lightconductor | The Mysterious Case of Dr. Verner

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The Mysterious Case of Dr. Verner

More AU, following up on this scene here.

The purchase of Watson's old practice was done with, and it was a strange thing to be free like this again. It was one more way it was like the old days, before the island, before Switzerland, before Mary... he and Holmes and the cases and nothing else. Except, of course, this was better now. And the sale had gone surprisingly well, too. Watson had feared that it would not sell, that he would be stuck with the practice for weeks and months, had wondered whether frequent nights spent at Baker street while he was supposed to be living elsewhere would look suspicious, and what his housekeeper might think of his sudden decision to abandon his career for a return to his bachelor days.

He was at least a little sorry to say goodbye to it, actually. That he would no longer come into a room and be caught in an intense, painful sense of memory, remembering Mary and her illness in late pregnancy and how horribly empty the house and his life had been after he'd lost her... it was both a blessing and a tragedy, to no longer have that.

But the sale had, after all, gone well. Extremely so. It hadn't been long at all before a young doctor, name of Verner, had inquired. Watson had named a price, had set it as high as he dared, too high to be acceptable, and had fully expected Verner to barter him down. That was the done thing. Instead, Verner had shrugged and considered it and accepted the price without further delay.

It was lucky, it was a great windfall, and Watson knew better than to question it too much.

Some weeks after he had abandoned his practice to the care of young Dr. Verner, though, Watson had found himself in that neighbourhood running errands, and thought to check in and see if a book he had been unable to locate had merely been left behind. This had, in fact, been the case, and Verner had the book ready, commenting that he had intended to send it round to Watson at the soonest opportunity.

Watson liked Verner, thin and Gallic-featured and witty, and he'd stopped to chat for a minute or two before continuing home. At last, he said, "I fear I've taken too much of your time, Doctor. I should be getting along, at any rate. It was a pleasure speaking with you."

"Take care of yourself, Dr. Watson," Verner answered. "And do pass my regards along to Sherlock."

Watson had been almost out the door, but he stopped suddenly at this, and turned. He was well-used to people passing greeting along to Holmes through him, and not necessarily from people who even knew the famed detective. There was nothing unusual about that. But no one referred to Holmes that way, with the notable exception of Mycroft Holmes, because what else was he to call his brother?

"I beg your pardon," Watson said, frowning faintly and attempting not to, "but are you acquainted with Holmes?"

Verner had immediately realised he had uttered an indiscretion, and had gone quite pale. He had stuttered a little and stammered, but had at last, under pressure, confessed the entire story.

Roughly a half hour later, Watson was climbing the seventeen steps up to their rooms in Baker street, fighting waves of anger and failing. He burst into the sitting room, gave a small exhalation of satisfaction to see Holmes there at his desk, and he shut the door behind him before stalking over. He laid his hand heavily on Holmes's shoulder. "Holmes," he growled out. "I do believe we need to talk."

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Well. Blast.

Holmes looks up from his desk where he has been writing, keeping his face entirely expressionless, even the slightest bit amused -- though, truthfully, even though there is more to be lost with Watson's anger now, there are still some humorous elements, or elements that Holmes finds stupidly charming. How Watson's nostrils flare, for one.

Focusing on Watson's nostrils and the fire blazing in his eyes and how animated he is helps Holmes keep his cool.

"Watson, my dear boy. Have you had a lovely stroll?"

"Oh," Watson said coolly, "quite."

Where to even begin with this, and why it infuriated him so much? He would have much rather preferred to have come in here and greeted his husband with a kiss hello, but this. This.

"I stopped by to see a mutual acquaintance of ours, which surprised me very much, as I had no idea he knew you at all." Watson leaned closer, his mouth a thin line. "Tell me. Were you planning on ever letting me know that you, in fact, were the one who bought my practice, and that the man now in possession of it is your cousin?"

Oh, he should have known, and maybe he did, that Watson would be so charitable and neighborly as to go and see to his practice, and while he was at it, his blasted cousin would go and open his mouth and let out some foolish blunder as he apparently has. Holmes sighs heavily and sets down his pen, twisting in his seat to better look at Watson.

"I didn't buy it outright. He paid for part of the sum, and I handled the rest." He says it all very matter-of-factly and plainly, as if hoping that maybe if he treats it like it's nothing, Watson will come to think the same way. "It is bought, it is paid for, and it is out of your hands and into someone who has a passion for the practice. May I ask why you are so upset at what seems to me a happy ending?"

He isn't this stupid. But if he plays this stupid, he may get Watson to exhaust his anger quickly and get to forgiveness sooner.

"Why?" Watson turned away, faintly incredulous. "You've gone behind my back. It was my practice, remember. I thought I had this great monetary windfall, and it was really your money all along!"

He stalked away, coming to rest at the mantle over the fire, looking dourly at the jackknife impaled into the wood, wondering at how he now saw this as normal. Holmes had always tended to sneak in under all his defenses like that. He had still never expected to have a Holmes living in the house he had shared with Mary.

"Don't you think you ought to have told me?"

It's difficult to tell but he may be succeeding so far. He stands and leans against his desk, resting his hands against the wood, so that he may look at Watson.

"I considered it, but it seemed unnecessary. You never stopped to ask where your interested buyer came from, and no doubt you were happy to receive the sum you set." That isn't true. He knew he was being underhanded, but he merely wanted Watson to move into Baker street without fear as quickly as possible, and he knew that Watson would have said no to Holmes helping in the way that he did. Perhaps he should have mentioned his cousin to Watson, but it seems like things went much faster the way that he orchestrated them.

"Now you are free to live with me without suspicion, and you did not have to wait a long period of time before someone surfaced to buy your practice."

"Why would I ask where Verner came from? There are plenty of young physicians out to start themselves a practice."

Watson drew out a cigarette from his jacket, and lit it, using the time to sort out his thoughts, sort out what on earth he was going to say.

"I am not angry about the outcome," he said at last, quietly. "I am angry that you have engineered this, that you have manipulated my life, and never thought to say a single word to me on the matter. Am I your spouse or am I your kept boy?"

At this, Holmes scowls deeply and stalks away, pacing halfway across the room. He hadn't thought that it would seem like that, and the idea that he's treating Watson in that way is insulting and unsettling; he doesn't like being unsettled, so he latches onto the insulting portion.

"That idea is obscene and ridiculous," he snaps, turning to look at Watson, throwing a hand up in a dismissive gesture. "Of course you are my spouse, and as your spouse, I have attempted to facilitate an arrangement that you yourself desired. I have fabricated nothing except my ignorance of the matter! Verner did, indeed, want a practice, and I only supplied the funds for a portion of it. It was more a... a gift, an arrangement for our future."

"If it was a gift, why did you not tell me?" Watson demanded. He was completely unable to look at Holmes, and instead merely leaned on the mantle and smoked, feeling progressively miserable. Perhaps he should have dropped the subject entirely. Perhaps he should have come in as he had. Damn it all.

But it still bothered him. He had given up everything for Holmes. He had given up his financial independance, his career, his standing as a doctor, so much just to come live in Baker Street again. While he wanted that, while it was the only choice he could have made, it was not always an easy one. To find everything arranged so that he could give it up all the quicker was disturbing, and he was having a difficult time putting that disturbance into words.

"I feel I've been made a fool of," he muttered.

"That was not my intention," he assures Watson swiftly, though now he's almost wondering if that had not been on his mind. It wasn't like he was playing a joke on Watson purposefully, but somewhere in the carrying out of the scheme he may have been some amusement over the situation.

"I did not tell you because it seemed the sort of gift that best remained anonymous," he says, though his conviction is beginning to dwindle. He takes a small step closer. "I am sorry you found out in this way." Or at all.

Watson shook his head mutely, though he did glance over his shoulder at Holmes with a clouded expression.

"I'm sorry I found out like this, too." He sighed; ignorance, perhaps, would have been better. "Holmes, it... it is not that I don't appreciate it. It's not that I don't think your cousin does not appreciate it -- Lord knows, it's not always easy to start oneself in practice. It's..."

Watson gave a grunt of frustration. "Do you realise what other doctors my age have accomplished? They have thriving practices, many of them. They have wives and children and other visible trappings of respectability. For all that I may consider myself married, I cannot say so. I find it..." Another grunt, this one more resigned. "I find it uncomfortable to realise I'm being hurried off from what respectibility I do have, without any say on my part."

Edited 2010-10-19 05:32 (UTC)

He frowns. He hadn't quite predicted this response, and he hesitates before he takes another step closer, folding his hands behind his back.

"I had no idea... It never occurred to me that that... might matter to you." He stops there and takes a small breath, frowning at the floor. Is Watson unhappy, regretful? What does he think of their life together? Certainly it's problematic on legal levels, but... not emotional ones, right? And shouldn't that mean more than other peoples' opinions?

"You are, still, my partner, and that is no little accomplishment," he says, very quietly. "Bohemian I may be, but you are at least the most respectable half of our little operation. And you have already written some, and in a little while you can return to that. You'll gain quite a bit more than just respectability from that. We know that for a fact." He gives a small, humorless smile.

Watson managed to return the smile, though his own was equally small and humourless. To be called 'partner' was remarkably reassuring; after all, he'd been that for quite some time, and he was the only one to claim that position. It helped remind him of the value he had, that even if he was a disappointment as a doctor, he had found success in other paths. "I suppose we do," he said. "That's strange. I suppose we're also assured, to a certain extent, of our own safety, too. Is that not..."

He shook his head, leaving his thought unfinished, and turned back to the fireplace, staring thoughtfully into the coals. "It shouldn't matter," he said. "I know it shouldn't. I have everyhing right here that I need to be perfectly happy. I know that's true. And yet I sometimes -- I cannot have this disregard for society that you manage. I envy you."

He sees his opportunity to comfort Watson and possibly also begin to raise himself in Watson's eyes again. Without needing to apologize for arranging for the sale of Watson's practice, an important point since Holmes dislikes apologizing for things he is not truly sorry for. Despite Watson's upset, he really is not sorry, not in the slightest, because the sale means that Watson can be his own again and there is nothing to separate them.

"No, you cannot," he agrees, stepping forward again. "Because, as you said once, I am a cold, calculating machine." He half-smiles, half-flinches; that detail had particularly upset him when he read it, for many reasons, but perhaps most because he knows himself how deeply he has felt for the men in his life, but at the time was convinced that he must forever hide that depth of emotion from Watson.

"My disregard for society is not entirely voluntary; I am brash and harsh and impatient much too often than I should be, and I cannot always control it. Much as you can't control being caring and considerate and so wholly engaged in the people around you to the point where not one person I have ever met has had a negative word to say about you." He smiles again, a small and self-conscious one. "I do not think it very wise to envy me, in this regard. Envy my brilliance, my perception, my skills at the violin... but I don't recommend envying this, in particular."

Watson grimaced, although not very seriously. "Oh, must you toss my words back in my face? That was years ago. I know rather better now, and I didn't truly believe it then. If you were so cold, calculating, and inhuman as all that... well, you would have chosen a different career, or at the very least, have been far crueller to your clients and their distress."

He turned back to Holmes again, and extended an arm hopefully, not sure whether he was hoping for Holmes to take his hand or offer his entire self in an embrace. His temper was quick, and fierce at times, but it did generally tend to run itself out fairly quickly. That was a small blessing.

"You must be exaggerating," he said, with a small and self-deprecating smile. "Surely there must have been one person of your acquaintance who has looked at me tagging along after you like some poor spaniel, and remarked upon me unfavourably."

He poses as if in thought as he steps forward, taking Watson's hand and linking their fingers together as he also steps in close to Watson's side, their shoulders brushing. "Let me think." He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "No, no, my dear boy, I cannot think of one. More along the lines of," and here he slips into an accent, for effect, "'That Dr. Watson is a hardy soul; I can't imagine how he puts up with Mr. Holmes, surely he only survives because he is so patient and caring.'"

He gives Watson a more sincere smile, his gaze falling on his lips briefly before he lifts it again; he doesn't know exactly where he stands with Watson now, if it would be okay to kiss him.

"So you see, Watson, I win you favor and sympathy to your good credit. I am more asset than detriment."

Suddenly, his expression shifts as Watson's words fully sink in. "Surely you don't think of yourself as some poor spaniel," he says with a frown.

Watson slid his arm around Holmes's waist, grateful for the embrace, contrite and repentant about his fit of temper. He laughed softly, at Holmes's accent, at his words, at the automatic reassurance which, honestly, he still did not entirely believe.

But Holmes question sobered him a little. Watson slid his hand over the small of Holmes's back, trailing his fingers gently. "No," he said, although there was hesitation in his voice. "I don't, not usually. Especially now. I did sometimes, though, especially in our early days. I could not, for the life of me, work out why you would want me along, invalid that I was."

He can't help a small, impatient sigh, if only because he finds the whole notion so ridiculously silly. There's no way that Watson could be some hapless spaniel at his heels; Holmes may treat Watson dismissively or cruelly at times, but he sees himself as dependent upon Watson. He knows how much he needs Watson, and he knows how little Watson's lingering war souvenirs matter to Holmes. He bends his head to kiss Watson's forehead, hugging him to his side.

"Allow me to reassure you that if I had wanted a spaniel to follow me at my heels, I would have actually acquired a spaniel." This is difficult to explain, as he is not entirely capable of putting into words very easily the process by which he fell in love with Watson.

"I admit that when you came into my life, I had not expected or even entertained the idea that I would truly be gaining a companion, but I quickly realized that you were, and are, the perfect compliment to my own nature. There is romantic talk of finding your other half in another person, and I had thought it all very idyllic and untrue. Until I met you."

He smiles down at Watson, feeling suddenly, stupidly sheepish.

"I have high opinions of myself, and among those I include the belief that I could not find my other half in a companion so ineffectual or hapless that he could be considered a dog."

Watson let out a soft puff of laughter. "I'm glad to hear it. I have no desire to be considered a dog."

Holmes was not telling him anything new, exactly, but it was rare for him to hear, and it was gratifying to know. His other half. That was exactly it. Their names went together, one suggested the other, and would for many years to come. "John Watson" was not a particularly remarkable or uncommon name by any stretch of the imagination, and surely there must be other Dr. John Watsons in the world even now, but how many people on the island had immediately asked if he were that Watson, who had worked with Sherlock Holmes?

Watson reached far enough to put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the mantle, and having freed up that hand, he brought it to the side of Holmes's face to kiss him, tenderly.

"I love you too," he said, even if Holmes had not said precisely that.

Holmes is immensely pleased with himself. He's managed to wriggle his way out of that mess, hasn't he? He snakes his arm around Watson's waist, a smile curving across his lips, and he leans down to kiss Watson again, softly.

"And thank goodness for that. What would a man be without his other half? And what would life be? Unendingly dull and uncomfortably empty," he answers, booking no argument.

"I cannot disagree," Watson murmured. "I shouldn't dare to. I have had my share of a dull and uncomfortably empty life. Lonely, too." He kissed Holmes again, leaning back against the fireplace and holding Holmes close as he did so. It was so comfortable, it was so perfect, it was so very much the sort of thing he'd thought longingly of the first time he had lived here and had only loved from afar in a miserable sort of self-loathing.

"I would rather have you here and irritating me than anywhere else," he added, with a faintly teasing smile. He kissed him again, to take any sting out of his words. "At least that isn't dull."

He shifts, bracing himself with one arm against the fireplace; he rests the other one alongside Watson's cheek, nestling against him. This is how he had hoped to spend the afternoon; he happily smiles against Watson's lips in a brief kiss before he ducks his head to leave soft kisses on Watson's jaw.

"I am anything but dull, to be sure. And since you rather enjoy me spurring you into action," he says with a light suggestion, drawing himself up again, "we are undoubtedly perfectly matched."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that." Watson was surprisingly comfortable against the mantle and the fireplace, he found, caught between it and Holmes, the heat of the fire and the heat of Holmes's body. He shut his eyes for a moment, savouring it.

Something had occurred to him earlier, much earlier, and it now entered his mind again. He sighed. "I did have one question," Watson said. "Your cousin... does he... does he know about your proclivities?"

With what of Holmes's past and family that he knew, it was certainly possible, although by no means for sure. If Verner did know of the incidents in Holmes's past that had been hushed up, then assuming he was even reasonably intelligent, he could certainly work out why Holmes might offer him money to buy Watson's practice.

He shrugs, knowing what question Watson really is trying to ask; if he had thought that would have been a problem, he wouldn't have approached Verner in the first place. There are some members of their family who have inherited his and Mycroft's feelings about a public face; Verner is among them, and Holmes has, honestly, never been more grateful.

"In all likelihood. Either he's heard it or surmised it; I really couldn't say which, if any, because it isn't something we have ever mentioned to each other. Truly I have no idea to what extent my parents may have spread the information, or if my inclinations are the subject of gossip among my family." His tone is dismissive, almost disinterested, but once this is said, his expression softens.

"I do know that Verner likely cares very little, if at all. The general trend among my family is they either cease talking to me, or they don't care, and I believe Verner belongs to the latter category. Whatever assumptions he may have made about us," he says, pausing to smile in an attempt to be comforting, "will not cause problems for us. I would not have approached him if I was not sure of that."

"Oh, good," Watson said mildly. "I rather liked him. I'm glad to hear that I needn't fear my secret being revealed, at least on that count." He shifted, sliding a hand along Holmes's side, and pressing his face into the side of Holmes's neck to kiss him, rather gently.

"By the way," he added after a moment, "he said to send his regards along to Sherlock, and he seemed quite genuine about that, so I doubt he thinks that badly of you." Watson smiled. "So, please, do feel completely welcome to continue squeezing me against the fireplace like this. It's rather enjoyable."

Hearing that Verner sends his regards does please him; he is closer to Verner than other members of his family, but he still has not spoken to him for quite a while before this practice business became necessary. He grins lightly at Watson, stealing a kiss from his lips as he hugs Watson to him again.

"I am glad to have the invitation, as I was planning on continuing anyway. Now I may do so without concern." He kisses Watson, sliding his hand up Watson's jacket so that he can leave his hand squarely against his back. "This is fairly cozy. I don't think having you against the fireplace ever occurred to me in the past," he adds, thoughtfully.

"Surely you jest," Watson said warmly. "The idea never occurred to you? Not even once?" He brought his mouth to Holmes's again, his kisses growing distinctly more heated by this point. Honestly, the idea hadn't occurred to him, either, but he had a distinct feeling of relief -- he often, after they had had some disagreement -- and this seemed to be translating into a desire to needle him, just a little.

"Tell me. Do you plan on exploring this rather remarkable notion of yours any time in the near future? I haven't any plans."

"I suppose I could explore this idea further, especially since you seem so particularly eager to see its outcome," he returns, needling back a little. Reaching between them, he undoes Watson's collar, brushing his thumb against the hollow of his throat.

"I take it you would prefer this experiment happen sooner rather than later." He lets his hand wander down to work on Watson's buttons. "That seems the most prudent option in my opinion; we had better get it out of the way before Mrs. Hudson so dutifully supplies us with our next meal." His voice has progressively gotten huskier, and he leans down to dust his mouth over Watson's in a ghost of a kiss.

"You have it exactly," Watson murmured, glancing down as Holmes undid his collar and buttons. He was not really in the best position to be able to return the favour, but he shifted an arm to bring it into a semi-convenient position for that. "I don't see any point in delaying, do you? So long as we remain against the fireplace and not in it." Having moved Holmes's collar out of the way, Watson moved to press his mouth against the skin of his neck.

"Fortunately," he added, "I have the utmost faith in your ability to keep us unsinged."

He inhales sharply at Watson's mouth to his neck, and he pauses momentarily in his unbuttoning of Watson's shirt to clutch at him through the fabric. After allowing himself a moment to indulge in the sensation, he returns to his task; once he unbuttons Watson's shirt, he runs his fingertips over the exposed skin, lightly teasing.

"I have no interest in seeing either of us singed." He ducks his mouth, biting gently at the skin of Watson's shoulder. "I would rather see us engulfed in metaphoric flames over actual flames, so have little fear. I will keep you unharmed," he murmurs softly against Watson's ear.

He draws them both back slightly, enough so that he can remove Watson's shirt, waistcoat, and jacket without accidentally dragging them through the fire.

Watson had initially envisioned a much more hasty sort of encounter, although Holmes seemed to be having different ideas. He couldn't complain about that. He still -- still -- could not quite manage to believe that he was here, that he would be living here, that it could be like this all the time, bad and good, but them together.

"I will return the favour," he answered, softly. He wasn't being much help as far as the undressing went, continuing to mouth and kiss along Holmes's throat, unbuttoning as it became necessary for his roving mouth. "I shan't let you come to any harm either."

"I am glad to hear it," he replies, his voice darker and huskier now as he runs his hands along Watson's side. "That would rather spoil the mood." He grins darkly, sliding a hand into Watson's hair and pulling him into a hungry kiss; he lightly runs his nails over Watson's back, pressing him back against the side of the fireplace.

Watson shut his eyes, trying to get used to the feel of the fireplace against his bare back. Past words now, he could only kiss back, equally hungry, while he made some slightly more serious attempts at undressing Holmes. Slightly.

Objectively, this was mad. If someone were to arrive, then, it would be extremely awkward, difficult to find the time to cover themselves up again and pretend nothing was amiss, but somehow, just then, that possibility seemed very remote and unimportant.

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The Mysterious Case of Dr. Verner

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