A Matter of Consequence, Sherlock Holmes (ACD)

[derwent_f]

Title: A Matter of Consequence

Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)

Characters: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson

Rating: G

Summary: The aftermath of the Hope case. Or, how Watson becomes the Boswell to Holmes’s Johnson.

Notes: Gen Freeform Exchange 2021 gift for cereus.

Watson woke up late that morning, as was his habit. For one hazy half-asleep moment he was convinced there was something waiting for him today, something urgent to do – but then he remembered last night’s anti-climactic and unfortunate news about the end of the Hope case.

The prisoner had died, the police reaped their unmerited accolades, and he and Holmes had nothing else to do but to return to their routine. Or at least, Watson did. It was only a matter of time before some other case caught Holmes’s eyes, and Watson could only hope the other man would be kind enough to include him in his next adventure.

Apparently he wasn’t alone in his melancholy. Holmes, who often was already gone by the time Watson had his breakfast, was leafing through this morning’s papers, half-eaten breakfast laid in front of him.

‘Morning,’ he greeted the detective. ‘Anything interesting?’

Holmes handed him the newspaper. More coverage of the Jefferson Hope’s death and his crime. The facts revealed nothing that they hadn’t already known, but there was a sensational article on the subject of the Mormon faith that intrigued Watson.

He was about to point out the article when a knock on the door interrupted the pleasant quiet between them. Holmes bade the person in, and the door opened to reveal their stern-faced landlady.  

‘Good morning, Mrs Hudson. Is there anything we can do for you?’ Holmes asked with a genial smile.

The old woman straightened her back. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, gentlemen.’ Then she turned and stared meaningfully at the window. The very window that Hope had hurled himself through.

Even though Holmes and the two detectives had managed to catch him, the window itself had been broken in the process. Thankfully the weather had been agreeable so far, so that closing the curtain was enough to prevent the elements from sneaking into the room. Not that he and Holmes were likely to give much notice, given that their attention was still very much on the case.

Judging from their landlady’s unimpressed expression, it was clear that she didn’t share the sentiment.

‘I believe, gentlemen, that according to the terms of your lease, the responsibility to fix the window belongs to you. I expect the repair to begin as soon as possible – today, in fact.’

‘Naturally, Mrs Hudson. I shall call a repairman right after breakfast.’ Holmes smiled, which the old woman didn’t return. She left the room, closing the door with more force than necessary.

They glanced at each other. Watson cleared his throat. ‘Do you think she will kick us out?’

*

They called a repairman, who was able to repair the window that very afternoon. It was very fortunate, because that evening the rain began pouring heavily.

The rain continued on to the next day, although it didn’t stop Holmes from venturing out. Watson, though, had to stay cooped up inside their rooms. After all the excitement of the Hope case, he found the return to his usual monotonous routine to be almost unbearable. Strictly speaking, he knew that it was better for his health – he was, after all, still recuperating. But he was not naturally a retiring man, and this forced confinement get on his nerves.

Neither the papers nor his books provided any diversions, so without anything to do, he lay down on the couch and let his mind wander. Naturally, the murder case dominated his thoughts. There were still questions to be answered; the murderer’s history, in particular, aroused his interest.

He got up, found yesterday’s papers, and read the Mormon article closely. It satisfied enough of his curiosity, so he cut the article and pasted it in his journal, after the entries where he wrote down the facts of the case. Arranged like that, it became evident that although his notes covered all the important parts of the case, it didn’t do the strange, exhilarating case justice. They lacked the invigorating thrill of the past few days.

He looked over the pages with a critical eye. His fingers itched with residual, pent-up energy.  He could hear the bitter note in Holmes’s voice as the other man lamented his lack of recognition.

Well. Didn’t he say if Holmes wouldn’t publish his account of the case, he would?

Before he could second-guess himself, Watson reached for a blank paper and composed a short letter.

*

Next morning, Lestrade showed up with a small cardboard box in his hands.  

‘My notebook, as you requested in your letter,’ he said, dropping the box on the desk, ‘And the Scotland Yard’s files on the case. May I ask what precisely do you need them for?’

‘Merely writing down my recollection of the case.’ At Lestrade’s sceptical face, Watson added, ‘Allow a recuperating man his distraction, will you?’

‘Oh, sure.’ Lestrade said. ‘And where is Mr Holmes?’

‘Out, as usual.’

The detective nodded. At the door, he turned around and squinted at the window. ‘There’s something different about that window.’

‘Well, yes,’ Watson said, wondering if the man really was being obtuse or just pulling his leg. ‘Hope broke it that night.’

‘Oh yes, I remember now. Hard to notice such a trivial thing when you’ve got a murderer in your hands.’ With that the man said goodbye, leaving an annoyed Watson behind.

*

Lestrade’s dismissive and arrogant attitude spurred Watson on. He spent the rest of the day engrossed in composing a more detailed account of the case. Lestrade’s notes and the police reports were naturally dry, but he did his best to tease out a livelier story from those sources.

The result was almost two dozen pages. Here and there were scratched out words and paragraphs. Sometimes his writing descended into an almost unreadable crawl, the result of trying to keep up with the words flying through his mind.

Later that evening, as he massaged his stiff arm, Watson vowed to use what little fund he had to buy a decent typewriter.

*

He just took out his violin from its case when Watson’s head peeked from behind the half-closed door.

‘Apologies for interrupting, Holmes, but would you kindly let me have the room for about an hour? I’m having a guest.’

A flash of annoyance passed through Holmes. But, he reasoned, Watson always obliged him when his clients visited and he needed the sitting-room. Besides, this was the first time Watson asked him to return the favour, and he would be remiss indeed if he begrudged his housemate this simple request.

As Holmes closed the door to his room, his ears caught the following words, ‘I’m glad you found the manuscript compelling.’

*

When Sherlock sat down in his brother’s sitting-room, Mycroft was looking at him with amusement.

The younger man raised his eyebrows. His brother slid a brochure across the table.

He picked it up. ‘A study in scarlet.’

‘Fresh off the printing press.’

‘Being a reprint from the reminiscences of John H. Watson.’ Sherlock looked up from the paper.

‘Apparently you struck gold with your roommate. I daresay you’ve met your Boswell, brother.’

---

Sholto prattled on and on about the various ways his health was compromised. The man was certainly a true hypochondriac, and in any other instance Holmes would most likely find his chatter amusing.

As it was, his mind was occupied with the facts of the case. He was certain that the case was simple enough, yet there were always the chance that their confrontation with Sholto’s brother might turn out unexpectedly.

A stray piece of conversation distracted him from his contemplation.

‘Certainly, one must be very careful in administering castor-oil. Taking more than two drops will certainly result in a great danger to one’s health,’ Said Watson to Sholto, who sat opposite him.

He raised his eyebrows, and glanced at Miss Morstan to see if she registered the strangeness of the answer. But the lady’s face was drawn. Well, he supposed that was only to be expected, given the sudden upheaval to her life that the night had brought.

Holmes turned his head to look at the other two men in the cab. If Sholto found Watson’s answer puzzling, he didn’t show it. Then again men like him generally were not interested in finding answers – what they wanted was the chance to talk about their imagined ailments.

As for his friend, those who were not as familiar with him as Holmes was would not find anything amiss in that face. But he could detect the hint of distraught disappointment in the other man’s mien. It was curious, he mused. He knew that the lady had caught Watson’s eyes; however, he did not understand why the development tonight distressed him so.

‘As for sedative, one can never go wrong with strychnine. I assure you that nothing helps a man to sleep as well as a large dose of it.’

Well now. He’d overheard earlier Watson telling their client the story of how he shot a double-barrelled tiger cub at a musket, but this advice had the potential to truly put someone in danger.

Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but before he could get even one word out, the cab jerked and came to a stop. They had arrived at Pondicherry Lodge.

He threw a glance at his friend’s forlorn face, and decided to keep the memory of the exchange. If the dear doctor decided to write another documentation of their adventure, it would garnish the tale with a little humour.