Inbox for Watson (Pumpkin Hollow)

[lightconductor]

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

Comments

[lightconductor]

It's the word "tzar" that gets him first, because that's more initially familiar to him. Watson has, until this point, operated on the assumption that whatever world Anzu and Lev are from, it is different enough that there are few to any similar cultural beats. "Tzar," though, strikes him as so surprisingly Russian that it gives him pause, a chance to reassess.

"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.

[amourtician]

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."

[lightconductor]

Watson lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. "I admit I was assuming that our worlds had so little in common -- I know of Mohamed, though I don't follow him either, so that's at least two religions that we're both familiar with."

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."

[amourtician]

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.

[lightconductor]

Watson blinks in mild surprise, and then smiles.

"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."

[amourtician]

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.