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Summary:

John Watson is a struggling doctor in recent practice on London's Upper Wimpole Street. One dreary Wednesday, an urgent telegram summons him to 221B Baker Street, where he meets a sombre and initially taciturn gentleman by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Sparks immediately fly – but not of the positive, life-affirming variety...

Notes:

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter Text

It was a Wednesday, and Wednesdays were always slow, or seemed to be. I leaned back in my chair, and cast my eyes down to my desk. Set upon it: one foolscap notepad, a drying inkwell, a pewter pen-rack, and a shallow tray of mahogany where I filed all my loose papers. A glass paperweight, that served no useful function but to sit aside, neglected, caught the light from my sole window, only serving to remind me that life bloomed outside; yet here I sat, drilling my fingers, yawning.

One last item on my desk: a small year calendar, now showing the September of the year I set myself up in my practice as a medical professional. I had returned from war abroad a little earlier in the year of 1881, and spent some time in dawdling, distracted and quite miserable, until an opportunity presented its broad face. A Dr. Doyle, of Upper Wimpole Street, was selling on his practice, and as I had a little pension-pot and other savings of my own, I took the plunge. So, here I was, a few months on, starting to wonder if I had made the right decision. My new patients seemed quite few and far between; perhaps the summer months had found them hale and hearty, every one. Perhaps, the coming winter might land itself upon my doorstep with a racking cough, a touch of influenza, or a spot of gout. I sighed, and glanced up to the ticking clock upon the mantel. It was ten o'clock; too early yet for lunch, but late enough for my first patient – should I even have a chance of one!

There was a knock upon the door, and then around the edge of it appeared my coy receptionist.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Dr. Watson,” said the girl, “but there has been a telegram.”

“A telegram!” I said, and sitting up as an old hunting dog might at the scent of blood. “Thank you, Miss Marsh.”

I read the slip inside the envelope, and frowned. I rose and strode towards the door, poking my head around. “Miss Marsh,” I said, “it seems I must go out to see a patient. Might you look this lady up inside our records, please?” I hastened up into my rooms above the surgery, to collect my hat and coat. I checked inside my bag, threw in some items, and was just fastening my buttons when the receptionist delivered me the file. I read it quickly, nodding. “I will be an hour or two,” I said, “no more than that, I hope.”

I hailed a hansom and sat back inside the cab, in thoughtful mood. It was a pleasant day, despite persistent drizzle; warm, at least. We were held up for several minutes by an accident involving two large grocers' carts; the road had to be cleared, and we were on our way again. At length we came to stop; the driver tapped upon the roof, and I stepped out and paid my fare. The street that I was standing on was fairly well-to-do. I looked around and found my bearings, and as the hansom clattered off I walked up to the door of 221B Baker Street. I rang the bell. I waited patiently. There was some turbulence within; I heard the thud of boots upon the stair, and then a key turned in the lock, and the door pulled slowly inwards to reveal a stern-faced gentleman.

“And you are late,” said he, a scowl upon his face.

“There was an accident,” I said. I raised my hat. “I trust the lady is no worse?”

“No thanks to you,” the fellow said. “I sent the telegram at nine o'clock.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, feeling quite annoyed by now. “I came as quickly as I could. May I come in?”

The gentleman stood back, thereby allowing me to pass. I squinted up at him, my eyes adjusting slowly to the gloom within the hallway. He was tall – at least six feet – and in his mid-20s, I should say, and primly dressed, last and not least – I had to note – strikingly handsome. He fixed me with a cool grey stare. “Dr. John Watson,” he said slowly.

“Yes, I am he,” I said. I refrained from adding Obviously. My eyes fled down the hall in hope of rescue.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock Holmes. His gaze now narrowed. “Well, you had better follow me.” He took off, long loping strides, to leave me scuttling behind and feeling most discombobulated.

The hallway ended in a door, which Mr. Holmes now briskly opened and went through. I followed, meanwhile noting the quaint décor of the parlour: an older lady's sole abode, all lace and cushions, books, and sentimental gewgaws. A smaller bedroom to one side, which I was chivvied through.

“This is Mrs. Hudson,” said the strange fellow. “Please take care of her.” And turning on his heel, he left the room. The door clicked softly in his wake. I blinked, and only then did I return to earth to set about my duty for the lady in the bed.

Ten minutes later, I had written some instructions, left some powders and a tall carafe of water, and was back out in the hallway where Sherlock Holmes was standing, hovering.

“Well?” he snapped.

“It is a fever,” I replied, “but nothing serious. It is important that the lady rests in bed, and stays hydrated. I assume you are her carer?”

He reared up in indignation. “I am her lodger,” he replied. “My name is Sherl--

“Yes, yes, I know,” I said, impatiently. What the devil was the matter with the man? I thrust the note into his hand. “Here are some things that must be done to keep the lady comfortable. She informs me that she has a friend – a Mrs. Turner, I believe? – but that friend is out of town and not returning 'til the weekend. Therefore, she asks if you might be so kind?”

“For goodness sake,” said Mr. Holmes. He stuffed the paper in his pocket. He regarded me more closely then. “I wish we still had Dr. Doyle.”

“No doubt you do,” I said, my lips pinched tight. “But you will have to suffer me instead.” Handsome, yes, perhaps, but I had never met a ruder man. “I will call round again tomorrow, at the same time. I am on hand for all emergencies, so do not hesitate to contact me.” I offered him my hand with gritted teeth, and he accepted it. His palm was cool and smooth. We shook.

“Goodbye,” he said, with more than a degree of stern finality.

I stomped out to the street in a bad temper. A horse-drawn cart rolled by and splashed my trouser legs with mud. “Oh, dash and blast,” I muttered, cross. “Whatever next?”

It took some time to find a hansom that was free. At length, I managed to locate one, huffed myself inside and sat back against the cushions. I was not relishing the thought of meeting Mr. Holmes again, for he unsettled me. I pondered this predicament, and put a question to Miss Marsh on my return.

“Oh yes,” said she, “I know the gentleman. He is a patient here. He changed addresses fairly recently, I think.”

“Humpf,” I said. “More is the pity.” I filed my records and did a little paperwork. The afternoon was stultifying. By four o'clock I claimed defeat and retired upstairs to my rooms. I washed and changed, and took an early evening meal at a small restaurant nearby. I had made plans to meet up with an old friend for drinks, and therefore I made haste to not be late. At half-past six I knocked upon his door, and found myself within his cosy sitting-room not many minutes later.

“You will not believe the day I've had,” I said. “Stamford, I tell you, it's enough to drive a fellow mad.”

Stamford looked at me, all sympathy. “Well, once you've had a whisky soda, you'll feel better,” he replied. “But why not tell me all about it, if it helps?”

“I think I will,” I said. I told him of my day; of that infuriating man.

Stamford's shoulders shook in mirth. His tumbler quaked inside his grasp; I worried it might tip into his lap. “I do not wonder that you're stupefied,” said he. “Would you believe I know the man of whom you speak?”

“You are not serious?” I asked. I drained my glass. “How is that so?”

“Oh, he is often to be found at Bart's,” my friend replied, as he refilled me. “He does some research in the lab; well, you must know, that sort of thing. I have a wager with a pal that either one of us might nail him 'fore the year is out.”

I laughed. “I wish you luck with that,” I said. “He seems the toughest nut; I doubt that you will crack him.”

“That's half the fun,” said my companion. “He's ripe enough, you must admit.”

“Yes, but you'd be wise to be more careful, all the same,” I said. “What makes you think that he'd reciprocate?”

Stamford shrugged. “His eyes are everywhere. He doesn't talk, but lord, the man will look.”

“Well, a man has to look somewhere,” I replied. We set to chuckling again. “I wouldn't care a jot if I never set eyes on him again – and yet I must do so tomorrow. Pray for me, Stamford.”

“That I will,” my friend replied. And so our talk veered back to topics that excluded that fair gentleman, and by and by I felt myself relax, and conversation seemed a jolly thing, and whisky sodas better, and by the time the clock struck ten I felt my head begin to spin, and I bid Stamford a good night, my two feet reeling me from chair to door to street and, by some miracle, back home again. My rooms were cool; unwelcoming. I sighed, and hooked my coat onto its peg. I stretched and yawned.

Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” I said, in crude imitation of the man. “I had better go to bed, so I'm not late for you tomorrow.” And I blew a solid raspberry, and made my way to slumber, to my tiny room, my single bed, on blasted Upper Wimpole Street.