blinks in rapid succession as though something is irritating his eyes. "I'm not one for much companionship. I've always had a…" He falters. "A certain inadequacy with interpersonal communication." His eyes meet hers, and there is more written there than what is spoken.
Perhaps they have more in common than what she originally thought.
"If you don't have anyone joining you," she offers quietly. "You're welcome to have dinner with us."
His fingers resume their tapping on the glass. "I would not like to impose."
"They would love to have you," she assures him, already anticipating her friends' excitement, and their faces are as bright as Christmas lights on the tree when she leads her newfound companion to their table.
Score for Joan Watson.
Introductions are made, and the ever-extroverted Charlotte, being her typical self, promptly starts probing into his personal life with no qualms whatsoever, and asks what he does for a living.
"At the moment, nothing of particular interest." He laces his fingers together, unlaces them, then taps his thumbs together, and answers off-handedly. "I used to work with the NYPD as a consulting detective."
She doesn't miss the exchange of looks between her friends.
"Maybe you can analyze Joanie for us." Charlotte suggests playfully. "I know we'll appreciate the insight to this secretive one."
Her friends break into giggles as she waves away their teasing. Secretive is hardly a word she would use to describe herself. There are no dark secrets lurking in the closet to fear or be ashamed of. She merely detests sharing personal issues with people. There are enough voices in her head for her to hold discussions with. Still, she admits the idea that this stranger might be able to carve her out in words is intriguing, and there is no mistaking the tinge of disappointment when he declines with an uncomfortable curve of his lips.
It is a senseless, inexplicable desire to hope that somewhere out there, there is a person capable of truly knowing another. How can she expect someone else to know her when she barely even knows herself?
Betsy excuses herself early on the pretext that she has promised to read her son bedtime stories. Charlotte follows soon after, declaring that her own boy is pining for her return.
A current suitor would have been the more appropriate term.
As Charlotte reaches for her coat, she whispers in her ear, "I think he likes it when you smile." With a cheeky grin and a squeeze to the shoulder, she straightens and struts off in her knee-high boots, leaving the two of them alone at the table.
He saves her the trouble and further embarrassment of starting another stagnant conversation when he picks up the tab. He doesn't make a show out of it, as she is well aware some men do. When he is done signing the bill, he looks, almost uncomfortably, at some point on the ground, and offers to walk her home, nearly stumbling over his words. "I merely wish to make certain you get home all right," he adds at the end.
It is somewhat amusing that he finds the need to have to clarify his intentions. One would never imagine that a man whom on the surface appears to be utterly standoffish to be capable of the gestures he has performed tonight.
"What if I drove?" She asks as he holds the door of the restaurant open.
"You didn't. You walked."
"And you just happened to guess that? Or is this some skill that you acquired from being a consulting detective?"
"Simple process of observation and deduction," he replies, making sure the road is clear both ways before they cross it. "We were all born to notice things. From a person's behaviour, a single side look, the folding of arms, the darting of eyes, to his or her everyday routine to possessions that the individual has gained. All these are puzzle pieces that form a story." He pauses to take a breath. "Each of us has varying degrees of observational skills. I just happen to be attuned to the details more so than the average man."
That is a lot more than what she expected. It is impressive. Not only has he proven his capability of speaking more than a few words at a time, but he has said it in such a matter-of-fact manner that what ought to have sounded like bragging doesn't come across as arrogant at all.
"It sounds like you're able to solve people just by looking at them. That's incredible." A biting wind sweeps by, and she stuffs her hands deep into her coat pockets. "The NYPD must have been sad to lose you."
A simple thank you or even a half-smile would have sufficed to acknowledge the fact that she thinks what he does is amazing, and she wouldn't have given the matter a second thought, but he does neither. Maybe he has heard so many of such praises that he has become immune to them, or perhaps he doesn't think that what she said was a compliment at all. Either way, the total lack of response is jarring.
She is left mulling over the matter for the rest of the walk back. Outside her apartment, she thanks him for walking her home, still trying to brush off the oddest feeling of having committed a major faux pas. She takes the first snow-covered step up, then, turns around. "Maybe we'll get to cross paths again, Sherlock," she says with a hint of a smile. "Merry Christmas."
There is that vulnerable glint in his eyes, and that uncomfortable twitch of his lips in some semblance of a smile in return. Once again, she gets the niggling feeling that something is amiss. He dips his head, stoic once more, does an about-turn, and walks away into the swirling flurry of snow, a lone figure under the glowing halos of lamplights.