Authors Notes – this has really taken off in unexpected directions. Set BEFORE Observations of a Wife, in the Early Years (days, weeks, months) of Holmes and Watson’s acquaintance. A look at some of the events that MIGHT have happened to impel them on their lifelong journey of brotherhood.

Continuing the tradition the story will be from Holmes’ POV – lets hope I get it right!

Short chapters, but not drabbles…

Disclaimer – I don’t own them, just playing!

Observations of a Lodger

Warm Fires of Home

The case had been exceedingly tedious. It had involved more travel than I had originally expected, taken longer to resolve than I had originally deduced and had involved more violence than I had originally anticipated.

In point of fact the case had been so far reaching that it had necessitated splitting from my Watson and keeping in touch with him only through wires and the odd advertisement in agony columns. In the last seven weeks I had not laid eyes upon the familiar face of my dear friend, nor taken my ease in his presence. While I had travelled in one guise or another, moving from the highest to the lowest echelons of society in one guise or another, my dear friend had travelled the length of England to research several facts for me, finally returning to Baker Street to co-ordinate with those in my network of informants and myself.

The pressures of the case had been enormous and the stakes were high. Three years ago I would have been unable to bring it to such a swift resolution without dangerously overspending my personal reserves of strength and nerve. Today, only the assistance of my dearest friend had allowed me to complete the case in such a short time with so little expense of myself.

The cab jostled to a halt and I took a weary breath, my eyes drinking in the welcome beacon of our front door. I had not wired my arrival to them, unsure until the very last minute that I was in fact free to bend my weary footsteps to our front step. It was early morning, yet I regretted that I had not been met by the warmth of a friendly face at the train station. The cabby took my luggage to the door and then pointedly held the doors of the hansom open for me. I struggled down from the cab, tipping him well for his troubles, which earned me the assistance of a strong hand beneath my elbow to the front door and an emphatic knock.

“Mr Holmes!” my landlady had been interrupted at her baking and looked aghast at the state of her most troublesome and least favourite lodger, “Dear me, young man, you’re in a right state. Bring the bags in cabbie and leave them by the front door – I’ll have a tip for you when I come back down.”

“I can manage…”

“… the stairs quite well I am sure,” the stern tone of a mother who would have her way and was not to be tested sat well on our landlady, making me wonder what her children were like. Her work hardened hand replaced that of the cabby and I was allowed to make free use of the support of the newel post and banister. Only three steps up Watson appeared, slinging an arm around my waist and taking more of my weight than I had thought he could manage. Mrs Hudson melted away like an ephemeral mist, but I was not concerned in the least by that as my dear friend would doubtless know where she was and what she was up to.

The settee had never felt so good beneath me, nor had any other cup of tea ever been so fragrant. The tempting shortbread on the saucer was gone in a flash and awoke hunger pains that had lain dormant for weeks. Fruit replaced it, along with more tea and was rapidly followed by a change of clothing and location.

I opened my eyes to see Watson sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, his stockinged feet propped comfortably on my mattress and one of those ubiquitous yellow-backed novels in his hands. The dear sight eased my mind more than the sleep could have and I spent some few moments observing him closely. He had been quite busy in my absence, most recently at his practice in Paddington as well as his researches for me. He had been set upon by no less than four men two days ago…

“Were you hurt?!” I fear I startled him into dropping his novel as I lurched upright and grasped for his arm. The smudges on his face were not from walking about in the polluted London air, nor the result of sitting up for endless hours caring for me without time to groom himself – I was tired, not in any danger of illness. Nor were they the product of the few shadows in my room, the late afternoon sun illuminated it perfectly.

“Good heavens, Holmes,” my Watson reproached me with a single look and got up to ease me back against my pillow when my head swum, protesting my sudden exertion. He sat beside me on the bed when I tugged at his sleeve, not daring to squeeze the arm that was clearly padded with a bandage. He caught my hand in his and pressed it once, the broken skin on his knuckles speaking clearly of his defensive efforts. As his old war wounds had healed he had become much more proficient in fighting off various ruffians and toughs, a side effect of the cases that we worked on and one that gave me no little cause for worry. One day we would not be so lucky, and then what? Injury to myself I could ignore. Injury to Watson was not acceptable.

“You did give me a fright, old chap. What were you thinking shouting at a fellow like that unawares?” he scolded as he tucked my hand back across my chest and smoothed my blankets. I scowled at him, an expression that lost some impact when one was flat on ones back and being ‘doctored’.

“How. Badly. Were. You. Hurt?” the clipped words positively dripped with my impatience and he sighed, ceasing his fussing.

“Only the injuries that you have already deduced,” he replied, “Lestrade and I put up more of a fight than they expected.”

“Lestrade? He was there too?” I frowned. Lestrade’s presence made no sense at all. As far as I knew he had not had any involvement in this case; certainly my brother would not have countenanced it, “Why would Josephs’ send someone against you when you were accompanied by a policeman. And for that matter, why were you accompanied by a policeman?”

“It wasn’t Josephs’ dear chap,” Watson chuckled, “He sent an assassin with a rifle and poor aim. No, the thugs that attacked us were after Lestrade in connection to a case he was working among the tailors of Bond Street. I didn’t get the whole story from him, but I believe it had something to do with counterfeited tweeds. He wasn’t even with me in connection to his case, either. I had patched up a couple of constables the night before and Lestrade had come to speak to me after hours about it. While we were walking from my practice to a nearby pub for some dinner and ale, we were set upon by the counterfeiters. It was quite the mixed up for a few moments, but we prevailed in the end.”

“You’ve bandaged your arm,” I pointed out, “And I must infer that the bruising is more extensive than the few marks upon your face.”

“Not by much,” Watson assured me and stooped easily enough to pick up his book, straightening with a sigh and smoothing the bent pages. I made a remorseful face in response to his look of reproach, knowing full well how he disliked seeing his books damaged.

“I’ll get Mrs Hudson to bring you up a light meal, which you will eat, and draw you a bath,” he forgave me with the crooked smile that I had come to prefer upon his face and slid his feet into his slippers, which he’d kicked off before using my bed as a footrest.

“If you insist, Watson, and only to please you,” I waved a languid hand, knowing full well that to capitulate without some show of petulance would worry him needlessly. I only went along with his medical orders without protest when I was in such dire straits that I had no choice: after years spent working together, my Watson could gauge my health by the strength of my resistance to his well considered advice.

“Thank you, Holmes,” once again his dry tone could have wilted any potted plant within a five foot radius, but as it was not accompanied by any sign of true ire I was not at all discomforted by it. It was a rare day indeed that I saw any evidence of his now famous ‘bull pup’ and even rarer that it was sicced upon me.

My bedroom door shut behind him with a quiet click and I shut my eyes, deciding that it would be as well to rest for a short while longer before rising and assisting Watson with organising the notes for this particular case. He would never be able to publish it; however we had gotten into the habit of writing each case up at its finish, the record to be used at a future date against similar cases. Those that forgot the past were doomed to repeat its mistakes…

“Wait a moment! What assassin?” I shot up in my bed.

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END

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