Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2024-02-05 07:31 pm
lightconductor) wrote2024-02-05 07:31 pm
Inbox for Watson (Pumpkin Hollow)
Here you may contact Dr. John H. Watson, MD, late of Her Majesty's Army, with any professional or personal issues. He is available by phone, message, or just by dropping in on him at his clinic or his tenement flat.
The Clinic
Watson's clinic is a small building with a couple examination rooms and some beds, kept warm with a little iron stove in the front room. Pictures to come at some point.
The Flat
A short walk away from the clinic is Watson's small but cosy flat, on the second floor in a small tenement building.
The "sitting room" end of the main room
The kitchen, where the stove is the primary source of heat
Watson's desk
Watson's bedroom, alternate view
The Clinic
Watson's clinic is a small building with a couple examination rooms and some beds, kept warm with a little iron stove in the front room. Pictures to come at some point.
The Flat
A short walk away from the clinic is Watson's small but cosy flat, on the second floor in a small tenement building.
The "sitting room" end of the main room
The kitchen, where the stove is the primary source of heat
Watson's desk
Watson's bedroom, alternate view
Appointment at the clinic, by arrangement
A few days before the meeting, Anzu sends a calling card ahead, bearing his name: Dr A.T. Menelikov, MN, MVAK (Talons)OOC NOTE, and a handwritten note in pencil, indicating he'd like to talk to Dr Watson as one professional to another. He turns up at the clinic ten minutes early, dressed as elegantly as always, but in more sombre colours than usual.
He makes himself comfortable in the waiting room, where he leafs through his personal appointment book—a small moleskine notebook, the orientation of the cover indicating that he primarily writes his own notes right to left—and tries not to fidget with impatience. He's clearly nervous. He keeps his cotton gloves on, to avoid biting his nails.
OOC NOTE MN: Medical Necromancer — equivalent of "MD"
MVFK (Talons): Member of Voluntary Fellowship of Koschey ([in the commune of] Talons) — rough equivalent of a cross between MFLLM (Member of the Faculty for Forensic and Legal Medicine) and FRCOG (Fellow of the Obstetricians and Gynaecologists), with the specific commune that he's working in
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"Dr. Menelikov?" This seems like a likely assumption, at least. Watson greets him in the waiting room, and offers his hand to shake. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
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"Friend Doctor Menelikov, if thou'rt used to the egalitarian manner, please," Anzu specifies; he shakes Watson's hand—his grip is gentle—he clearly intends for handshakes to, first and foremost, establish his good intentions and professionalism. And maybe there's a certain stiffness to how he holds his hands, and to how he moves, somewhat prominent in a man not yet on the other side of fifty. "Reb Doctor otherwise. But not Herr or Monsieur, if thou'd be so good, ziskayt. I've had my fill of both prepended to my title to last me several trips 'round gilgul."
He smiles, but his nervousness is evident.
"I've come to make an inquiry, and subsequently, a professional proposition," he says. Then he bites his lip, suddenly feeling awkward. "But, ah ... I'd rather we conduct the conversation sitting down, if that's no imposition."
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That accent, that dialect. It's like Lev's, he knows that much. He hopes "ziskayt" is flattering, at the very least, but he doesn't quite know how to ask that particular detail, just yet.
"A proposition, is it? Well, come into my office and tell me all about it, as I'm all ears. I'm no more eager to have a conversation standing up than you are, and the chairs there are quite comfortable. Do you drink coffee or tea? I can put on a pot quickly enough."
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"I would never reject the opportunity to truly befriend a colleague," Anzu says, warmly. "And worry not none about formality mismatch, dearest. Mine husband and I are ... well, nu. We come from a place where most formality is out of fashion, and long may it stay so."
He follows Watson into the office.
"I drink not coffee, but tea would be fantastic, darling," he says, then hesitates briefly, and adds, "if 'tis no imposition, could mine be in a cup that's seen no use for the past week? I can explain, if thou'rt curious—" briefly, his nervousness shows again, this time more obvious, lingering longer. "But yes, ah. Tea. No milk, just sugar and lemon, if there's lemons to be had on this island."
Even despite the resurgent nervousness, Watson's manner is putting Anzu at ease. And Lev's spoken well of Watson, after all. Lev tends to have a good sense of people, though to Anzu's chagrin, his husband is still occasionally reluctant to share his hunches with anyone.
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His husband. Goodness. That still gives him such a pleased little thrill to hear.
"Tea it is. I haven't any lemons, I'm afraid, but I do have sugar. And, hm, I think I do have a cup in the back of the cabinet that hasn't been in rotation for a week or two." Watson cannot entirely keep the curiosity out of his voice. "It's no trouble at all, though if you don't mind telling me why, I would be interested to hear."
He's already getting out the cups, taking careful note of which one he chooses.
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Anzu watches Watson make tea, and fidgets with the cuff of his jacket, without quite realising he's doing so.
"I mind not explaining," he says, and then pauses, before adding apologetically, "but please, take it not as an insult. Merely a precaution. It's ah ... to do with the laws of kashrus. Not that I suspect thee of drinking gravy out of a cup, not at all. But, nu." He shrugs. "I find this place strange, and observing ritual is, ah. The proper thing to do, but I do find it comforting, more than anything."
He's speaking carefully, worried about slipping back into the habit of apologetics—at court he was often suspected (correctly, which was the worst part) of having reverted to the ways of his ancestors, despite his alleged initiation into the mystery cult of the New Sun, and so the habit developed.
"And it's a reminder of my freedom from the tzar, too," he says, before he can think better of it. "That I may keep all the silly rituals and unnecessarily strict laws I like. Feh! May the tzar's name be erased. And may his grave be a public facility for generations to come, provided anyone even remembers where he was buried."
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"You have a tzar? Or, rather--" And Watson stops again, thinking back over what Anzu has said, a word that had not been initially familiar, but after a moment's thought. "Wait. Kashrus, you said. I'm very sorry if this is an impertinent question, but are you Jewish?"
He sets the tea in front of Anzu, and takes a seat of his own.
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Anzu has had nearly fifty years' practise in controlling his expression, but Watson's question, asked with a genuine politeness and consideration, the mere fact Watson thought to ask—
Anzu gives a startled laugh and grins.
"Nu, darling, I'm certainly not one of Mani's crowd," he says, then adds, half-apologetically, "that is to say, ah ... my husband's a rabbi, and as solidarity-minded as he is, I do believe had I kept up the pretense I'd gone over to the faith of the New Sun, we'd not have married. And I'm no Manichean, neither, nor do I hold by the Prophet Mohamed. I am Jewish."
The way he says Manichean, it's almost as if he expects that to be a default assumption about someone's religion, alongside Muslim and whatever it is he means by "faith of the New Sun".
He picks up the tea, and takes a sip; he pauses for a moment, enjoying the fact that he's sitting indoors, talking to a colleague, drinking tea—all in all, not too bad for one who is likely dead and facing the Catapult of Souls.
"I do thank thee for thy diplomacy, Friend Doctor Watson," he adds, looking at Watson over the rim of the teacup. His eyes are bright enough that even by daylight, it's just about possible to tell that they glow with a light of their own—an inner ring of gold, an outer ring of blue turquoise. "Solidarity and consideration are wonderful traits in our profession."
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There's something almost comforting about the idea, the pleasure of finding something familiar when so much these days is very much not, including the species of his friends and acquaintances and the physical laws of the universe. "For my own part, I had the usual boarding school experience, with the usual sort of Protestant religious education from the Church of England, but I'm hardly observant at this point in my life."
Will that even mean anything to Anzu? Maybe, maybe not. He's not sure how much to explain.
"But, oh, I'm sure you didn't come here to talk opposing world religious histories."
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Neither “Protestant” nor “England” mean much to Anzu, but church is faintly familiar, though so transformed by centuries of etymological drift as to be unrecognisable. He chalks it up to a false friend, and makes a mental note to ask Watson about it at a later date—Watson’s right, right now it’s an unnecessary distraction.
“Thou hast the right of it, dearest,” he says. “I came here to talk to thee about, well, ah.”
He clears his throat, takes a long draught of the tea (it scalds his throat a little, but he suppresses the expression of surprise—almost effectively), and thus bolstered, continues.
“I have no skills when it comes to the management of a private clinic, having worked for the Court and the Commune my whole career, and having spent my apprenticeship years under one who was only too happy to manage the administration side on his own. So, ah. Would’st thou welcome a clinic partner?
"My specialty is, nu … well, ah. I suspect our medical traditions may differ in terminology, but my main concerns are birth, death and the periods immediately preceding and following such affairs. Given that much of my work is with the dying, often my patients are those who are merely gravely ill, but in no danger of the grave.”
He cocks his head to one side, bird-like, and studies Watson’s expression; he assumes he’s got reason to be optimistic, but pessimism is a lifelong habit, hard to break.
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"Actually, I think that would work rather well. This has been rather a lot of clinic for me to handle alone, quite honestly." He gestures around him, vaguely. Admittedly, he's always been a bit prone to running off for adventures on a slow day, and he's been unable to do this very much. A colleague, or perhaps even a partner would take some of the load off of him.
"Back in London, I had a small practice, but I started out my career as an army surgeon, so perhaps our respective areas of expertise are complementary."
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Anzu beams.
"Fantastic, darling!" he says, the relief plain on his face. "And yes, I rather think our specialties compliment each other well ... and ah, if thou might pardon my bluntness, I rather suspected thou wert once a military doctor."
It's the bearing. And the evidence of heavy injuries in one still young and a professional to boot. Doctors rarely fall off badly-secured scaffolding, after all.