Chapter Text
A Note From The Author
Holmes, my dear, I know you will want to read this, so I will not hide it from you. I hope you don’t find it too fanciful. I did try to keep it as close to reality as I could, though it may easily be taken as fiction. Rest assured I have finally come to believe that wonderful things have happened to this once-miserable, battle-scarred pensioner. As for the terrible things, I would not change a single one, for they brought me to you.
Your Watson
It was in January of 1881 when I was subjected to the first of the strangest series of occurrences which have ever befallen me. I write of them now for my own peace of mind if nothing else, as it is simply too significant a story to exist only as fallible memories.
Following a long and arduous recovery after first being struck down by a Jezail bullet in my left shoulder at the battle of Maiwand, and then by a hideous bout of enteric fever while attempting convalescence, the army medical board judged me to be wasting away and therefore next to useless. I was duly sent back to England and wound up alone in London just in time for Christmas of 1880, with only the vaguest idea of what to do with myself, about as miserable as a man can be at that time of year. I found a place at a private hotel in the Strand and settled as well as I could into my new existence.
It was a lonely, awful time. All around me the London populace were preparing to celebrate the season, yet with no kith or kin of my own to join in revelry I found myself entirely adrift. I could secure no work; my hands shook too strongly to carry out medical examinations, let alone any sort of operation. It seemed every day I discovered another once-familiar sound which could render me paralysed as it transported my mind back to the battlefields. The bitter, endless cold made my wound ache terribly, so much so that some days I could not rise from my bed. I was too weak, too thin, too much a fraction of the man I had been before.
The new year brought me nothing but more misery at first, for freedom from obligations only caused me to attempt to spend my days as if gambling and drink would give them meaning. This experiment was an abject failure, as those who have done the same will concur. My finances were in such a sorry state by the end of the month that I realised I must either move somewhere in the city that was significantly cheaper than my current lodgings, should such a place exist, or else leave London altogether.
I was deliberating this at the Criterion Bar over the cheapest drink I could purchase while still consuming alcohol, when someone tapped me on – thankfully – my uninjured shoulder. This was unusual for me; as I have stated, I knew nobody in London, or so I thought. I turned around and was surprised to see young Stamford, who had been a dresser under me during my time at Bart’s before I had shipped out to India. Oh, the sight of a familiar face! The darkness of my thoughts lifted at once, and I greeted him with great enthusiasm. He in turn seemed delighted to see me again, and we were soon bundled in our coats and scarves and heading off in a hansom to lunch together at the Holborn.
“Whatever have you been doing with yourself, Watson?” he asked, as we rattled through the crowded streets. “You are as thin as a lath and brown as a nut.”
Not wanting to bore him or be subjected to his pity, I gave him as brief a description of my adventures as I could. By the time we arrived our destination I had almost come to the end of my tale, and I finished it shortly after we sat down.
“Poor devil!” he commiserated after listening to my misfortunes. “What are you up to now?”
“Looking for lodgings,” I answered with a rueful smile. “Trying to solve the problem as to whether it is possible to get comfortable rooms at a reasonable price.”
“Are you aiming to stay in London or move elsewhere?” he asked me. He looked thoughtful.
I was excused from responding immediately by the appearance of a waiter at our table, which was just as well as I had yet to reach a conclusion either way. We ordered lunch and settled back in our chairs. Stamford eyed me curiously over the rim of his wine glass, waiting for me to speak.
“I would prefer to stay in London,” I said at last, “if there is somewhere that will take me. I know my way around the city, at least.”
“Familiarity is appealing, I suppose,” he agreed. “That is a shame, though – I was about to make you a proposition.”
“Oh?” I was curious. Something in the way he phrased it made it come across not as an act of charity, but a hand extended in friendship. The difference was enough for me. “Go on.”
Stamford folded his hands in front of him on the table and began to explain. “I have a cousin,” he said, “name of Livingstone, who owns a small cottage on the Sussex coast. It is empty at the moment, as he prefers to conduct his business here in the winter and then spend the warmer months down there enjoying himself.”
“That must be rather nice,” I could not help but interject. I hoped Stamford had a point to be made, as I had not raised the issue of my lack of lodgings only to be reminded of those who owned multiple properties.
“He has been successful enough,” my companion admitted with a wave of his hand, “but I digress. He is getting married soon, and is looking to sell the cottage in favour of finding somewhere a bit larger, more suitable for a family to use, that sort of thing.”
Our food arrived then. I tried to eat it in as restrained a manner as I could, unaccustomed as I was in those days to dining with another. My appetite was fickle at best, though I used all my energy on making it through each day, and as such I had fallen into the habit of eating as quickly as I could before my body refused to take any more. I ignored Stamford for several minutes in favour of methodically working my way through the pie I had requested.
“It could work out rather well, you know,” he commented suddenly, once we were down to the last scraps on our plates. “The winter's been particularly bad down there, and he's worried about the state of the place. He needs a sort of lodger-handyman, as it were, to stay for a few months and get everything ship-shape so he can sell it in the spring. He isn’t worried about earning from it before then, so the rent is frankly a pittance.”
“And you think I should be the one to stay there?”
He nodded. “A change of scenery and some exercise may do you good, and I know you've always enjoyed working with your hands." If he had noticed the way they shook while I handled my cutlery, he had graciously gone without mentioning it. "I will admit that part of the country can be bleak at this time of year, but I hear the nearby village is quite lovely.”
I frowned and pondered this as I lit a cigarette. Being alone in Sussex did not seem any more appealing than being alone in London at first thought. The weather down there would undoubtedly be worse than in the city, where one could travel by cab if so desired. The cold would be difficult to bear. I would have even fewer choices of how to occupy my days.
On the other hand, I truly had nothing keeping me in London apart from my own desire to reside somewhere familiar. In the city I was surrounded by people yet lonelier than I had ever been, for I could lean on none of them. Did I truly wish to resign myself to a life devoid of pleasures, unable to work, wasting away in progressively cheaper rooms with only my dwindling army pension and my service revolver for company?
At the very least, taking Stamford up on his sudden offer would allow me to save some money and plan my next course of action.
“What do you think, then, Watson?” He had graciously allowed me to finish smoking before pressing me again.
“If everything is agreeable, you may inform your cousin I am able to be in Sussex within two days of him giving word,” I said, not wanting to seem too eager. I smoothed down the tips of my moustache with my thumb. “If someone could meet me at the train station, I would be most grateful.”
“Oh, that’s marvellous!” Stamford shook my hand. “I’ll send him a wire right away. Are you sure you can be ready so quickly?”
“I have very few items to my name these days,” I said with a note of bitterness. “It will be no trouble to prepare them.”
Full of cheer, my companion insisted on ordering coffee, and then on paying the bill, fending off my objections by stating that I was doing him an enormous favour and in fact he owed me . We parted ways after that, I with Stamford’s card in my pocket, he with the address of my hotel written on a scrap of paper in his. He promised he would call on me as soon as everything was arranged.
I was filled with a strange feeling upon returning to my rooms. I sat in the chair by the window with a book open on my knee and a cigar in my fingers, though for the life of me I could focus on neither. It took me a good twenty minutes to realise what the matter was; I had made plans. Plans beyond visiting a bar and staying for as long as I could get away with, or placing an ill-advised bet on the races. Used to spending my days in a fog of weary listlessness, I had forgotten how it felt to anticipate something, and I found I quite liked it.
I received a telegram from Stamford that very evening with a request that I meet him for lunch again the next day so we could hash out the details. It occurred to me with the wheels now in motion that I was woefully unprepared for a winter by the sea. I spent the next morning organising myself. I purchased a new pair of boots, thicker gloves, and a small sewing kit so I might repair my own clothes, there being far less risk from my tremorous hands when handling fabric rather than flesh. Among my other purchases were a travelling case for toiletries, three new books, a journal, and a small bottle of brandy.
As it was, I arrived at my second lunch appointment in as many days laden down with packages, which is no small feat when one must lean on a walking stick for support. Stamford appeared surprised to see me in such a state, but he immediately leapt up from his chair to help me manage everything.
“Good heavens, Watson,” he laughed. “For a man with very few items to his name, you seem to be rather encumbered.”
“I thought it best to prepare myself,” I said, landing in my chair with a thud. “Have you heard from your cousin, then?”
As we dined, he explained to me the particulars of the arrangement. I had expected to be asked to meet Mr Livingstone before taking over his property, but in his wire sent the night before my friend had vouched for me and my character, and apparently that was sufficient. We confirmed that I would start my journey the following morning from Victoria.
The cottage which would be my home for the remainder of the winter months was set a small distance from the main village. The available amenities consisted mainly of a combination post-office and grocer’s, a small bakery, an inn, and a nearby farm further up the hill behind the cottage. It sounded idyllic, though I could not help but wonder how on earth I would occupy myself. As much as I did not wish to let Stamford down at the eleventh hour, the previous day’s excitement was beginning to give way to apprehension.