soledad_writes

PRECIOUS LIKE RUBIES
by Soledad

CHAPTER 01 – A CHANGE OF SCENERY

After Sherlock’s funeral John went on like an automaton for nearly a year.

He moved out of 221B, to a bleak little flat he could afford on his small Army pension and with the help of what his locum job paid. Actually, it did pay somewhat better now that he did show up more regularly instead of excusing himself half the time because of Sherlock’s constant demands of his time.

There was no longer any danger of that.

Fortunately for him, Sarah had been most understanding and called him in every time a replacement doctor was needed.

Unfortunately for him, she was clearly doing this because she felt sorry for him. For the hell police and press had dragged him through. For the loss of Sherlock. For his bleak life without hope. And if there was anything John hated like the plague, it was people pitying him. For whatever reason.

Still, when alone with himself – an increasingly frequent occasion lately – he had to admit that he was miserable. The job was dull and paid very little. His new flat was small, impersonal and almost empty. The sessions with Ella were even more useless than before, so he cancelled them.

He moved around as if separated by every other person in the world by a bubble of vacuum. A vacuum caused by the total lack of Sherlock in his life.

He couldn’t stay at Baker Street, he simply couldn’t. Not for the lack of financial means; Sherlock had left all his founds to him by way of a valid last will, so he could freely dispose of the money, Mycroft explained.

He got his nose broken for his pains.

He didn’t press charges, though. Moreover, he saw to it that John wouldn’t be charged for breaking the Chief Superintendent’s nose, either. Instead, he had the Chief Superintendent removed from his position for not being impartial in Sherlock’s case. Oh, the nominal reason was a different one, but everybody saw through that, down to the lowliest beat cop.

Mycroft also pulled some strings so that Lestrade would be able to keep his job and could hope to be fully reinstated as soon as the internal investigation of every single case in which Sherlock had been involved was finished.

He didn’t thank Mycroft for his intervention. Neither did John. Both refused to talk to Mycroft ever again.

Only that John refused to talk to Lestrade, either. Or to anyone else from the police. Or to Harry, for that matter. Or even to update his blog after the day Sherlock had jumped.

He still met Mrs Hudson from time to time. They went to small restaurants and cheap cafés in which Sherlock had never set foot. They visited Sherlock’s grave. But John never returned to Baker Street. He couldn’t bear the emptiness of it; without Sherlock’s boundless energy, without the screeching of the violin at 3 p.m, without the (barely) controlled explosions in the kitchen, the flat was empty and silent like a grave.

Mrs Hudson, bless her dear old soul, understood that. She spent a lot of time at her sister’s lately, too, avoiding the deafening emptiness of the house as much as she could. She didn’t want to take in other tenants, though, and Mycroft humoured her by paying the rent for 221B, instead of putting Sherlock’s things in storage.

Mrs Hudson was the only one who had thanked him for his efforts since Sherlock’s death.

John thought it was a horrible idea, turning the flat in some sort of museum, or shrine, for Sherlock, instead of moving on. If the war had taught him anything at all, it was to leave the dead to their rest and go on with his life, such as it was, even if it broke his heart.

Because in this case, it did. Which was why he never set foot in 221B again. Mike had been kind enough to collect his belongings and help him move into his new place.

It was somehow disheartening that all his stuff wasn’t enough to fill up a flat of the size of a shoebox. But at least it was all his. The beginning of his new, bleak life.

A life without Sherlock Holmes in it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“I think I need a change of scenery,” he told Mike on one of their regular meetings at their favourite pub. “I’ll never get better if I stay in London. Every stone here reminds me of Sherlock – and what happened. Even my job reminds me… hell, even Sarah reminds me of him!”

“That can’t be healthy,” Mike agreed. “What do you have in mind?”

“”I’m not sure,” John admitted. “If I could I’d move out of London entirely. To somewhere where people never heard of Sherlock, if such a thing is possible. Start a whole new life.”

“Under a fake name?” Mike grinned. “You could always call yourself Dr. Hamish, you know. It has a distinctive sound.”

John shook his head. “Nah, not necessary. Watson is a common enough name. There were four of us in our graduate group at university; and one of the others was a John, too. And I have a common enough face. A change of haircut and nobody will recognise me.”

“Save for those who know you well,” Mike pointed out.

“Well, yes, those are the ones I’d like to avoid at any price,” John replied, before realising what he’d just said and adding apologetically. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Mike waved generously with a fleshy hand. “Never mind. If you wanted to avoid me, we wouldn’t be sitting here twice a week.”

“And you wouldn’t be chewed out for it by your wife twice a week,” John finished for him, smiling.

Mike’s wife didn’t like her husband spending so much time with a grieving friend any better than John’s short-lived girlfriends used to like sharing him with Sherlock. She was a somewhat scatter-brained Welshwoman from Swansea, born to well-to-do parents who doted on her just a bit too much – with the unfortunate result that she now expected the same treatment from her husband and took offence on the fact that Mike wasn’t willing to drop his friends on her every whim.

Sherlock gave them – had given them, John corrected himself bitterly – three months when they had married last year. Those three months were nearly over, but Mike still didn’t show any willingness to leave her. He was a good-natured and patient man; and, John supposed, Gwen’s high-strung attitude was good for him in a way. It kept him on his toes, and he needed that.

“In any case,” Mike continued, “if you’re serious about moving out of London, I might know just the place for you.”

John gave him a surprised look. “You do?”

“I do,” Mike smiled contentedly. “You can’t know this, of course, we’ve drifted apart after training, but I used to work in a small village practice for a few weeks every year before getting this teaching job at Bart’s. I couldn’t really afford a holiday back then, so whenever the local GP went on his, I’d go to this little village, out of London, peace, quiet, fresh air… all that stuff. I got fed by his housekeeper – an old dragon, mind you, but she was an amazing cook – treated the little old ladies and had a grand time all in all. It’s a nice place; I think you’d like it.”

“But I need more than just a few weeks of work,” John reminded him.

Mike nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m mentioning it. Dr. Haydock called me a couple of days ago. He’s quite old now and intends to retire – at least partially. He’s looking for a partner; for someone to share the practice with. Someone who’d do the house calls and all that stuff he isn’t fit enough for anymore.”

“And you think I could do that?” John asked doubtfully. “You know I don’t even have a car.”

“You can use his,” Mike shrugged. “You still can drive, can’t you?”

“Haven’t done since Afghanistan; and military jeeps are a different matter anyway,” John replied. “Tell me more about this place. Where is it?”

“Only twenty-five miles from London, but it seems like in another world,” Mike explained. “Or rather another time. Most of the village hasn’t changed much since the 1950s, save for that ugly housing estate they call The Development. Most of the old houses are Victorian structures, like Gossington Hall or the Vicarage itself, but there are a few very lovely Queen Anne and Georgian houses on the Old Pasture Lane. ”

“Seriously, Mike, I’d never be able to afford this place,” John laughed a little bitterly, because all that sounded very tempting to him.

“Of course you will,” Mike said. “You see, the village has been stagnating for quite some time. More than a few cottages are standing empty cause their owners died and the younger generation moved away to the nearby towns… or to London itself. I’m sure you’ll find something that you can afford – there’s a lot to choose from.”

“It sounds very nice,” John admitted. “I really need to get out of here. To someplace where I can be just myself, plain old John Watson; not the blogger of the fake genius.”

“Hey!” Mike said sternly. “Sherlock wasn’t a fake, and we both know it. And sooner or later the rest of the world will realise it, too.”

“Yeah, that won’t make him alive again,” John replied.

“No,” Mike agreed. “But you said yourself that you need to move on. I can call Dr. Haydock for you, and if I recommend you, he’ll listen. The question is: do you want the job?”

“I’m not sure,” John said. “I think I ought to see the place first. What’s it called anyway?”

“It’s called St. Mary Mead,” Mike answered. “You can reach it by train from Paddington Station.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In his comfortable little cottage beyond the grand Victorian structure of the Vicarage, St Mary Mead’s local GP, Dr Gerard Haydock, saw off the last patient of the day and then simply collapsed in his favourite armchair. He was grateful to the old ladies of the village who mistrusted ‘that new hospital’ in Much Benham, coming to him instead and keeping his little practice in business, but sometimes they could be a bit too much, even for his well-trained patience.

Especially his next door neighbour, Mrs Price-Ridley, a rich and imperious widow who was the most vicious gossip of all the old ladies of the village. And that, considering that the venerable circle consisted of people like Miss Hartnell and Miss Wetherby, was saying a lot.

Haydock shook his head and chuckled fondly. The unholy trinity of the Old Pasture Lane – long-nosed, gushing and excitable Miss Wetherby, proud and decent Miss Hartnell with her deep, almost baritone voice, and, of course, the infamous Miss Marple of Danemead Cottage – seemed to grow more curious and inquisitive with each passing year.

They were in their early eighties, all three of them, which came with restrictions where physical activities were concerned. They could no longer work in their gardens all afternoon. They could no longer visit families in need (to the great relief of such families, as they used to dread the visits of the resolute Miss Hartnell). Not even knitting would go as smoothly as before, Miss Marple had complained recently, due to the slow failing of their eyesight. But they still could do what they’d always done best: watching the passers-by from their window and gossiping about their neighbours.

The thought that they had so much more time to do so was, frankly, a little alarming.

Dr Haydock sighed and got on his feet to close the practice for the day. He was only marginally younger than the aforementioned three ladies, and whiles till fit and agile for his age, the thought of retiring appealed to him more and more. Oh, he wouldn’t give up the practice completely; he could never do that to his faithful old patients. But it would be good to have somebody younger to visit all those young families with their sick children at The Development, as the ugly new housing estate beyond the stream – the one built on Farmer Giles’s fields – was called by the locals.

The doctor chuckled as he locked the front door. New housing estate indeed! The Development had been built in the 1950s and was accordingly run down by now; and yet the oldest generation still considered it as something new and outlandish. Something that didn’t really belong to St Mary Mead, even though it was inhabited by the second generation already, and its inhabitants had adapted to the old-fashioned way of life in the village surprisingly well.

With a heartfelt groan, Dr Haydock returned to the drawing room, ready to reward himself for the day’s work with a drop of whiskey and a leisurely pipe – no bloody government would prohibit him from having a smoke in his own house, thank you very much! He didn’t smoke in the room where he examined his patients, after all.

He was just about to light his pipe when the phone rang. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that it wouldn’t be a house call; although honestly, what else could it be? Only the locals called him on the landline in these days. Everyone else preferred those bloody mobile phones.

Well, there was no use to delay accepting the inevitable, so he picked up the receiver.

“Dr Haydock, how can I help you?”

“I’d say it’s me who can perhaps help you, Doctor,” the amused voice of Dr Stamford answered. “I think I may have somebody for you.”

“A partner?” Dr Haydock asked, suddenly energised.

Stamford had been such a good, reliable holiday replacement before he’d got that teaching job at St Bartholomew’s Hospital. And he knew a lot of other useful, reliable people, which had been the reason why Haydock had asked for his help in the first place.

“Possibly, but not one hundred per cent sure yet,” Stamford replied. “He wants to see the place for himself before making any decisions.”

Dr Haydock breathed out in relief. A male candidate then. Good. Not that he’d have any objections against a female colleague, but even in these days, the conservative base of his clientele would have a hard time accepting a lady doctor.

In certain aspects St Mary Mead was still stuck in the past. It was part of its charm, but it sometimes made things complicated.

“Who is he then?” he asked.

“An old mate of mine, John Watson,” Stamford replied. “A very decent chap; we trained together at Bart’s but lost touch for a while, as he joined the Army and served three tours in Afghanistan as a trauma surgeon. We met again three years ago when he returned to England.”

“But why would he want to move into a sleepy little village like ours?” Haydock asked in surprise. “A trauma surgeon with his experience could get any job he wants at a London hospital.”

“No, he can’t,” Stamford sighed. “He got shot in the left shoulder; there was some nerve damage, and since he’s left-handed…”

Stamford drifted off, but Haydock understood at once what that meant.

“He will never operate again,” he finished.

“Yeah,” Stamford said grimly. “He’s been doing locum jobs for the last three years, eking out a living as well as he could. But since his flatmate died a couple of months ago, he can’t afford a flat in London on his own and needs to find something else.”

Haydock nodded in understanding. Nerve damage in the dominant shoulder was a certain career-killer for a surgeon. Add three tours in a war zone, possible PTSD and the recent death of a flatmate… yes, he could understand why the man would need an urgent change of scenery.

“Well, he’s welcome to visit any time he wants,” he said. “It’s not such a long drive from London after all.”

“He’ll come by train,” Stamford said. “Is Inch still in business? John might need a cab from the railway station.”

“Yes, of course, although it’s in the hands of the younger generation, like everything else,” Haydock replied, wondering a little why Stamford’s friend might need a cab. The walk from the railway station to his practice really wasn’t a long one. “I’ll need a CV and some references, though.”

“I can mail you everything,” Stamford offered.

“You can,” Haydock said dryly, “but it won’t do us any good. I don’t have a computer in the house.”

Stamford laughed. “Good Lord, Haydock, you're still living in the Dark Ages down there? Very well I’ll tell John to pack all his papers; and to make sure he gets wireless internet on his laptop.”

“He’s got a laptop?” Haydock pronounced a word as if speaking of something deeply suspicious.

Stamford laughed again. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Dr Haydock. You should consider catching up with time a bit, you know. If you had a computer, you could go on the internet and read John’s blog. It would tell you a lot about him and spare him the necessity of speaking about things that are still too painful for him to discuss.”

“I could read his what?” Haydock was suitably confused.

“It’s like a diary,” Stamford explained. “Just on the internet, so that people can read it and comment on the entries. A good way to keep tab on your mates.”

Haydock consciously reminded himself that Stamford was a generation or more younger and saw things differently.

“In my youth, we had this great invention called writing letters,” he commanded dryly. “And personal diaries were meant for personal use, not for complete strangers to read them.”

“Well, yeah, the world has changed a lot since the Age of Sails,” Stamford replied. “Anyway, I have to go. I promised Gwennie to take her out for dinner, and she can be very… vocal when I make her wait.”

“I knew there was a reason why I remained a steadfast bachelor,” Haydock said.

He had met Gwendolyn Stamford (née Cooper) once, at their wedding, but that had been enough. Stamford took no offence, though.

“Admittedly, she’s an acquired taste,” he allowed. “But we get on just fine… most of the time. And she makes me laugh – even if she doesn’t mean to. All right then, I’ll give John the thumbs up and the necessary instructions, and he’ll show up eventually. Is there a particular day when he shouldn’t come?”

“None,” Haydock replied after a brief pause. “I… don’t have much of a social life. He can phone me if he wants to make sure that I’m home; otherwise he can wait, should I be visiting one of my patients.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Stamford promised. “I hope the two of you will hit off at once. Good luck, Haydock; till next time.”

“Good-bye; and thanks, Stamford.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dr Haydock hung up and frowned. He wasn’t a friend of mobile phones or computers or other such infernal machines, but in one thing Stamford had been right: learning more about John Watson could be useful.

Even though he still felt it indecent to poke around in another man’s life. Regardless the fact that the man displayed said life on the internet, for anyone to see.

But who could help him to see it? His contacts to the younger generation were sporadic at best, and in most cases strictly of medicinal nature. Unless…

His glance wandered over to the Vicarage. Leonard Clement was as old-fashioned as he and almost as old, but his sons… Leonard Junior had moved out a few years ago, but David was still living with his parents… and didn’t he have a job in London that had something to do with computers?

The doctor reached for the receiver again, dialled the number of the Vicarage and asked for Daniel Clement.

Ten minutes later he was sitting in the Vicar’s study with the younger son of said Vicar, staring at the screen of a laptop. The website they were viewing had the simple title: THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON and showed, in the upper right corner, the small photo of a man in his late thirties, with a military haircut and a friendly, smiling face.

Under the photo was a short self-introduction, reduced to the barest facts: I am an experienced medical doctor recently returned from Afghanistan.

The hit counter, whatever that was supposed to be, showed the number 1895, and below it a few photos were posted. Haydock recognised the Coliseum of Rome and a few other famous places he only knew from travel guides. Watson must have moved along a lot.

“Not a very imaginative title,” David commented. “The last entry is from ten months ago… oh…”

He turned the laptop to the right, so that Haydock could have a better look at said entry.

It simply said: He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.

There was an instruction next to the entry, saying: Read more…

David clicked on the link, but there simply wasn’t anything else. Just a piece of info: Comments disabled.

“That’s all? Haydock asked, disappointed. “Not a word since then? No details?”

David shook his head. “Nope. You can see that he disabled the comments… and apparently abandoned the blog, too. We can try this embedded video here; perhaps we can learn more that way. Seems to be some cut-out from the news; do you want to watch it?”

Haydock pondered over the offer for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, please.”

~TBC~