Chapter Text
For one of the first times in his life John Watson is hesitant.
He's been standing at the servants' entrance of the gigantic mansion for at least five minutes, his short blond hair slightly messed up by the wind, his short but sturdy frame wrapped in his old army uniform and his duffel with literally all of his possessions slung over his shoulder.
He was supposed to ring the big bronze bell at the right hand side of the door, wait for someone to open it and start his new job here working the stables.
A new start to his life.
A turning point really. At just 27....
He sighs.
Up until very recently he had been a soldier. That's all he'd ever been really.
His service in her majesty's armed forces had started when he was just 15.
The army had taught him everything, had practically raised him when his own family fell apart.
He had been a soldier first, “John” second, and now that he was only the latter he felt as if that was not quite enough, as if a piece of his identity was missing and he had nothing to replace it with.
He didn't know how to be 'just John'.
And, if he's being completely honest with himself, he's not sure if he even knows who that is anymore.
John shuts his eyes tightly.
Here, at the cusp of a new life, all the painful memories of an old one came flooding back to him.
Why were these memories suddenly returning to him now?
He shudders as a cold breeze creeps under the collar of his coat making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Goddammit”, he mutters under his breath, not necessarily because of the cold although he tells himself that that's all it is.
Just the cold.
No frustration at his current position. No sadness. Soldiers did not get sad. No fear. Definitely no fear allowed for members of her majesty's armed forces.
Just the cold of an early September morning.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other while hoisting his duffel a bit higher up on his right shoulder.
His left shoulder aches, as if to remind him why he is here.
An enemy blade had pierced his left shoulder from behind. It had sliced his body in all the wrong ways. Tendons had been cut, vessels nicked, muscles irreparably damaged. He'd been a bloody mess. In every sense of the word.
He'd been in the field hospital for weeks. Barely made it out alive really.
Memories of that period are blurry at best. Some members of his regiment visited. Most didn't.
Only James had been a constant by his side. It took a while for his vision to return, but his first memories after regaining consciousness were of a soft hand on his and a voice pleading him not to die.
James' hand. James' voice.
Guiding him back to shore through a sea of pain and fear.
John had known then.
He had been in love with James. From the moment he had met him really.
James had been a soft spoken man, quick to smile, always so worried about John.
In the beginning John had chalked it up to the age difference between them, James being about 10 years his senior, but now, looking back on it, he isn't so sure anymore.
There had been touches and lingering looks.
A lot of time wasted.
No point in dwelling on it now.
James had gone missing in action just a week before John had been released from the hospital although John didn't find out until much later.
He had been forced to leave the army after that. Turns out they had no use for a soldier with a tremor in his sword-hand and an unexplainable limp that came and went at the most inopportune moments.
After that John had been roaming the countryside. Looking for the odd job. Unable to go home...
He closes his eyes again.
No.
He does not wish for his thoughts to go there. Not now.
Another cold gust of wind hits him and he turns his face into it until his eyes start to water.
It had been a chance meeting with an old friend that had saved him from ending up homeless and destitute for the rest of his life.
He had ran into Mike Stamford in a tavern close to London.
John was there tending the stables for a short period of time for far too little money, he took what he could get after the army, and he liked horses, they tended not to judge.
“John? John Watson?” Mike had said, “It is you!”
Mike had not changed a whole lot. They'd grown up together in the same small country town, but with Mike's father being a banker Mike had always been destined for bigger things.
He was dressed up like a proper banker now with a proper wool suit, all the rage in London these days.
His hat had been in his hands as he was twisting it around nervously, probably taken aback a bit by the state John had been in.
John hadn't been able to properly wash for days and new clothes were hard to come by, but Mike had been the same old Mike he'd known all those years before. Be it a bit bigger.
“I got fat”, Mike had said as he chuckled.
Hearing about John's unfortunate accident and departure from the army Mike had shown himself to be a friend through and through and had helped John get a paid position at the Holmes' estate.
“They've been looking to hire for quite a while now, but they can't seem to get anyone to stay”, Mike had said.
“So they might be just desperate enough to hire me?” John had replied. Only a tiny bit bitter.
“I didn't mean...”
“It's fine. “
“I'm only trying to help you, John. Meeting you here...like this.....I'm sure your father would not have....”
“It's fine”, John had said once again and had followed it up with a tight, only slightly forced smile. That seemed to have been all the reassurance Mike needed.
“Write to me when you get there”, he had said.
“I will”, John had lied.
They had hugged and said their farewells and now John was here.
At the Holmes estate.
Once again he sighs and stretches out his hand towards the bell.
Not long after ringing the bell the door is opened by a small elderly woman.
She has a fragile frame, but somehow holds herself with an authoritarian air. Her gray hair is gathered in a tight bun at the top of her head and she wears a dark dress and a pristine white apron.
A small smile lays on her lips.
John fumbles in his pockets for the letter of recommendation Mike had given him so the household could make sure he was who he said he was, but the woman seems to be one step ahead of him already.
“You must be John Watson”, she says in a jovial tone.
“I...er....yes...” John stammers, “how did you...?”
“My name is Mrs. Hudson and I am head of housekeeping here. It is my job to know everything that goes on”.
She winks at him.
In reply John gives her a small smile that does not quite reach his eyes.
“We were expecting you today”, Mrs. Hudson continues, “Mister Stamford wrote a very long letter of recommendation introducing you. We're all very glad you're here. Come in, come in!”
She gestures excitedly towards the hallway beyond the open door.
John follows her inside, his earlier hesitation temporarily driven away by Mrs. Hudson's cheery nature.
Good old Mike.
It seems he has taken every precaution to make sure John would be well received here.
He follows Mrs. Hudson down a hallway into the staff kitchen. Nobody is working there at the moment.
Mrs. Hudson leads John through a door in the back of it that opens up into a small room that serves as her office.
There is just room enough for a desk and two chairs on opposite sides of it.
A small window in one of the walls makes sure that at least some light filters into the small room, although, not much.
Mrs. Hudson sits down behind the desk and gestures for John to sit on the only remaining chair.
Gingerly he drops his duffel to the ground, painfully aware of the mud stains it had gotten covered in during his time as a drifter, and sits down himself.
“Tea?”, Mrs. Hudson asks cheerily.
“If it's not too much trouble”.
“Of course not!”, Mrs. Hudson smiles as she answers, “you must be tired having traveled such a long way.”
The next few minutes she busies herself making tea with a small set she also keeps in her room.
The tea smells good. It tastes good.
By now John had been on the road for over a year and he had found that something warm to drink tended to be surprisingly hard to come by.
He folds both his hands around the cup and feels his shoulder loosen up a bit as the warmth spreads up his arm.
“Good, huh?”, Mrs. Hudson is still smiling.
John nods and smiles back. In earnest this time.
“Mr. Stamford writes you have experience with horses, is that right?”, Mrs Hudson asks.
“Yes, mum, when I was in the army I did all kinds of chores, tending the horses was one of them”.
John feels it is probably best not to go too deep into his army experiences at this point.
He likes Mrs. Hudson but he is not ready to open old wounds so early in their acquaintance.
Mrs. Hudson's smile widens. Apparently that was all the information she needed.
“Splendid!” she says clenching her hands together in front of her chest, “you are just what we need. It's been hard to come by staff in these parts. And we've been looking for a full time stableman for ages.”
She flashes him a knowing smile.
Holmes manor is a large estate, but its location is indeed a bit off the beaten track, the nearest town was about half a day's walk away, but John knew that was not the reason they could not secure staff for too long.
He'd heard the rumours.
Everybody had.
Even Mike had told him about them.
He reckons these rumours were what Mrs. Hudson's remark and knowing smile had hinted at.
But, if he was completely honest with himself, he didn't really care too much about them.
This last year he had learned that people who barely knew you tended to have a habit to make up all sorts of stories about you if how you looked or acted was a bit out of the ordinary.
He'd had his fill of rumors, thank you very much, and he tended not to listen to them.
Mike had told him all about Holmes Manor and its inhabitants though and he did remember the bulk of the story.
The house used to be owned by Holmes senior. A distinguished gentleman, loved by the community.
With his wife he'd had two sons but shortly after the birth of the second boy the wife had died.
After a couple of years Holmes had remarried a widow with two children of her own.
Two daughters.
She had been labeled “new money” by those who liked to speak ill of her. Not born into nobility, but married into it.
John had stopped listening to Mike for a large part of the story there only to pick it up again when Mike told him that a few years into the marriage Mr. Holmes senior just up and vanished.
One morning he left the house and was never seen again.
Of course there were rumours about these strange circumstances too.
Especially when the oldest son vanished in a similar fashion.
Mrs. Holmes had been the talk of the town then.
Literally everybody seemed to think she had murdered Holmes and his oldest heir in order to seize control over the estate. But with no proof to back up this theory the stories soon quieted down and the youngest Holmes son, named Sherlock, was forced to take control of the estate at just 19 years of age.
Rather reluctantly it had seemed.
From that point on the youngest Holmes heir had started disappearing for days on ends. Going out pretty much every night and returning drunk or having clearly been in a fight, or both.
Apparently Sherlock Holmes was growing up to be the polar opposite of his father.
Rude, abrasive, irresponsible and, when he was actually home at the estate, the reason why they could not seem to be able to keep any staff members for long.
Sherlock Holmes usually ended up firing them over the smallest things, losing his temper, or people just handed in their own resignations because they couldn't handle working for him anymore.
That had been 10 years ago. But Sherlock Holmes had apparently only gotten worse with age.
At 29 his reputation was ruined and his stepmother was doing all she could do to stay in the good graces of the nobility of the surrounding areas.
John had just shrugged after Mike had finished his story.
“I tend not give rumors too much weight”,John had said, “I'd rather find out if things are true for myself. Besides. I've been in the army. I think I can handle some rude posh git.”
They both had laughed at that and Mike had given him a slap on the back. John had tried not to wince as his injured shoulder stung in protest.
Besides, if a sweet woman like Mrs. Hudson worked for Holmes, how bad could it be?
“I'm sure I'll feel right at home here, Mrs. Hudson”, John tells her now.
The smile she gives him in return practically lights up the room and for a moment John actually almost believes what he's just said.
****************************
The rest of the day is spent getting acquainted with the house and his duties.
He has been hired as a full-time stableman. His job consists out of taking care of the horses, the stable complex, the carriages that belong to the family and also helping out in the vast gardens and orchards if the need is there.
John is given a small room above the stables to himself and he actually feels pretty pleased about this.
However small the room is and however old the straw mattress he is supposed to sleep on looks it has been ages since he's had an actual room to himself.
He meets a couple of the other members of the household.
They all seem kind enough upon first meeting, but it will take some time to really get to know everyone.
Of course he doesn't meet any of the nobility that live in the house.
As a mere stablehand contact with the upper class will be limited at best and from what he hears from a couple of maids at his first staff dinner in the kitchen that evening Sherlock Holmes isn't even home. Hasn't been for over a month now. Nobody seems particularly worried by this.
“He'll turn up. He always does. Though I wouldn't mind if he stayed away for at least a month more”, a kitchen maid named Mary whispers to him before she gets shushed by Mrs. Hudson.
That night John goes to bed early.
He feels tired from a long trip and he has his work cut out for him tomorrow.
Besides, he isn't one for socializing these days.
He only realizes how tired he actually is when he lays himself down on his mattress.
His leg is aching, he hopes he won't end up limping in the morning, that would be an awful first impression on his first day of actual work.
He needs this job.
He needs a steady, normal life. He craves it. He has had enough of adventure and danger and death these past couple of years.
At least, that's what he tells himself anyway.
As soon as he closes his eyes a restless sleep takes him.
Nothing new there.
Ever since he left the army he's been having the same nightmare at least once a week.
He almost welcomes it like an old friend as it starts forming in his minds eye now.
In his dream he is standing in a field beneath a completely black sky. No clouds. No sun. No moon. Just black.
All of a sudden panic overtakes him and he starts screaming, but there iss no sound in this place. Only blackness and his desperate screams turned into blackness themselves.
Black birds that fly out of his mouth and surround him until he can't see or feel anything but their black wings beating his face and shoulders. And yet he can't stop screaming until there is nothing but darkness and the screams-turned-birds start tearing him apart as their wings turn into razor-sharp blades.
Usually this is the point where John would wake himself up screaming, bathed in sweat. He is just relieved to find that this time there is no one there to hear him.