The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
22nd January
Well, I don't know if this counts as "something happening," but it's better than nothing, I suppose. Mike Stamford dropped by just before my shift closed this evening with a thirtysomething public school type mate of his sporting a stab wound. He had clearly been avoiding medical treatment, though he gave me no trouble in the end. There's nothing much to say about the encounter, except… Something about him stuck with me. He's this pale, thin, quite tall bloke with razorblade cheekbones and haunted eyes. I don't know. Somehow, I'm certain I'll be seeing him again.
3 Comments
"Razorblade cheekbones"? Something you'd like to come out about, mate?
Bill Murray
Nah, not John "I'm not gay" Watson…
Harry Watson
Harry, I'm not gay.
John Watson
28th January
He returned this evening at closing. The Impatient Patient. Nasty bruising, but no need for medical intervention. He must have known that, which means he came for another reason. He also seems surprisingly strong for someone clearly underweight – a benefit of the job, I suppose. He'll be back soon. Tomorrow, I should think.
5 Comments
"Surprisingly strong… benefit of the job" – John, you can tell us, honestly.
Bill Murray
Wait, what is this job? Stab wounds, bruising?
Harry Watson
Consulting detective. And John, how'd you know about his work?
Mike Stamford
Googled him.
John Watson
Really, mate…
Bill Murray
29th January
Right on cue tonight, there he was in my waiting room. We'll look at the flat tomorrow.
4 Comments
Um… ?
Harry Watson
Yes?
John Watson
Nothing.
Harry Watson
Good.
John Watson
Unfolding himself from the rear of the taxi, Sherlock noticed the steaming cup of Speedy's coffee in Dr. Watson's hand. He surreptitiously consulted his mobile while paying the driver: 7:03pm. As that could hardly be considered late, he wondered at the tingling of anxiety at the back of his neck.
"Evening."
"Doctor Watson."
"John, please."
John then. Okay. Is this important? This isn't important. Why is this important?
John had continued speaking, but Sherlock heard nothing save his own thoughts until the street door opened revealing a small entry hall and a woman in purple.
"Sherlock!" She exclaimed happily as the detective kissed her cheek.
"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson. Shall we?" He glanced back at his would-be flatmate quickly before bounding up the two flights of stairs, waiting impatiently at the entrance to the sitting room as John and his cane made the cumbersome ascent. In his haste, he has missed the knowing smile exchanged between his doctor and their landlady.
"That's why I've gone ahead and moved in," said Sherlock, before he realized what Dr. Watson had said and began buzzing about in an attempt to tidy up. Not that he cared. Why do I care?
"John," interrupted Mrs. Hudson, "there's a second bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two…"
"'Course we'll be needing two," he replied, feigning confusion. Mrs. Hudson went on to say something about their neighbors, but John was busy noticing the pains Sherlock took not to notice what she was insinuating. He had already suspected as much about his new patient; this simply confirmed it. The only question was why Sherlock felt it needed to be hidden.
As the tall man flitted around the room placing and replacing folders, newspaper clippings, and – a skull? – John eased himself into one of the sitting room chairs. Well, on the one hand, Sherlock is a slob. On the other, he'll never notice if I permanently appropriate this pillow…
The next thing John knew, there was a police DI charging into the flat requesting Sherlock's assistance with those bizarre serial suicides that'd been in the paper recently, after which followed a spirited round of jumping up and down, concluding with the swirl of that heavy wool coat out onto the landing. A baritone, "have a cup of tea and…" trailed behind him up the stairs.
Mrs. Hudson had already returned to her own apartment on the ground floor, so John allowed himself a grunt of discomfort as he forced his cane to bear the weight of lifting him from his chair. He limped into the kitchen and had just set about making that recommended cuppa when a deep voice intruded on his silence.
"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
Without speaking, John clicked off the kettle. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face Sherlock, raised his chin, and followed that damn billowy coat out the door. Forgotten on the counter of 221B was a coffee mug, bearing the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps.