I won't delay this any longer, this is part two of the role reversal AU that I started from the last chapter, and prompts will remain the same as last time.
The warnings, however, now have an addition: Murder, implied murder, implied gore, and the general nastiness that comes from a murder.

POV? Once again, you'll see…

Also, again, Domina Temporis: What have you done?
With that, on with the show.

From Domina Temporis: If Holmes didn't become a detective, what would he have done?

And

From Domina Temporis: If Watson didn't become a doctor, what would he have done?

Holmes and Watson, Three Degrees Left

In the middle of March, London was considerably warmer than expected for most. Ladies were out in fairer weather clothes, while gentlemen wandered the streets in lighter-weight suits made of cotton and other lighter fabrics.

John Watson, retired detective, and Sherlock Holmes, violinist, wove through the crowd of Londoners that smelled vaguely of sweat and picked up waste in the March sun, following Mrs. Lowell's lead that she'd last seen her daughter, Julia, further into the city.

"Excuse me, sir." A few murmured as they jostled about, bumping into Watson's prosthetic arm as they emerged from the crowd and finally towards the part of the city where Julia Lowell had been seen.

"Watson? Are you quite alright?" Holmes asked as he emerged after him, glancing down at Watson's arm as he flexed the metal fingers. Holmes's expression was unreadable, though his free hand twitched towards Watson's prosthetic.

Admittedly, for Watson, he wanted to keep it silent. He didn't need Holmes fussing over his arm, though he knew now that Holmes had caught onto the fact that it was… slightly rushed while being made and thus would seize up when he tried to move it extensively or it got jostled.
I don't remember why, but I remember momentarily coming back and hearing about them rushing it.

But why was this a subject of concern for Holmes? Indeed, the performer at the Old Imperial had better things to do than fuss over a discharged veteran and former detective dragging him along on one last case.

"Watson." Repeated he, rounding on Watson as they moved to the side of the street. "You know I hold no interest in solving this case, being a detective like you. What concerns me is aiding you in this endeavor, and I can not do so if you do not tell me what exactly I can do."

But why? Watson wanted to demand, beg for an answer. As much as Holmes presented himself as not a logician, he was as closed off as any good detective he'd worked with before!
It was maddening.

And yet, that look on Holmes's face shifted, melting into concern and worry, hand twitching closer towards his arm.

If he insists… he'll drag this out if I let him.
"It does not take well to being jostled," Watson admitted, looking anywhere but at Holmes as the words dragged out. "The joints… seize."

Holmes said nothing but moved to Watson's side, wrapped his left arm with Watson's prosthetic arm, and covered it. "They will have to jostle me instead, my dear fellow." Said he. "Now, how does the detective start his investigation?"

"Talking to passersby or going to the seat of gossip. I've found that even if Stamford and I never made significant progress, even directing clients to those who might be in the know is ideal." Watson said, nodding towards a nearby public house.

"Indeed, they'll probably have heard whispers of our missing girl." Holmes mused. "After you, Watson." He added, as Watson led them into the public house, Holmes still covering his arm.

Watson led us both into the public house and I, still covering his arm, kept to his side. As much as he'd never admit to being in more pain than he let on, I was keen on acting as a buffer between him and the rest of the London populace.

"John Watson?" A voice called as a man dressed in the clothes of an Inspector from Scotland Yard approached, his eyes wide. "I never thought I would see you again working in this field."

"Hello, Inspector Lestrade." Said he, biting back his frustration with Scotland Yard at the moment, a polite smile on his face. "Sometimes my career takes turns; you must understand that much."

Inspector Lestrade paused, his polite smile cracking slightly at Watson's nettling. "Yes, well, I am also chasing down the disappearance of Julia Lowell, though I can't believe she wouldn't turn up on her own." Said he.

Ire rose in my chest at that. Watson was right; Scotland Yard hardly believed the girl could be in danger.

And no wonder Watson took up the mission of being his police.

"You'd know more if you listened to her mother," I said, unable to hide my sneer. "Did you send the lady off before or while she was crying?"

"And what does a performer at the Old Imperial know of this business?" Inspector Lestrade asked as Watson cut him off with a glare.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my friend and colleague. And he has every right to accompany me." Watson said as I moved closer to Watson to emphasize our points.

Inspector Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head. "Watson has had a companion before, but the two of them never did any good in their… column. But, I'm feeling quite generous today, gentlemen." Said he, nodding to a pair of men playing cards. "They've been talking about a girl they saw go from London towards the Thames. Perhaps it's Julia Lowell."

"And why aren't you doing anything?" Watson asked as Inspector Lestrade turned his back, peering over his shoulder.
"Because the girl is in no danger. Now run along and let the real police do our work." Watson's arm trembled in rage, and I could hardly blame him.

"How on Earth did you deal with that, Watson?" I asked as Watson looked back at me, rage and panic in his eyes.
"I never liked dealing with Scotland Yard much myself, either. But this is a new low." He said as he shook his head.

"I get the feeling that Julia Lowell is indeed in danger, but I know not what. And if I can not find her, I fear that I may have to tell her mother she is gone, or worse. Another failure at my hands." The last part dripped with derision toward himself in its full fury.

And he is anything but a failure. But I believe his proximity to being discharged from war and losing his arm is adding to his frustration.
"Well, while I am your buffer, allow me to be your buffer to the public," I said. "If finding Julia doesn't work, then I will take the blame for it."

What is Sherlock Holmes getting at? Watson wanted to ask, staring at his companion in confusion. Was he okay with getting the scorn that he'd seen, the way that those who he did not succeed with yelled at him in anger?

Instead, Watson sighed, leading him towards the two men playing cards between them, with Holmes firmly at his side.
"I think that lady was with someone." Said the first man, placing down a card. "Seemed all… bothered and looking for something, right?"

"Right you are, Freddy." The second said, placing a card on top of his. "Odd for this time of day, too. Ladies her age should be out with their friends or their lovers." Said he.
"Hello, gentlemen!" Holmes interjected, a smile on his face. "We couldn't help but overhear that you were talking about a woman over by the Thames with someone older than her?"

The one called Freddy glanced up from his cards, blinking. "Who's asking?" He asked as Watson stepped forward. "John Watson." Said he as Freddy's face split into a grin. "Former consulting detective John Watson, eh? Good to see you again, sir."

Watson startled briefly before regaining his composure. "You know me, sir?" He asked as Holmes's gaze bore into him as he leaned over to Watson.
"You have helped him once, and he holds no ill will to you." He whispered as Watson nodded slowly.

"You helped me find my friend here, Tom, when no one else would," Freddy said. "I owe you one, Mr. Watson, so here, I'll tell you what I know."

"Well, it was still before the sunrise when I saw her. She seemed agitated, as if she was looking for something but couldn't find it. The gentleman was trying to talk her down, but he wasn't kind about it like a father should be, " he said as Watson nodded.

Meanwhile, I took the notebook again, writing out what Freddy was saying. "Would you say the man was older than me? Unsavory?" I asked. "And how did the air smell?"

Freddy blinked again, placing down another card. Somehow, he and his friend, Tom, had continued playing cards as we talked. "I know Mr. Watson, but who are you?" He asked.

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. My colleague." Watson said as I nodded. "And assistant."

"Right, well, if you trust him. I'd say that he seemed older than you both, yes. And quite unsavory, he looked at her like a lion would a piece of meat and not a gentleman. And the air smelled… foul like it did during the Great Stink." Said he.

Watson and I looked back at each other, my alarm reflected in his gaze. "The smell from the river was due to dumpings, the fact it should smell so fresh—" I said.
"Someone was dumped in. Recently. Holmes, we must go!" Watson called as we both got to our feet, sprinting out the door.

My new friend and this young lady are in deep and dark waters.

We two raced through the streets of London, fortunately having chosen the public house nearest the Thames, though it was still a distance away, so we needed to hail a hansom cab on our way there.

Beside me in the hansom, Watson was tense, withdrawing his revolver from his pocket to make sure it was loaded with a dark look on his face.

"Holmes." Said he, his voice low. "I do not expect you to continue following me. This part of my life is full of danger, and if you wish not to continue, I will see you back at 221B Baker Street."

In my life, my arrogance got in the way sometimes. I had assumed that Watson didn't want to be a burden to me, and while that was true, it was not the whole truth.

He didn't want to endanger me. I told him that I did not want to be a detective like he, and that meant to him I did not want to follow him to the end of this, lest I be hurt.

An exceedingly kind heart, yet again. But how dangerous is this life of his, even comparable to having one arm?

"You expect danger?" I asked, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
"Expect? I know there's going to be. The criminal element of London is not opposed to violence." Said he.

And that was all I needed as I leaned toward him. "Watson," I said as he pocketed his revolver.
"I'll see you—" I cut him off, clasping his hands and shaking my head. "I am not going home, Watson. I said it in the public house and will say it here. I am to be your assistant, yes? If that is the case, I am here to be used in whatever way." I said.

Watson's expression shifted slightly, the military facade cracking. "Then I should be grateful. Here… I'll tell you what we'll do."

Noon had reached the streets of London, and the River Thames was, indeed, foul smelling as Freddy had described. "Where did you say my father was, here?" Julia Lowell had come with Albert Clark, a baker who had claimed to know her father.

Her mother hadn't revealed much about her father, and Julia was now twenty years of age and well within her rights to figure out how he died.
"Oh, he was close." Said he, approaching the girl. "You will have to look closer, my dear."

As the hansom cab bearing Holmes and Watson finally approached, a horrific scream ripped through the air as Albert Clark hoisted Julia upwards, prepared to toss her into the river. "Holmes, it's murder, come on!" Watson bellowed as the two men charged toward Albert Clark.

"Put me down! This is absurd; what are you doing?" Julia yelped, kicking at the man's face.
"Helping little girls like you find their dead families, of course. It's only right." Said he, as Julia shrieked at that, trying desperately to hold on and not be tossed.

"Unhand her!" Watson called as Clark grinned. "If you say so." He let go as Julia flailed, going over.
"No!" Holmes would have liked to follow after her, but Watson was faster, lunging and catching Julia by her leg before she could go into the Thames.

"I've got you, Julia; just don't move," Watson whispered fiercely, struggling to stay on flat ground and not tumbling into the Thames.

It was a cunning preparation for a murder. Because of the smell, the tourists who would be there usually were no longer there, and no one could hear them.

Is this where the war catches up with me? Watson wondered as the two dangling over the River Thames slipped slightly further.

"Do say hello to them, Julia, Detective Watson." Albert Clark said as Julia burst into tears, understandably so.

"I've got you," Watson grunted, though his prosthetic arm had different ideas, seizing and forcing Watson to hold Julia with one hand, dangling even more.

"Mr. Watson, we're both going over; we're not going to make it! Mother says the current is too strong right now!" She called through tears as Watson cursed.

Before that premonition could become true, and before Watson and Julia could fall into the Thames, a sudden force raced over, wrapping one arm around Watson's waist, the other around Julia's leg, as he started to haul them up.

Who in the world can haul two people up?
"Do not let go of me, Watson; I've got you." Grunted Holmes as the wiry man planted his feet against the barrier, hauling with all of his might to get both of them away from the icy River Thames.

It was a laborious effort, but Holmes let out a small cry of success as he pulled both to safety, with Julia collapsing, gasping beside them, and Watson crumbling himself.

"How did you know? And how were you able to pull us, Mister?" Julia panted as Holmes knelt beside them as if planting himself between them and Clark.

"I have always had considerable strength in my hands, Ms. Lowell, and I am sure Watson can agree with me that you have made friends with a known murderer who used the Thames as his dumping ground," Holmes said, glaring at Clark.
The man seemed utterly unfettered, shrugging. "They wanted it; it was only my job to help them."

"Is that all you needed to hear, Inspector Lestrade, Gregson?" Called Watson after he caught his breath.
Two service pistols appeared on either side of Clark's neck. "Indeed. Albert Clark, you are under arrest for the willful murder and the attempted murder of Julia Lowell." Gregson said.

"I could hardly believe it myself, but… it was fortunate we were stationed to patrol here." Inspector Lestrade muttered as they hauled him off.

"...He will be fine after a day of rest, Mr. Holmes." Stamford had come to visit them both after their adventure near the Thames. "And, probably no more attempting to rescue ladies out of the river." He added as Holmes nodded.

"Thank you." He murmured, escorting Stamford to the door. "And Stamford? You and Watson did brilliant work when you were detectives; do not despair." He said.
Stamford paused, a slight flush on his cheeks. "Thank you, Mister Holmes. And, thank you for being there for Watson." He said before departing.

Holmes returned to Watson, who had been bundled up on the couch, prostate. "Have we gotten news from Scotland Yard?" Holmes asked.
"Indeed," Watson said, holding up the telegram. "Albert Clark has murdered two other girls by throwing them in the Thames, so he will be put away for a long time."

"That is a good thing, indeed," Holmes said, plopping beside Watson. "And I know that look, I think, friend Watson. Let me tell you this before you retort and say I do not need to trouble myself with aiding you."
"It is true that I perform at the Old Imperial and am, by your definition, famous. I know I have said that I hold no interest in being what you are, but I am here to be used, to be your other arm. You are hope, Watson, and I should be pleased to do everything I can to continue aiding you." Said he, his voice firm.

"You would be my Boswell? Follow me into this field, this life?" Watson asked, tone a mix of surprise and a depth of gratitude.
"If that is what you wish. I would be either your Boswell or your bard; tell of your story. Or, join you as a detective, the new brains to the operation." Holmes said.
Watson paused before a new smile crossed his face. "Then I should be grateful for your aid, my friend."

For better or for worse, Watson was back in his old life. And by both, for once, I am proud of that fact.

And that's that chapter. I wanted to play a little more in the sandbox I made, so hence the two-parter. It was fun to explore how everyone might be different in this world, from Holmes and Watson, to even Inspector Lestrade.
After all, everything goes three degrees left when you change something. Watson has taken on Holmes's stubborn nature, hence the repetition. And Holmes? He has taken Watson's kindness.

Furthermore, the Great Stink was indeed a thing in 1858. The river smelled so foul that London had to create more sewer systems to clean out the river, but freshly dumped bodies would foul up the river again.

Also to how Lestrade and Gregson popped up? Watson's "assistant" might have managed to convince them…
Lastly, my references are as follows: 'A Study in Scarlet,' 'A Scandal in Bohemia,' '221B, Three Degrees Left', 'The Adventure of the Speckled Band,' 'The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet, 'The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist,' and finally, 'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter.'
In the next chapter, we're going back to the central universe. But who knows? You might see these versions of the characters soon…

Cheers,
Blue