Fic for fictionforlife: That little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky

[holmesticemods]

Title: That little tent of blue which prisoners call the sky
Recipient: fictionforlife
Author: rhuia
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: STDs, male prostitutes, implied minor character death, period-typical homophobic language
Summary: John Watson never used to keep secrets from Sherlock Holmes. He does now.
AN: A million thanks to thesmallhobbit for the invaluable beta help and reassurance. You were the calm in the storm! <3
Inspiration for this story taken from the Cleveland Street Scandal of 1889. Wikipedia entry here.



It was a wet and dismal January night, and the wind rattled the panes incessantly. I was stretching my feet to the fire when I observed that Watson had placed himself away from it, as the settee he was on was directly in front of the door.

“The draught from the door must be catching you directly, my dear boy. Come and sit in the warmth,” I said, rubbing my hands together, for they were still chilled and numb from the day’s activities.

He put down the paper he had been reading and raised an eyebrow at me. “I have been by the fire all afternoon, unlike you,” said he. “It was a treacherous day to be hunting for clues in ditches, though you know I would have come with you even so.”

“You would have had patients enough to tend to today,” I said, leaning back wearily, savouring the warmth seeping into me. It had indeed been a day that would have tested the staunchest of men. Wiggins and I had spent it scouring the Surrey Docks, watching for a particular kind of greatcoat; the wearer was the only one with the power to clear an innocent man’s name. The rain had come down in sheets, with the wind cutting through it, while waves rocked the ships in the harbour. Even in our oilskin covers we were soaked to the skin and hard pressed to stay the course.

He frowned and rose to hand me a rug to spread about me. “I would not exchange your safety for their ailments. Wiggins is but a boy. Surely I could have aided you in some way.”

I shook my head, smiling at him when he insisted on assisting me. “You are the very pillar of respectability, doctor. It serves me excellently on every occasion save when I need a dock rat by my side to flush out another. No, Watson, though I would have been thankful for your arm against the wind, in all other respects you would not have done.”

He laughed. “I will have to learn to alter my manners as the occasion demands, then, if I am to continue to be of use to you.”

I felt a startling wave of fondness wash over me. “My dearest Watson, I could not ask for better. Pray don’t believe honour and kindness should be replaced with anything less to satisfy the demands of my work.”

“And yet you marry the two without a single blemish on your own character,” he pointed out, his eyes watching me keenly.

“All to get my man, Watson, all to get my man. And get him we did,” I said with some satisfaction. I had had Wiggins dried and fed before sending him home in a hansom, to Mrs Hudson’s disbelief. “And now it’s a pipe for me, a glass of Armagnac, warm slippers by the fire, and the knowledge I will not have to wander out again tonight. I must say it makes victory’s sweeter to finish so comfortably.”

I had barely finished my sentence when I heard, with some dismay, a step on the stair. It was not Mrs Hudson’s tread, nor any other I recognised, which meant a stranger. Which, in turn, meant someone coming to plead a case. I sighed and made to go to the door, but Watson had moved with some alacrity and led me back into my armchair, nodding with satisfaction when I resumed my seat and pulled the rug once more about me.

“Allow me,” he said, and opened the door to a young man. He was fashionably and expensively dressed and, in spite of the wild weather outside, his clothes and hair were dry and neat. There was a look of wild anxiety in his eyes.

“Forgive me for the late hour, sir,” he said to Watson, “No, I will not come in and be the ruin of your carpet. My father lies in grave health in his bed tonight, and we hoped you would attend to him. Will you come? I have a cab waiting downstairs. We could depart immediately.” The clothes and manner of speech belied the man, who was neither gently born, nor of the station that could command the expense of his apparel. His hands betrayed his occupation: an osier peeler, most likely, going by the striations on his palms and the lightening of his hair that spoke of outdoor work under a hot English sun.

I opened my mouth to question him when Watson put his hand up. “I am quite ready,” he said, and I saw with a start that he was. I could only blame my weary condition when I entered the house for that lack of observation. His bag was stationed at the door, he was fully dressed for someone who had been by the fire all day, and his hat was brushed. It occurred to me that the observer might be forgiven for thinking he had been expecting to be called on, but I dismissed the thought.

“I’ll bid you goodnight, Holmes,” he said, turning to me. “It seems we must both brave the elements before tomorrow comes.”

I rose and clasped his shoulder. “I wish for your sake this knock on our door had come at daybreak. To think of you battling the same forces of weather I have been, but at this gloomy hour, is a wretched state of affairs.”

He looked amused. “I can assure you the weather in Kandahar could be just as inclement. And I did not have the pleasure of knowing home, hearth, and company awaited me at the end of those long nights.”

“They do indeed,” I assured him, shaking him warmly by the hand before ushering them out.

-

It was a few days later, in the middle of conducting an experiment that relied wholly on the addition of potash at a crucial time, that I realised I had in fact almost entirely run out of that substance. I could blame no-one but myself; I should have replenished my stock a long time ago. Accordingly, and as it was a fine day, I made my way to Mason’s, the druggist.

“Why Mr Holmes, it’s both of you or none at all, is it?” Mason said, by way of greeting, smiling broadly and pointing to the other end of the counter. It was Watson he was pointing to, who was engaged with Mason’s apprentice. He was speaking too low for me to hear, and very rapidly.

He saw me almost at the same instant, for there was a long, low mirror behind the counter. A look of deep consternation crossed his face for a moment but then it was gone and he was coming over to me.

“Holmes,” said he, approaching me and gripping me by the arm affectionately, “I had not expected to see you here at this hour.” It was earlier in the morning than I had expected to rise, having been out till just before dawn the night before.

“Oh it was a question of titration,” I said. “It would not let me rest until it had answered itself. As it was a fine day I thought I would let the walk rouse me and came myself instead of sending for my potash.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Mason’s apprentice said, from behind the counter, to Watson. “Shall I have your order delivered to the premises?”

“No, it will come with me,” he replied, and I had time to see the boy whisk away a large order of pills, each marked with a cross.

I had not seen that particular symbol before and inquired as to its meaning. Watson shrugged. “It is Mason’s doing, I suppose. I’ve never enquired after it.”

My order was to be some time, so he took his leave, a large wrapped parcel under his arm.
I have had occasion to accuse Watson of seeing without observing; an opportunity to inform the mind of something is a poor thing to pass up. All details, no matter how incongruous, add up to something. It provoked me that Watson still passed that precept by, even after all our years of association.

“It’s to distinguish the doctor’s special order, sir, from his usual list,” Mason said, when I asked him for the origin of the cross on Watson’s pills. “About a month ago he started asking for this particular one made up, and in such quantities that we thought it best to mark them out.”

“And what are they?” I asked mildly. “In case the good doctor tries to dose me with one?”

“Oh I doubt you’d have use for them, Mr Holmes,” Mason said, chuckling, “for they’re mercury compound with willowbark and sarsaparilla, in the heaviest dose I’d dare mix. It’s the doctor’s own devising, you see.”

I could ask no more without compromising Watson, but it seemed likely that he had hit upon a formula that was successful enough to share with his colleagues. I made a note to congratulate him on it.

-

I rose late the next morning. Watson was at the breakfast table when I made my way there, with the paper propped up in front of him and a weary set to his shoulders.

“My dear boy, you look absolutely done in,” I said, taking in his colourless face and the lines of exhaustion on it. I poured him more coffee and helped him to a dish of devilled kidneys he had not touched.

He was slumped so low in his seat that it was only by the judicious application of a cushion or two that he managed to be even semi-upright. My hand lingered on his arm, my shoulder by his broad back, quite ready to brace him should the effort prove too much. From this close I could see the pale skin at the nape of his neck and smell the faint lime scent of his shaving soap.

He straightened up, however, and I was able to resume my seat.

He passed a hand across his eyes and nodded his thanks at me. “I was kept by a patient’s bedside. It was near to dawn when I was able to return but I have a full day’s clinic today and cannot put my patients off.”

“Your man from the other night, no doubt?”

To my surprise he looked shocked, the colour rising in his face. He collected himself in a minute. “I.. yes. Yes, it was the same man. I had quite forgotten you were present that night.”

“It was most unpleasant weather to attend a patient in, no matter how familiar the person,” I said, pouring myself coffee, watching him.

He was drooping again, eyes heavy-lidded and fatigued. “Hm?” he said, rubbing his face again. “No, quite a new patient. I had not met him before that night, nor his son.” He rose, yawning. “I had better make a start to the day before I collapse. Good day to you, Holmes.”

He pressed a hand against my shoulder, lingering for a moment, as warm and solid as the man himself. I nodded my goodbye, watching his retreating form.

The boy from the other night had not hesitated to address himself to Watson, in spite of apparently never having met him before. Watson had been ready and waiting for him –or someone.

Though the situation sometimes demanded that I withhold information about my cases from Watson, I could not remember him ever keeping a secret from me. It was a natural consequence of our association that, even had he tried to do so, it would not have remained hidden for long. And yet I had no inkling of what was transpiring before my eyes.

It would not do.

-

I had little opportunity to quiz Watson; our paths diverged over the next few weeks – I, to tend to Lord Hollingsworth’s robbery and the subsequent recovery of the Vijaypur Diamond, while Watson seemed to spend increasingly lengthy periods away from our rooms.

I would have suspected a liaison of some sort but I could not imagine him wanting to hide that from me. He had been as artless and open about his friendships as I had been reticent and closed about mine. He thought me unaffected by women – and I was. That he never thought of the obvious alternative was both an irony and a relief. That he never considered how that might affect our friendship – … no, all men live and die with some regret or the other. Watson thinks me indifferent to such emotions and perhaps it is best he does so.

It was quite by chance that I happened to meet Jackson in the street one morning. He looked harried and, after exchanging greetings, I remarked on the practice’s obvious success and congratulated him on his and Watson’s rise in the medical world.

“Oh, we do fairly well,” he said, looking a little surprised. “Our patients are a loyal, steady sort on the whole, I suppose.”

“You give every indication of not having enough hours in the day to tend to the people in it,” I said, smiling. “Watson looks the same.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? As to how my colleague looks, I could not hazard a guess. His locum work has taken him away from our practice for a month now. Entirely understandable, of course, with Dr. Bell’s passing but I for one will be thankful when the Edinburgh replacement arrives.”

There was a pause in the conversation that I found difficult to fill for a moment.

“Such devotion on both ends can only reflect well on you both,” I said, finally. I kept the smile on my face. “Incidentally, if I may just presume: a case has presented itself and your advice would be most gratefully received – what application would there be for a compound high in mercury, mixed in with willowbark and sarsaparilla?”

Jackson frowned. “Are you involved with persons using this preparation, Mr Holmes? I would encourage them to come forward and apply to the practice directly. It is merely a temporary application and not a cure, and they should direct themselves to a medical man’s attention so that we might confirm what stage of the disease afflicts them .”

I had already had my suspicions, but now it was confirmed; there were but a few candidates that fit that description. “Then it is syphilis,” I said. I believe I was able to keep myself from betraying any emotion.

He shook my hand to bid me farewell. “You asked for my advice. It is this: bring them to a doctor, for god’s sake, before it is too late.”

-

I am not a man given to moral scruple when it comes to discovering the truth. I afford my clients discretion when it is necessary, but never at the expense of the facts. I knew I risked Watson’s friendship if I attempted to discover what he was trying to conceal, but in this instance – I cannot deny it – fear motivated me.

I have mentioned before that it is not my custom to disclose my thoughts on a case while it is under consideration, but my mind had wavered very far from that firm and fixed rationality Watson likes to praise so much. There were only a few possible conclusions I could reach with the information I had, and at the forefront of my mind was the thought that the doctor had become the patient. He had removed himself from everyday life to conceal this round of his suffering, and devised a medication that helped relieve the pain. The facts so far supported this theory but I was acutely aware I was not operating on facts alone.

-

I sent for Wiggins, who came immediately, eager to earn a day’s wage. To my astonishment, he could not be induced to spy on Watson, and refused to be drawn on the reason why.

“It ain’t done, guv,” he said, shuffling his feet and refusing to meet my eye. “Can’t nark on the doctor, not if I want to keep ‘olding me head up.”

This proved to be the last word he said on the subject and, both threats and bribes proving futile, I had no choice but to release the boy. I knew Wiggins as the leader of his tribe and trying to draw out any of the other Irregulars would now be pointless.

At the very least Wiggins had given me pause for thought; whatever Watson was doing was known to the underworld of the Irregulars and their ilk. They had no special loyalty to Watson himself, so their silence could not be to protect him directly. In their own way, they had a code of honour, and it was impossible that they had been bribed against informing me.

There remained only a very few options, but I had to have the facts. Accordingly, I resolved to follow Watson myself and solve the mystery of his current occupation. Few people had the power to command the good doctor away from that which imperilled him, if his mind was set on a course of action; I flattered myself that I was one of them.

-

Following Watson proved easier said than done. Though he was gifted with a great many talents, elusiveness had not historically been one of them. And yet, to my very great surprise, I found myself being thrown off every trail.

Hansom cabs that he entered proved empty at the end of journeys, the drivers as puzzled as I – though he had taken care to leave reimbursement in the carriage.

The particular hat that I marked and followed would disappear into a crowd of people, never to re-emerge, though once I tracked it to Paddington station, only to find a complete stranger wearing it.

I smeared the soles of his town shoes with turpentine, which should have been child’s play for Toby, but the scent trail disappeared at the end of our street, leaving Toby whining in confusion.

It would have been an amusing little game under different circumstances, but these were not those circumstances. Watson was proving a formidable figure to track; he had set his mind against being discovered and I began to believe I was taking the wrong approach to the case.

It remained then to discover who the young man from the night’s visit had been. I turned for information to the shadowy world of the servant class, who are the eyes and ears of everything that happens under a roof, and it was here that I finally made some progress. Ironically, the information awaited me in my very own home. Mrs Hudson’s knocked on my door one morning, very tight-lipped, and ushered in her parlour-maid, Sally.

“It’s about the visitor from the other night, sir,” said my landlady. “I heard you were enquiring after him. Sally here has an association with the young man, though nothing that will bring us into disrepute.”

“Me brother and Jacob worked the reed beds together,” the girl said stoutly, “but Jacob wanted to get work in the city. It’s going on a year now since we heard from him and then I opened the door and there he was that night, wet as a drowned rat. Asking for Dr Watson an’ all.”

His name was Jacob Broom, she said, and he was employed to deliver telegraphs. I exchanged a look with Mrs Hudson; she was very grim. I did not ask her to stay, however, and she could not protest with the girl waiting for her.

To this day I have no memory of what I did when the door closed behind her, save that I must have dressed and left the house like the devil was behind me, for I was at the door of a Georgian townhouse in Fitzrovia in what felt like seconds.

-

I had never been inclined to visit such places as a normal consequence of my desires, but that did not mean I was unaware of their existence, or that I was ignorant of their customs. At the front of the building was a nondescript, plain wooden entrance. The true visitor did not enter through that, however, and I made my way down the adjoining alleyway. A black silk curtain concealed a stout oak door, with an iron knocker on it.

A sliding shutter opened on my summons. “I have business with Jacob Broom,” I said, to the youth who had opened it. “You may give him my card.” I slid it across the small opening and waited. I heard the sound of bolts sliding soon enough. The same youth beckoned me in and showed me up three flights of stairs, to a small room furnished with a cot and a table. Jacob Broom was leaning against the table, his arms folded. “I was told to expect you,” he said coolly.

“Then you will know why I’ve come.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “How did you know to find me here?”

“The day you arrived you were dry though it was wet outside. You had, thus, not come very far, nor been inconvenienced by the journey. If you really were solely a telegraph boy, you would not have been clothed as richly as you were. You had obviously followed your fellow delivery boys into more lucrative pastures. This is the nearest brothel to Baker Street and, accordingly, you applied to the nearest doctor to your place of work.” I leaned forward. “The same doctor who now tends to those old colleagues of yours. Tell me where he is, or by god I will have every available officer in Scotland Yard here in minutes and you will never see the light of day again.”

He stared at me. “The Jermyn Street house,” he mumbled, and I took my leave of him without another word.

-

The house was known to me, for I frequented the baths. I gave my card to the doorman and was shown in a moment later. Once again I was led up a flight of stairs to a dark passageway. This time, however, when I entered the room it was to see John Watson straightening up from the side of the cot. His coat was off, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his hands were encased in a pair of rubber gloves. He looked weary.

The room contained six cots; each had a man in it. Two of the men were covered in the liver-coloured marks of late syphilis. Some of the others were disfigured in different ways. All were asleep. The air smelled very strongly of carbolic acid.

Watson was watching me with a tired smile. “I applied Lister’s surgical principles of antisepsis,” he said. “It can hardly hurt. There are three more rooms like this, you see. You have found me, then. I did not think I could hold you off much longer.”

I held his gaze for a long moment. “Have you had any success with your mercury treatment?”

“A little.” He removed his gloves and washed his hands. “I have altered the mix since you last saw it. The willowbark abates the fever, if nothing else.”

He led me out of the room and down the stairs. A small sitting-room came off the hall and we settled ourselves in it while an elderly housekeeper brought tea. We drank it in silence. I was relieved to see his face take on some colour after the food and drink.

“I must return,” he said, rubbing his face tiredly. “One of the boys is in solitary confinement for the disease is in its final moments with him. He must be kept continually sedated or he is a threat to the whole household. I cannot allow William, my assistant, in – James has tried to bite him twice.”

“And you?”

“I can overpower him. William is slighter than I. Confound it all, Holmes – if you would rather I – that is to say: well, if this means a change in our living arrangements, I… I do not expect you to excuse this. You have your reputation and livelihood to consider.” He stood up a little straighter.

“And what of my good opinion?” I said. “That you choose to associate with inverts when decent common folk await you at your practice?”

He looked at me coldly. “I have no intention of apologising for that. If those are your feelings then of course our association must be at an end and you must withdraw your friendship. I quite understand.”

I thought I could hear my heart, though that was a foolish nonsense. Still, for once in my life I understood the power other people can hold over us.

“My dearest John,” I said, shrugging off my coat and rolling up my own shirt sleeves, “I don’t believe you do.”

-

It was many hours later that we arrived at Baker Street. We bathed, rang for supper and ate it slowly, talking of the patients and all the methods he had employed so far. Keeping the matter from me must have been half the toll on him, for he looked less worn and drained altogether, and there was a brightness in his eyes when he looked at me and his leg was warm and steady pressed lightly against my own.

Exhaustion eventually took its toll on him, and I knew he needed rest. We said our goodnights and I slept soundly until very late the next morning. When I awoke, he had already departed.

-

I had a small case of my own I had to bring to a conclusion. It was an simple enough matter, but it required an hour’s train journey and so it was early evening when I returned.

I saw he was home before I even opened the door. He was sitting by the fire in a smoking jacket, eyes closed, mouth soft, but I could see he was not asleep.

I knelt by him and took his hands. He gripped mine in turn, sweeping his thumbs over my skin, and opened his eyes.

“I have never been able to keep anything from you,” he said.

“My dear,” I murmured, and leaned forward to press my mouth onto his.

It was very dark when we settled in my room, with only a faint light coming in from the street. When he rose above me he was in shadow but I learnt his body with my fingers and my mouth, and catalogued each part. I have a skill for such memory tricks.

I thought I had found all there was to know of him until he pressed into me, slow and sure, and then there were no more words between us. We had no need for them.

-

We were not silent together the next morning. There was too much to exchange and too much to reveal.

“Jacob was meant to wait for me downstairs that night,” he said, lying on my shoulder. “The minute you saw him I knew I would have to set my plan in motion.”

“You did exceedingly well,” I said dryly. “I wonder if I have lost Wiggins’ respect altogether.”

He laughed. “His brother is a telegraph boy, you know – ah, I have surprised you – he had yet to take on the ‘extras’ as the boys call it. I have found him a commission on a merchant ship; an old friend owed me a favour. Still, Wiggins’ loyalty lay with him, though I think it pained him to deny you service.”

“And Jacob?”

My tone must have alerted him, for he propped himself up and looked down at me soberly. “You know he came to me as a patient.”

“That was not how you met, however.”

“No.” He stroked my cheek. “I cannot deny I was tempted at first. I had waited for so long for you, my dear.”

“You hid that very well, too,” I said, smiling, but I kissed him to tell him how long the years had felt to me also, and I think he understood.

-

Epilogue

In 1908 Mr Sahachirō Hata of Japan discovered a cure for the disease in a German laboratory. The memory of John Watson’s face on the day that news was announced will stay with me till the end of my days.

-

The End.

Comments

[jcporter1.livejournal.com]

Very well done. The razor's edge period when they were still half friends and half strangers is always one of my favorites. A Watson that can lose Holmes, even if he cannot decieve him is perfect. The chance to pick up some oldd medical knowledge is appreciated as well.

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

I've always thought Watson was more than capable of deceiving Holmes if he wanted to, it's just that he never particularly wanted to. It was fun giving him a reason to dodge the H. Thank you very much for reading and commenting!

[ancientreader]

Such a gripping and touching story -- well done, author anon!

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[bk7brokemybrain.livejournal.com]

Wonderful mystery! I love that Watson was able to throw Holmes off the trail repeatedly, even defeating the great Toby, lol.
Such a touching story. Thanks for the Wiki link, as well.

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much, I'm pleased you liked it :)

[billiethepoet.livejournal.com]

I love the history interwoven with this fic. Watson's compassion and determination to evade Holmes's detection for as long as he can are heartwarming.

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much!

[saki101.livejournal.com]

A wonderful tale! A beautiful choice of title. The historical and medical background, the mood, the dialogue were all a pleasure. And a happy ending! :-)

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

It's always fun giving Holmes something to chase :) thank you very much for reading and commenting, and your own lovely gift which (as promised) I've now returned to a number of times. \0/

[saki101.livejournal.com]

It was a pleasure. :-D

I'm happy you liked your gift. I, too, wanted some non-S3 compliant fun! I was delighted when I read that line among your prompts.

[tripleransom.livejournal.com]

A lovely, believable mystery, well-grounded in fact and just like Watson. Poor Holmes, so frustrated, trying to follow him! Of course, the resolution is the best part!

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

I always thought Watson needed a few secrets of his own. It was good to give him one! Thank you for reading :)

[sanguinity]

This was lovely. Wiggins's refusal to narc on the doctor, Watson's determination to throw Holmes off his track... And of course the stress and worry of keeping it from Holmes was half the toll.

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you, I'm glad you liked it :)

[fictionforlife.livejournal.com]

Wow. I love so many things about this story I don't know where to start.

Watson being competent (and secretive!) is definitely my thing. I love the mystery and the subtlety of the conclusion and the getting-together part. To me the pacing is just right, it doesn't leave room for slacking but I didn't feel rushed either. And Watson being true to himself even risking Holmes' friendship and Holmes' curiosity are just so in character (you're brilliant okay).

Thank you for this elegant story, and for rolled-up sleeves!Holmes HNGGG, that's like, my one true kink! How did you know!!

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

I know I've already responded to the other post, but can I say again how happy this comment made me? I'm so happy and relieved you liked it. I loved your prompt about wanting a competent Watson, it made me re-read the text a number of times to get a feel for him being that way. Being a noob to the fandom I had to work a bit to find that and it was awesome when I did. I'm so grateful to you and your prompt for making that happen. <3

Ugh rolled-up sleeve!Holmes is my KRYPTONITE, dude.

[fictionforlife.livejournal.com]

This fic deserves every good comments and more.

I consider myself a newbie to, so /chestbumps!

[obscuriglobus.livejournal.com]

I enjoyed so much about this fic :)

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you kindly!

[ob-af.livejournal.com]

Oh I am really loving the reference to The Ballad Of Reading Gaol <3 This was so lovely, such attention to detail :) And I happy ending too!!!

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much!

[lindentreeisle.livejournal.com]

This was great! I really love the quiet, understated strength of Watson; he's clearly been paying attention to Holmes, if he's learned to elude him so well. But most of all I love the moment when he looks at Holmes and tells him if that's the way he feels, then too bad.

[rhuia.livejournal.com]

Watson's definitely a listener (and obvs has a memory like a steel trap). There's not much Holmes has done over his career that's escaped JW. I was really happy to give him a chance to use all his skills. Thank you for reading, I'm very happy you liked it :)