Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightconductor) wrote2010-10-17 10:31 pm
lightconductor) wrote2010-10-17 10:31 pm
Entry tags:
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."
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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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.
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"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."
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"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."
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"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.
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"Tell me. Do you plan on exploring this rather remarkable notion of yours any time in the near future? I haven't any plans."
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"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.
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"Fortunately," he added, "I have the utmost faith in your ability to keep us unsinged."
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"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.
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"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."
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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.