9Author's note:
This is not a classic rewrite. It does follow the episodes of the show Sherlock, but there are aspects that I will be changing. As of right now, there isn't any romance or pairings. I'll see how things work out as we press on.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or any of it's characters. It's just fun to mess with them.
Captain Justine Hanna Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers jerked awake, sweat beading on her brow. She sat up quickly, pulling in heavy breaths. The bedclothes pooled around her in a messy heap.
Justine, less formally known as Jo, pushed the covers away, and stood up, letting the cool air of her tiny, drab bedsit blow away the dry, blistering heat of her dreams. She limped across the floor and turned on the kichenette's faucet, and plunged her head under the stream, gulping down the cold water.
Jo shut the faucet off, and wiped water from her face and eyes. She sighed heavily and stared glumly at the achingly dull tan-and-beige walls and floor of her tiny bedsit. The sameness of Jo's everyday life was awful, not improving her depression.
Some days, it was all the veteran could do to get out of bed. Tea was often all she had for a meal. Food tasted like it had back in the worst days of her hospital stays after she had been shot. Jo's therapist wanted to put her on a special diet, to try and gain back some of the weight she had been losing.
After some time, Jo pushed herself to move. She grabbed her utilitarian metal cane and her bathroom things and limped to the shared restroom on the first floor. For once, nobody was waiting for the bathroom. Now that she thought about it, Jo had no idea what time it was. Truthfully, she couldn't have cared less.
The invalid veteran stared at herself in the mirror as she cleaned her teeth and face. Same as yesterday. Short, underfed frame. Same tanned face, same stone-blue eyes. Same bow lips and dark, thick eyebrows. Same sturdy jaw, round features and pointed chin. Same black circles under the eyes. Same ash-blonde hair, cropped short. The hair had once been the color of honey, but stress and years of sun and sand had bleached much of the glow from it.
All in all, it was a rather ordinary face, hiding an extraordinary story, although Jo didn't think much of it. Jo was glad that she was so unobtrusive. Less questions were asked, especially about her debilitating limp and the bloody tremor in her left hand. Her dominant hand. That tremor and the three seizures she had suffered during her recovery had permanantly removed her from Her Majesty's royal army.
That had been the end of Jo's life. Now, Jo was simply surviving. Not living. Nothing to excite her, get her blood pumping and her adrenaline rushing. Nothing to make her feel something. Anything.
Today, Jo was just as despondent as she had been yesterday. But the smell of the scones drifting up from that dinghy little corner shop was less off-putting than usual, although Jo wasn't sure she had enough money to buy one.
As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, Jo decided she'd try to find something that day. Excitement, fear, love, food, she didn't care. Something other than the terrifyingly present grey that seemed to dominate her days.
So Jo tried. She actually combed her hair instead of using her fingers. She rubbed a bit of the orange-scented hand creme that Harry had given her into her dry fingers. Jo frowned at herself in the mirror. With her dark circles, Jo looked like an over-emotional woman who was trying too hard.
But, Jo supposed, she was an over-emotional woman. Trying hard, though? Not really.
Jo stumped out the door, her cane clicking on the pavement. A thick curtain of clouds covered the sky. Stopping to peer through the windows of the corner shop, Jo searched the menu for something that was actually in her price range.
Ah, well. Looked like a cup of tea was once again her breakfast.
Jo shrugged it off, feeling the rough wool of her jumper rub against the puckered scar beneath her left clavicle. That scar had come from a sniper's bullet. Bullet in through the back, out through the front, shattering the bottom edge of her scapula and tearing through the muscles and nerves of her shoulder. Limited mobility and an intermittent tremor in her hand were the lasting results.
Jo tried to brush away the sour thoughts, but it was hard, even 'trying' as she was. At least Jo was trying, which was better than most other days.
Jo's therapist, Ella, had suggested that she meet up with old friends, but Jo just couldn't. She hated seeing herself so pathetic and dull. She definitely didn't want anyone she knew seeing her this way.
Ella had also suggested that Jo keep a blog, insisting it would help her adjust to her new life. What life Ella was referring to, was what Jo wondered. The blog currently had only one post, with the words, "This is ridiculous. Nothing ever happens to me."
Jo was sure that Ella had rolled her eyes at that.
Jo shook her head, realising that she had come to a stop, lost in her thoughts. Jo started walking again, grimacing at the steady zing of pain in her hip. Jo followed her feet, heading to the nearest patch of green.
The park was mostly empty. A few pedestrians nodded at her. She was just passing a portly man reclining on a park bench when her called her name.
"Justine Watson?" The man grinned and stood, pushing his glasses further up his nose.
Jo stared at the man. He was familiar, but Jo couldn't place him.
"Mike Stamford!" The man said, extending a hand. "We studied together at Barts!"
It suddenly clicked. Mike Stamford had changed quite a bit. He had gained weight and he hadn't had eyeglasses last time they'd met. His hair was greying as well.
Jo shook herself out of her thoughts once more. "Of course, Mike," she said plastering on a smile. "Good to see you."
Mike grinned wider. "You didn't recognize me. I know, I got fat."
Jo smiled timidly back at him, not sure what to say.
"Would you like to get a coffee and chat for a bit?" Mike asked. "You look like you could use a bit of a pick-me-up."
"That'd be great," Jo said.
"There's a nice little cafe just across the street," Mike told Jo, pointing. "We can just pop across and grab a cuppa."
Inside the quaint little shop, Mike insisted on paying for Jo's cup of Earl Grey. Jo accepted it gratefully. She was broke and apparently, Mike could tell. Either that, or he was being a gentleman. Jo wasn't sure. She was rather bad with men.
The duo skipped back across the street to the park to sip at their drinks.
"So what are you doing back in London, Justine?" Mike asked. "I thought you were abroad getting shot at. What happened?"
"I got shot," Jo told him flatly, trying to ignore Mike's quick glance at her metal cane.
"I'm sorry," Mike said, sounding as if he meant it. "Are you living in London, or just passing through?"
Jo shrugged. "Not quite sure yet," she admitted glumly. While Jo would prefer to stay in London, realistically, she knew she couldn't afford even her tiny bedsit for much longer.
Mike grinned again. "Ah, London wouldn't be London without you!"
"It was for almost fifteen years," Jo said. "And I've changed quite a bit, too. And London is expensive. I haven't got a job, only my army penison. Gotta find something soon, or I'll have to find cheaper accommodations."
"What about Harry?" Mike asked, sipping his coffee. "Couldn't she help?"
Jo stared at the grass, picking at the edge of her cup with her shaking left hand. "Harry and I aren't speaking much these days." That was all the answer Jo was willing to give. While it was perfectly true, there was also the matter of Jo's sense of pride. She didn't want to be carried through life. She'd made it this far, and Jo figured that she could make it through the rest, thank you very much.
"What about a flatshare?" Mike asked.
Jo scoffed, anger and pain flaring through her. "I'm an invalid army captain and a surgeon who can't operate. Who on this good Earth would want me for a flatmate?"
Mike's chuckle threw Jo off. "What?" She asked, as Mike studied her with shrewd amusement in his eye.
"You're the second person to ask me that today," Mike told her.
Jo cocked an eyebrow. "Who was the first?"
"A friend of mine," Mike said, draining his cup. "His name is Sherlock Holmes. Do you want me to introduce you to him?"
Jo frowned. She was really not interested in a flatshare with a male. Harry had tried that once, and things had gone… not good. Harry didn't date men anymore. Hearing stories from some of her army mates didn't help either.
Jo shook her head. "Nah, Mike. Thanks for the offer, though. I'll get by."
Jo drained the last of her tea and dropped the paper cup into the bin by the bench. She grabbed her cane and stood, ignoring the sharp ache of her leg.
"It was good to see you, Mike," Jo said, smiling grimly. "I'll see you around, yeah?"
Mike stood quickly, extending a hand. Jo shook it and turned to leave.
"Just a mo', Justine," Mike said. He snatched a slip of paper and a pen from his pocket and scribbled down a string of numbers. He cursed at the leaky pen, which had smeared blue ink over his hand. Rolling his eyes, he handed the paper to Jo. "That's my mobile number," Mike said. "Call me if you ever need anything, or if you change your mind about that flatshare."
"Thanks, Mike," Jo said, smiling tiredly. "I'll do that." Although she probably never would. Again that issue with pride.
William Sherlock Scott Holmes, known to all but his family as Sherlock, peered into the microscope, studying the green flakes under the lens. He dribbled something from a small pipette onto the flakes, and they sizzled softly.
Paint. From a ladder. If Sherlock was right, and he almost always was, the brother was the perpetrator of the crime he was currently investigating for Lestrade.
Sherlock suddenly cocked his head, listening to the quiet thump of footsteps coming up the hall. Perfect timing. Sherlock recognized that gait. Mike Stamford, who tended to step more heavily on his right foot than his left.
The door opened and Mike stepped inside. Sherlock swept a keen eye over him.
Bits of grass on shoe (at the park), coffee flecks on shirt cuff (coffee from a cafe), patches of sticky ink on the outside of his left hand (recently wrote a note with a leaky pen), and-Sherlock inhaled deeply though his nose-smog-laced London air (common for everyone), the smooth scent of coffee, the bite of metal (sat on a metal bench at the park perhaps? Ah, the closest park had wooden benches, with metal trim), and a whiff of something citrus-y, distinctly feminine (a hand creme or lotion, perhaps, picked up from a handshake).
A chance meeting at the park during his lunch break, then. Mike's current outfit was not something he'd wear to a special or planned occasion. Furthermore, Mike was married, quite happily, so not a girlfriend. It was someone Mike had once know, and now he wanted to keep in contact with. Why else would he leave the woman with his number? So, an old friend, one that Mike had known when he was young and now wanted to keep in contact with.
"Hullo, Sherlock," the portly man said, smiling.
Sherlock didn't bother returning the greeting. "Mike, may I borrow your phone?"
Mike chuckled. "What's wrong with the landline?"
"You know I prefer to text."
Mike snorted good-naturedly and slapped his mobile into Sherlock's extended palm.
Sherlock sent off a text to Lestrade and handed the mobile back to Mike.
Mike glanced at the text. "Another case solved, then?" Mike asked.
Sherlock nodded. "Of course."
Mike smiled. "Nice one," he said.
There was silence for a moment, broken only by the tinkling of Sherlock's glass slides, then Mike chuckled.
"What's funny?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his microscope.
"Oh, I told someone about you, earlier," Mike said.
"The female friend you met by chance at the park?"
Mike nodded, a grin in his voice as he answered. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew. Yes, that's right."
"Does she have a case for me?" Sherlock asked, glancing at Mike from the corner of his eye.
Mike shook his head. "She's looking for a flatmate," he said, sitting across from Sherlock. "Her name's Justine Watson. I told her about you and your flat, but she said she wasn't interested."
Ah. Dull.
Jo stumped into her bedsit, collapsing into the less squeaky of her two chairs and sighed. At least there had been a smidge of… difference, today, instead of the usual dull grey. After chatting with Mike, she had spent several long, boring hours exploring the familiar streets of London.
Jo stared at the floor. Maybe tomorrow would be better.
The next day certainly didn't start better. Jo was woken in the early hours of the morning by shrieks and screaming from outside. She could hear someone shouting to call the ambulance.
Jo leapt out of her bed, nearly tripping on the dragging sheets, and yanked an old jumper over her night clothes and jerked on her shoes. Jo grabbed the first-aid kit she kept under her bed and a torch and hurried out the door.
Three doors over and across the street, a group of teenaged kids was gathered in a group, two trying to comfort a sobbing third and a fourth jabbering quickly into her mobile.
Jo hurried across the street, ignoring the twinge in her leg. She stopped in front of the trembling group. She placed a hand on the shoulder of the girl who was just shutting off her mobile.
"I'm a doctor," Jo told the girl firmly, but gently. "What happened here? Is someone injured?"
The girl nodded, eyes wide. She pointed into the dilapidated building. "On the third floor, there's a woman. I don't think she's breathing. We found her a minute ago."
Jo nodded. "All right. You called the police and an ambulance?"
The girl nodded.
"Stay here," Jo ordered. "Wait for the police. Keep an eye on your friends. I'm going to go see if I can help."
Jo rushed up the three flights of stairs, hardly noticing her limp. She pushed open the door.
Lying face down on the floor was a woman dressed completely in pink (a frankly alarming shade, if Jo was honest).
Jo knelt next to the woman, snapping open the first-aid kit and pulling on a pair of disposable gloves.
Jo leaned close to the woman, listening for breath, and pressed two fingers to the woman's throat. There was no pulse, no telltale rise and fall of the chest and back for breathing, and Jo couldn't feel any heat from the woman's body.
She was dead, and had been for at least several hours.
Jo carefully studied the woman's face. She was familiar, but Jo couldn't place her. It made Jo wonder if her memory had been shot, right along with her shoulder.
Jo stared at the string of letters next to the woman's left hand. R-A-C-H-E. What was rache? Something tickled at the back of Jo's mind. Rache. Something about that word and this woman….
Jo brushed the woman's hair out of her face, and wrinkled her nose at the sour smell of vomit. Asphyxiation, then. Jo took another breath through her nose. No scent of alcohol. Disease, maybe? Or drugs? Seizure?
Jo carefully lifted the woman's hand. The color of the skin and the tips of the fingers definitely suggested a recent death, no more than a few hours, and rigor mortis hadn't yet set in. Jo flipped the woman's hand over and studied the skin on both of her wrists. No injection marks there, and now that she checked, none on the neck, either. Curious. Perhaps an orally ingested drug?
Jo dropped the woman's hand and lifted her eyelids. The whites of her eye were red but that didn't tell Jo much.
Jo chewed her lip and sat back on her heels.
Rache…. Why was that so familiar? Why couldn't Jo place this woman?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the wail of police sirens.
Jo stood against the wall, watching the forensics snap pictures of the dead woman with interest. She'd never seen an actual crime scene before, and though Jo knew it shouldn't be, it was quite interesting.
A silver-haired man had questioned her quickly about who she was and why she was there, and had been satisfied with her answers. He'd talked with a dark-skinned woman for a minute, then had quickly left the scene.
Jo was not yet allowed to leave, as the police were requiring a statement from her. So Jo stood against the wall, conveniently tucked out of the way, but with a clear veiw of things.
It was almost a full hour before Jo heard the voice of the silver-haired man, who'd introduced himself as Lestrade, again.
Lestrade came into the room, wearing a blue jumpsuit (Jo had also been made to put one on) and followed by a tall, slender, very well put-together man.
The man's clothes looked expensive and Jo wondered why he hadn't been made to wear a jumpsuit. The man wore a long, black trench coat and had a blue scarf folded about his neck.
His features were extraordinarily angular and defined, with sharp cheekbones, jaw and nose. His skin was pale and his dark, curly hair was plastered haphazardly in a wild halo about his head. His eyes were silvery grey-blue, and very piercing, although they only lingered on Jo a moment.
"Information?" The man asked Lestrade, completely ignoring Jo, who stared at him curiously.
Lestrade frowned. "We don't have much," he told the dark-haired man. "A couple of kids found her a few hours ago. Her name's Jennifer Wilson."
Jo couldn't stop her sharp gasp.
Lestrade and the dark-haired man looked at her.
"Bloody hell," Jo muttered, staring at the woman who, until now, Jo had not realized was her aunt.
"What?" Lestrade asked, stepping closer. "Do you know this woman?"
"I didn't recognize her until now," Jo said, staring at the body. "She's my aunt."
Please tell me what you think in a review. And the aunt thing isn't a major plot point, so don't worry about that. It was just something I thought would be interesting.
Hope you enjoyed that. (Seriously, please take a moment to leave a review, as we authors really love it.)
Another update will come soon!
-Indigene Syke