Ch 3 - Not the John Watson He Knew
Mike Stamford gave his 3 pm Introductory Anatomy lecture on auto-pilot that Tuesday afternoon. Not that the lecture was incomplete or lacking in any way. Mike was a good teacher and he had taught the course a half-dozen times before but his thoughts were definitely elsewhere. After Sherlock had left the lab in search of his riding crop, Mike and a perplexed John had exchanged a few more awkward pleasantries with John entering Mike's mobile number in his phone and Mike enthusiastically offering his help should John end up moving. John had then shifted his cane over to shake Mike's hand thanking him for the coffee and rotely promising to stay in touch. All the while his face remained blank and his eyes flat. Mike's heart sank a bit as he grinned like a cheerfully idiot in response. Seeing John Watson in the park, after all these years, should have been a lark. They should have exchanged hardy back slaps and ear-to-ear grins then moved on to complaining about the state of the profession.
"Sir,"
After that they might have commiserated about Newcastle's abysmal season so far.
"Please, Sir,"
They should have shown each other pictures of wives or girl friends or kids, traded e-mail addresses and parted with a plan to meet at a pub Friday next.
"Sir," Mike finally surfaced from his thoughts to notice the spotty youth who was addressing him. Somehow he had made his way from the lecture hall and was now standing outside his office door.
"Yes, what is it? Thompkins, is it?" Mike smiled his kindly, professorial smile. The lad only required a signature.
Mike shuttered himself in his office. He sat back in his slightly tatty office chair and looked at the various yellow Post-it notes across his desk blotter that listed the things he had considered problems before lunch. The 110 quid it would cost to fix the dishwasher, the conference with Katie's teacher and head mistress at 10 am tomorrow, having tea with Beth's overbearing dad on Saturday. His thoughts slid relentlessly back to John. Got Shot. Jesus Christ. Mike's reached for the framed picture on the corner of his desk. His heart literally swelled with gratitude as he stared at the photo of his beautiful family.
A lifetime ago, Mike and John had met on their first day at Bart's and felt a natural connection having both come from working class families. Although neither would have claimed any special closeness they had remained friends, drinking buddies and study partners throughout, and even kept it touch for a while after graduation. Mike had always admired John a bit. He had been athletic and clever and got on well with people. The girls all seemed to fancy him. He'd also had a certain drive. Simply achieving passing marks wasn't enough. He, like Mike, had been serious about becoming a good doctor. Although few of their classmates had understood it, John had also been serious about becoming a good soldier. After residency, when most had gone on to fellowships. John had gone to Sandhurst. Mike wasn't surprised. John had always enjoyed a challenge. He'd lived for them. Earning honours in organic chemistry just to spite the professor, no problem. Playing collegiate rugby although he was barely 10 stone soaking wet, why not? John Watson thrived under pressure like no one Mike had ever met before or since.
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John had not been prepared to meet anyone during his walk that Tuesday afternoon. He had been moving like a ghost through the city for the past seven weeks. No one noticed him and he had grown comfortable with his cloak of anonymity. He was, therefore, completely unprepared to be accosted by anyone never mind someone who had known him before. As he had awkwardly shifted his cane to shake hands with Mike Stamford his eyes where downcast, searching for an escape. He wasn't ready for this. Mike was as friendly and effusive as ever quipping about getting fat.
"No, no," John meekly demurred looking down.
"What happened?" Mike was asking innocently, what was he supposed to say? "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at?" John wasn't prepared for this but he still felt a bit cruel as he delivered his blunt reply,
"Got shot." He watched without expression as Stamford's kind, smiling face fell.
"Jesus, John, I'm sorry," Mike breathed earnestly, "I ... are you ..." John cut in, he couldn't stand this.
"Fine, yes, fine. I'm fine," he smiled weakly looking down hoping for a way out. He shifted his stance with a slight grimace, his leg was screaming. Stamford noticed, of course.
"Here, take a load off," he said in a no-nonsense doctor voice pointing back to the bench. John didn't want any damned pity. The ache wasn't real anyway, damn it. He was going to make an excuse but Mike wasn't listening any more.
"I was just going to get a coffee." Now he was pointing toward the cart vendor on the corner. "Can I get you one? Cream no sugar, right?" John nodded more in surprise than anything else. How in the hell had Mike remembered that? But Mike was half way to the cart already. John shifted uncomfortably again, grit his teeth, and made is way over to the bench. Once there he tried to school his attitude. He had always liked Mike and what else did he have to do today? Why not catch up with an old friend. After all, the big wide world hadn't stopped, just his little corner of it had. John forced himself to make small talk and tried to keep a lid on his bitterness. Damn his hand! Mike was only being kind. No, Mike was kind the least John could do was be civil. Talk.
"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" The answer to that had been ... interesting!
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Mike was delighted, if a bit surprised, that John actually took him up on his offer to help with the moving. He had called on Thursday saying he was taking the flat share with Sherlock was wondering if he could impose. Was it Mike's imagination, or transference, or what have you, or did John really sound better (somehow) than he had on Tuesday? Mike tripped over his own tongue three ways from Sunday in his haste to agree.
"Super, yes, well ... By all ... The place is nice, then? ... and don't mind Sherlock. Right, it's settled then."
He and John agreed that Mike would fetch him from Baker St. Friday morning as Mike had nothing on Friday's until his 3 pm lecture. They would head up to Camden to retrieve John's boxes from Harry's basement. Mike thought of John's sister. He had liked her well enough the few time they'd met during Uni, but she and John had always seemed to butt heads. John never, ever, asked his sister for anything and Mike really wasn't sure why.
The first thing Mike noticed as he pulled up to the kerb outside 221 Baker was that John was not using the cane. He must not have hid his surprise well.
"Yeah, it is psychosomatic," John huffed with a self-conscious smile as he descended the steps. "Thanks for doing this, mate. Not quite in the monthly finances to hire a car at the moment," he added quietly with another small smile. "You want a coffee before we're off?" John said a bit more brightly hooking a thumb towards Speedy's.
With coffees in hand they settled into Mike's Citroen and headed up to Camden. Mike quickly launched into stories and reminiscences their time at Bart's. John was mostly quiet and smiled politely. He even laughed a few times. He asked some polite questions about other old classmates. Mike sent him a few sideways glances as he prattled on not knowing how to act around this version of John. How could he possibly relate to the life that this John Watson had lived and almost lost. Still, John was not nearly as withdrawn and flat as he had been on Tuesday. Maybe that was something.
After loading John's boxes into the hatchback, Mike and John's stopped to buy some lunch. Mike was continuing with his near monologue.
"Oh, I'm under strict orders from Beth," Mike had begun then took a swig of his Coke. Mike had met Beth, his wife, during their third year at Bart's after John had dated (and dumped) her best friend. "I'm to invite you to tea and not take no for an answer."
"How is Beth? I'm sorry I missed the wedding, you know," John said almost sheepishly.
"Weren't you in Timbuktu or something?" Mike teased.
"Sierra Leone, I think. Never made it to Timbuktu," John replied. Mike paused for a beat.
"What was it, John? Chest? Torso?" he asked quietly, looking down.
"Shoulder," John said alternately clenching and stretching his left hand a few times. Then, much to his own surprise, he gave Mike an accurate clinical description of his injury.
"It's mostly OK, really, but that's me finished as a surgeon," he ended face blank again. Mike was sorry he had brought it up. He decided to change the subject.
"So, I've got to ask, what do you make of Sherlock?"
"He's completely mad!" John said without hesitation. "Brilliant. Absolute genius, but Jesus ..."
"A certifiable nutter," Mike supplied.
"Exactly. So I go to see the flat Wednesday night fully expecting it not to work out. You wouldn't believe it ... or, maybe you would, I don't know ... we weren't there fifteen minutes when in walks this detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Ten minutes after that we're in a cab headed to the scene of a murder in Brixton!" John launched right in to retelling all the night's events. Mike watched his friend listening intently. John was smiling broadly and there was a spark in his eye.
"I've never done anything so ridiculous in my life," John finished with a disbelieving shake of the head.
"And that says a lot coming from you, mate," Mike ribbed and John laughed.
"I'll tell Beth that you'll be by for tea a week from Sunday, then?" John smiled and nodded his assent.
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A/N - Uggh, I hope this is alright.
Not Beta'd or Brit picked. Don't own, yadda, yadda...