fic for magnetic_pole: I Am the Girl for Her

[holmesticemods]

Title: I Am the Girl for Her
Recipient: magnetic_pole
Author: sanspatronymic
Verse: ACD Canon
Characters/Pairings: Holmes/Watson
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Gender Swap, Unresolved Tension, Ardent Hand Pressing
Summary: Being a reprint from the reminiscences of Jane H. Watson.

Also on AO3: I Am the Girl for Her

In the year 1878 I completed my training as a nurse at Kings College London. Some may argue that medicine is not a fit employment for a young lady, but I have a solid constitution, a steady hand, and keen desire to make use of them. From the college I went abroad to India, wishing to do some good in service to God and my country, and, though I blush to admit it, with the hope of finding myself a suitable husband among the soldiers who were stationed there. I was unsuccessful on all fronts, coming down with a dreadful case of scarlet fever during my first fortnight on the mainland. Within a month of my departure I was returned home with a bit of charity for my troubles.

Having neither kith nor kin in England, I naturally gravitated to London, the only metropolis on our isle where a single woman may hope to hold some independence.

I took what little money remained to my name and entered into a nursing position at Bart’s. In addition to my meager wage, they permitted me a bed to spend the weary hours between my appointed shifts and fed me what passes for food in our medical institutions. Though I was not destitute, I longed to make a change to my station. I was lamenting this to a fellow nurse, a Miss Alice Stamford, one cold, January evening, when the hours on the ward seemed interminable, and the thought of having a warm home to return to burned in my mind.

“What you ought to do,” said she, “is come and live with me. Mrs. Hudson runs an estimable house and she has a passable cook, even if she favors mutton more than I care for.”

“I should like to, only I’m afraid I could never afford it as I am. If only I could find someone willing to go halves on a room with me.”

She chuckled at that, her laughter ringing down the empty corridor.

“I’m sorry,” Alice whispered. “It’s only you’re the second person to lodge that complaint with me today.”

“And who was the first?” I asked.

“A girl who lives on the top floor at Mrs. Hudson’s. I heard her this morning, bemoaning that she should never go on at this rate without someone to share her room. If she was hoping for volunteers—“

“Oh, Alice! If she really wishes to share a room and the expense, then I am the girl for her! I should be only too happy to get out of this ghastly hospital.”

“You don’t know Shirley Holmes, yet!”

She laughed again and this time a loud, censorious shush from the ward matron followed. Alice and I exchanged furtive looks.

“If you’re really interested,” whispered she, “come by the house at noon tomorrow and I will introduce you. You mustn’t blame me if you don’t get on with her, though.”

“I swear I shan’t. Until tomorrow!”

Quietly, we gathered ourselves and parted ways to make our rounds. The whole night my head swam with visions of a cozy bed by a hearth. So desperate was I for the comforts of a home that even a shared room in a boarding house seemed a luxury. That night, I dreamt of a more dignified life and of this Miss Holmes whom Alice had been so mysterious about—I imagined an elegant woman, perhaps a countess fallen on hardship, with a collection of beautiful jewels and a degree from Cambridge. Most importantly, she would need a friend.

Mrs. Hudson’s Lodging House for Young Ladies sat at 221 Baker Street. It was tall, grand house, befitting its mistress; Mrs. Hudson herself greeted me most warmly, with a smile that illuminated the whole of her kindly face. She showed me into a sitting room, presenting me with a cup of tea in a sweetly patterned cup. For the first time in a year I felt worthy of the word ‘Lady’.

We discussed this and that, from the weather, to how I enjoyed my occupation, until it seemed comfortable enough to speak frankly on the reason for my visit. While she outlined the particulars, my eyes and mind wandered. From what Alice had told me, the other residents were a friendly bunch, and I pictured us now laughing together on the settee, now curled in the arm chairs by the fireplace on a quiet evening.

“I am not normally in the habit of splitting rooms,” Mrs. Hudson was explaining, “but as you are an especial friend of Miss Stamford, and as one of my other residents has expressed some desire to… reduce the cost of her lodgings, I don’t suppose there is any harm in it.”

“I should be so thankful.”

“I suppose all that remains is for you to see the room and to meet Miss Holmes, if she’s in.”

“I can show her the room, Mrs. Hudson; don’t trouble yourself. Come along, Jane,” said Alice, and seizing my hand, she dragged me up two flights with such enthusiasm, one would think a gold mine lay at the summit.

I think I should have been less surprised to see a gold mine there than what there was. The room itself was of a good size, with a high ceiling and two broad windows looking out onto the street below. However, it was full to the brim with such a gathering of curious objects and errant furniture, I regarded it more like a lumber room than a bed chamber. Everywhere I looked was an odd tableaux: a distillation apparatus sealed with the aid of stockings, a feathered hat perched atop a microscope. Among the jumble of books and beakers and untidy bedclothes, a woman with her back to us bent over a low table which was scattered with tubes, glassware, and Bunsen burners such as I had only ever observed in a chemical laboratory. Upon hearing our entry, she turned to us, her pale face framed by loose strands of dark hair, and her eyes gleaming with mad delight. In one hand she clutched a glass tube filled with a dark brown substance, which she held aloft and cried:

“I’ve found it! I’ve found it!”

She rushed to us, deftly avoiding the piles of newspapers and other belongings strewn about the carpet. Eagerly she thrust the tube before Alice’s eyes. “I have found a reagent which is precipitated by hemoglobin and by nothing else.”

“How very nice,” said Alice, recoiling slightly. “Miss Watson, Miss Holmes.”

“How do you do,” Miss Holmes offered mechanically. She took my hand in her own, staring at my wrist a moment before commenting, “You have lately been in India, I see.”

“How-how did you know?”

“Never mind—do you realize the importance of what I’ve discovered?”

Miss Holmes was very nearly six feet in height and so slender that she gave the impression of being rather much taller still. As she loomed over me with her question, her cheeks flush with excitement, I felt a sudden nervous desire to impress her. But like a schoolgirl called upon to give recitation, I became so flustered I could hardly distinguish hemoglobin from hemorrhoids.

“I-I’m afraid I don’t…”

“Don’t you see? At last we shall have a conclusive means to determine blood stains! Think of it—a man may be waiting to hang for murder, and on what proof? That his clothes have brownish stains on them. But is it blood? Or perhaps mud, rust, furniture polish, or one of a thousand other substances anyone of us might brush against in the course of a day. How to prove it, how to know? But now, now—“

“If you don’t mind,” interjected Alice, “we’ve come on business. I have given Miss Watson to understand that you are hoping for someone to go halves on your room. As she is looking for new accommodations, I thought it best to bring the two of you together.”

Alice gave me a queer sort of smile, though I did not have time to determine the cause for it. Miss Holmes put aside her test tube and set upon me with fresh excitement. No sooner had Alice made the suggestion than I was whisked aside with Miss Holmes’s arm about my shoulders to the far side of the room.

“You are? Oh, excellent, excellent! You mustn’t mind my clutter—this room really is twice as large as it looks. I shall have all this packed away and we can have another bed brought in. I hope you haven’t an extensive wardrobe; I confess I’ve filled them both,” she said, gesturing to the two tallboys which lined one wall. “Do you mind the smell of tobacco?”

“Not at all; my father and brother always smoked ship’s.”

“Very good. I am sometimes awake until very late at night. Should that disturb you?”

“You hardly could; I’m usually at the hospital until midnight.”

“How fortuitous, indeed! Let’s see, what else… I do get a bit melancholic at times; you mustn’t think anything of it and in a few days I’ll be right as rain. Now what about yourself? I think it’s best we know each other’s shortcomings upfront, if we shall be sharing quarters.”

Her bluntness struck me so that I hardly knew what to say. Alice gave me a slightly sympathetic, if sardonic, sort of look, as if to remind me of my oath not to blame her for Miss Holmes’s shortcomings. I didn’t.

“Well as I mentioned, I am often at the hospital until very late. As a consequence I can sleep until noon, if one lets me. I can be rather nasty in the mornings, though I don’t mean it. And when I am home,” I paused to savor the word on my lips. Home. “I should like to have some peace and quiet.”

“Would an occasional violin infringe much upon your peace and quiet?”

“I should think it would depend on the player.”

“Oh, never mind that,” she said with a laugh and took both my hands in hers, “I think we will be suited down to the ground. I shall have the room rearranged tonight, and if you are for it, you may move in as soon as tomorrow.”

“You have yourself a deal, Miss Holmes,” said I. We shook upon it with the seriousness of law.

As we made our way back to the foyer, Alice was uncommonly silent. From the sitting room came the ebullient voices of some of the other residents, evidently in some excitement about a new hat. It is strange how the heart can grow warm at the silliest, simplest of things when they have been absent. I confirmed my intentions with Mrs. Hudson and had just put on my overcoat, when Alice took me by the elbow.

“Do you really mean to do it, Jane?”

“I do. Oh, Alice, I can’t thank you enough. It will be so good to be here. We shall have such fun.”

Alice managed a smile. “Of course we will. Until tomorrow, Jane.”

I knew what she meant to say, and I didn’t care a whit. That night, a railway accident at Farringdon brought several unfortunate souls into my care. Time passed quickly in a whirl of gauze and antiseptic. When I finally retired to my cot it was with the weary ease of someone on holiday, who knows, no matter how poor her current accommodations, that she will shortly be returning to her proper place.

The following months brought on a sea change. Whereas my life had been a monotonous crawl, it was now packed full of music halls, window shopping, abuzz with gossip and womanly frivolity. Though my work still kept me quite occupied, with Alice’s help, I began to fall in with my fellow residents, who, besides Alice and myself, were shop girls or governesses with more regular and accommodating schedules than my own. I endeavored to make the most of my leisure time.

Miss Holmes was notably absent from our week-end sojourns and sewing circles, preferring to spend evenings in our room, or out on unannounced errands. Nevertheless, as we shared quarters, a sort of quiet intimacy grew between us. Though I sometimes protested the smell of chemicals and tobacco, we got on quite well together, and as she was often awake when I returned from the hospital, we fell into a habit of chatting before bed.

I was astounded by the depth of her knowledge in some fields and her utter ignorance in others; the only topic she never spoke on was herself. The reader may set me down as a hopeless busybody, but I became terribly curious about her. For the life of me I could not suppose how a woman came to know so much about chemistry, law, medicine, and any number of intellectual pursuits, yet claim not to know that the Earth went about the Sun. What’s more, I could not fathom how she earned her money. The chemical experiments were evidently for her own amusement, of her errands she offered no explanation.

One evening at supper, Miss Holmes’s absence permitted the conversation to turn to my peculiar room mate. All the other lodgers were keen to know how we were getting on, and some even admitted surprise I had lasted as long as I had in the face of ‘such a funny animal’. They did not believe me when I said I did not find Miss Holmes a difficult woman to live with, and met all my curiosity with flippant remarks.

“But,” I started, embarrassed to ask too blunt a question behind my new companion’s back, “whatever does she do? I mean, how does she make her way?”

“Who knows what she does for a living.”

“Or who.”

“Harriet, hush!”

“Yes, Harriet, don’t be crude.”

“Fine,” answered Harriet, stirring her soup with a haughty air. “Then you explain why she has such visitors at odd hours.”

“Visitors?” I asked, for I had never seen a stranger in the whole lodging house.

“Such visitors.”

Alice nodded. “They come when you’re at Bart’s, Jane. I shouldn’t like to say it, but they are a queer lot.”

“Oh, some of them are nice enough. Respectable-looking sorts. But some of them.”

“Then there’s those grubby boys off the streets. She’s always giving them tuppence and asking Mrs. Burns to feed them.”

“That’s awfully charitable,” I ventured.

“Then there’s that man,” added Harriet with emphasis. “She thinks she’s so clever, but I’ve seen him several times. A tall man in a brown suit—he always comes and goes just before dawn. If you ask me, that’s how she earns her keep.”

“That or worse. Have you seen how much make up is on her vanity?”

“She should need it with a face like hers! How else do you suppose she could catch a man—”

“No wonder she needs to share her room.”

The table erupted in merciless laughter. I did not find their callous remarks humorous, and I am thankful I did not, as no sooner did I lift my eyes from the table than I caught sight of Miss Holmes in the doorway of the dining room. In one arm she carried a bundle of newspapers and with the other she slowly unpinned her hat. The gaze from her grey eyes seemed to cut straight through me.

“Good evening, Miss Holmes,” said Harriet.

“Good evening,” she answered, giving us one last surveying glance before starting up the stairs.

I stood, and to the snickering of my fellow diners I replied, “You lot ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

When I opened the door to our room, I expected to find Miss Holmes as inconsolable as I might have been in her place. Instead, she was seated cross-legged before the hearth, her skirts gathered around her hips, laying out newspapers before her with great care. She paid no notice to my entrance. I screwed up my courage and sat beside her on the rug, careful not to disrupt her pages.

“What are all these?”

“The Times.”

“Yes, but… why so many?”

“Perhaps this is how I catch my men,” she answered, her tone sharp as glass.

My face grew hot. When Miss Holmes turned to me, my eyes dropped to my lap. I wrung my hands and stammered a feeble apology. She laid a gentle hand atop my own.

“I have never been their friend—could never be, should I live to be a thousand,” said she, “We are cut from utterly different cloth. Let them say what they like about me, only… I should hope you, that is… I pride myself on being a keen judge of character and you strike me as too clever a woman to get lost in such games.”

I raised my head and our eyes met. Despite her nonchalance, I could see in her features the earnestness of her plea: a sad softness about the eyes, a tenseness in her lips. I longed to undo such hurt, to be worthy of her estimation.

“I would like it if you thought better of me, Miss Watson.”

“I should be mortified if you thought I believed a word of it.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “some of it is true; I suppose I do have some odd callers. But not for the reasons Harriet thinks.”

“Oh, Shirley, you must forget she ever said it!”

“For you, Jane, I will.”

She pressed my hand and smiled brighter. Then, quietly, she returned to her newspapers. She ran a long, thin finger along the headlines of each column, her eyes surveying their contents with pronounced focus and speed.

“Is there… I mean, could I be of any help?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“Then… may I ask what you’re doing?”

“I am looking for problems which require a solution,” was her cryptic reply. I took her vagueness as a dismissal and rose to my feet. A hand caught the hem of my skirt and Miss Holmes turned to look up at me. “If you are truly curious, I should like to explain my work to you sometime.”

“I should like that,” answered I, “Very much.”

I returned downstairs in time for coffee and pudding. Not another word was spoken about Miss Holmes that night, nor ever again in my presence. We talked instead about the coming of spring, the tyrannical nature of certain girls’ employers, whether flannel or wool was the superior fabric in the face of a late-February snow. The whole while my mind was upstairs with Miss Holmes and her newspapers. In the light of the fireplace, the angles of her face—her high cheekbones, the curve of her nose—sharpened and had given her a regal look, which reminded me for all the world of the portrait of Caesar Augustus which had decorated my copy of Suetonius. What fit occupation was there, I wondered, for this Lady Caesar in our modern world?

Weeks passed and the incident at the dinner table was nearly forgotten by all. Even Harriet Samuels was forced to admit Miss Holmes’s superior qualities after she came to Harriet’s rescue with the loan of a silver fox stole for an important evening. So it was that indecent suspicions were furthest from my mind that night in March, when I opened the door to our room and found standing there a tall man in shirtsleeves, doing up the front of his waistcoat.

To say that I blushed does not do justice to my reaction. My skin felt so hot with embarrassment, I thought I should burn right through the floor. I whirled about, one hand seizing the doorknob and the other pressed against my cheek in alarm.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry—please excuse me—“

“Jane!” called Miss Holmes. Her voice rang about the room with a hideous urgency. How I hated her for calling to me, for proving to me that she was there with him.

“Excuse me,” I repeated and no sooner had I said it than a hand came to rest upon my shoulder. My eyes caught the sight of a gentleman’s starched cuff and I shuddered.

“No, Miss Watson,” said Miss Holmes from close behind me, “It is you who must excuse me.”

I turned and saw the truth: the man was none other than Miss Holmes herself! Her hair was pinned close to her head. Beyond the shirtsleeves, cuffs, and collar was a man’s brown suit, fitted such that it made her slender form appear more substantial. A strange weakness overtook me and I clutched at her arm for support.

“I was deep within my own thoughts,” she went on, seating me on the end of my bed, “I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. I should never have meant to alarm you.”

“You certainly did. Whatever is this about?”

A grin spread across her face at my question. She rubbed her hands together eagerly as she strode to her work bench and snatched up some newspapers lying there.

“Well, Miss Watson, you wished to know about my work and now you shall have an excellent opportunity to observe it. Behold, my latest problem.”

Miss Holmes presented me with a copy of the Daily Telegraph and indicated with her finger an article in the right-hand column. It described the mysterious death of a man presumed to be Mr. Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland, Ohio, found dead in an empty house off Brixton Road two nights hence. The Standard and the Daily News, too, had lengthy accounts of this so-called “Brixton Mystery” and, indeed, the case was so widely publicized that I will not bore the reader by recounting the press’s coverage of the particulars, nor their outlandish hypotheses of political intrigue and secret societies.

I confess, however, that their sensationalist claims enraptured me. By the time I had finished pouring over all the articles, my heart was pounding with excitement. I looked up and found Miss Holmes had finished dressing and was presently arranging a series of metal instruments into a fabric case.

“Very intriguing, isn’t it?” she asked without taking her eyes from her work.

“Yes, but… what do you intend to do?”

“Why, I intend to solve it.”

“Solve what?”

“The murder, of course! I’m going to Lauriston Gardens tonight. What a perfect excuse to make use of my new reagent. Did you see that bit about the letters on the wall. Where is it? Ah! ‘The wall bore the eerie inscription R-A-C-H-E, apparently written in blood.’ There you are—‘apparently’—well, we shall soon know for sure.”

As she spoke she paced the gap between our beds. In her eyes sparked the same feverish excitement I had seen the first day we had met. She was sure, she said, that she could make sense of this case which had so far baffled police. Some may think the idea daft, or even laughable, but to hear her expound on the failures of Scotland Yard, of their underestimation of women, of their vilification of the destitute, and of their refusal to see the evidence before their eyes, one could not help but be swayed by the confidence of her convictions. In another life, she would have been an orator or a statesman.

“Jane, come with me.”

“Come with you?”

Miss Holmes sat beside me and took my hand in her own. “Come with me,” she repeated, “I feel your assistance may be of great use.”

Her commendation brought a flush to my cheek. I could scarcely imagine of what use I could be, though I did not take Miss Holmes as the sort to deal in idle flattery. This, and the promise of the adventure which lay before us filled me with an eager bravery I had not felt since I had set off for India. I nodded my assent. Neither of us could ever have supposed then what this evening would mean to the course of Miss Holmes’ career, and of our friendship. Even so, there was an electricity of excitement between us I shall remember all my life as we prepared to set off for Lauriston Gardens, together.

Comments

[oldshrewsburyian]

This is so charming! Ardent hand-pressing! Boarding house gossip! Cross-dressing and adventurous "odd women" in London! Delightful!

[magnetic_pole]

Eeeeeeeee! A strange weakness has overtaken me, and I am clutching at my computer for support.

I am delighted to see this but am catching it as I run out the door--I will be back in a few hours to leave a proper comment.

ETA: Back again, having re-read. This story made me laugh the first time and want to squeeze them both and then accompany these them on their adventures, but the second read got me thinking more about women's independence in late 19c London and the slight changes to their personalities that a change in gender brings. I noticed especially: the comment about London being not a cesspool but the only place where single women could find independence; Jane returning home with charity rather than the entitlement of a pension; 221b being a boarding house for women, one with social spaces and shared meals rather then the privacy of Holmes' rooms; Jane's frank and explicit desire for a friend; Shirley's reassurance that after her black moods she's right as rain; and above all Shirley's eccentricities being the subject of suspicion and ridicule rather than part of a Bohemian lifestyle--somewhat odd, perhaps, but not necessarily dangerous.

I loved the gentle bits of humor: Jane exclaiming early on, "...then I am the girl for her!" (Ah, more than you know, Jane!); Alice recoiling from Shirley's experiment; Jane being so horrified at the sight of a man in her room that she fails to recognize Shirley...only to rethink that horror at the brown suit within minutes.

Ah, I swoon the face of ardent hand-pressing.

THANK YOU! This was a charming story and a clever one, and neither more than the other. Brava! Maggie

[scfrankles]

You had me at Ardent Hand Pressing ^__^

I so enjoyed this. I would love to read more about this particular Holmes and Watson, and learn more about them. I think you’ve pitched them perfectly - recognisably the Holmes and Watson of canon but also very much their own characters who we don’t know everything about yet.

I loved the idea of Mrs. Hudson having several young ladies as tenants, rather than just Shirley and Jane. I appreciate that makes more sense for young Victorian women but the side effect was to make the situation seem excitingly fresh and brand new. It was a great spin on the classic first meeting, and I loved that initial description of Shirley and her room. And it was lovely to keep a Stamford for once, as she’s living at Mrs. Hudson’s too.

[pip_pn_frodo]

I love this retelling of ACD canon with them both as women! It is a fabulous retelling, just as entertaining as the original and very realistic! Excellent job.

[venusinthenight]

Very delightful! :D

[monkiainen]

Oh, this was just wonderful!

[nottoolateforthegame]

This was just darling!

[magnetic_pole]

I am back for another read through this charming story. Thank you again! M.

[starfishstar]

Oooh, this was delightful. I really enjoyed seeing an ACD-era Watson and Holmes who are female, and still get to be a medical professional and an experimental chemist respectively. Yes! I'll second what scfrankles said – both Jane and Shirley feel both very much unique as characters of their own, and very much recognizable as Watson and Holmes. Lovely. I'd happily read on for many more of their adventures!

[trobadora]

I don't normally read Holmes/Watson, but I couldn't resist a genderswap. And I'm very happy that I didn't try! This is an excellent twist on the canon, and I enjoyed it a lot.

[splix]

magnetic_pole recommended this and I'm so glad she did! It was utterly beguiling, perfect pace and language, and such a wonderful sprightly reinterpretation of the Holmes canon. So happy I got a chance to read this. Thank you for sharing it with us!

[gardnerhill]

This is pure delight. Holmes and Watson genderflipped, yes, but so delightfully, Victorianly GIRLY (exclaiming over hats, sewing circles, fox stoles that rescue a fraught situation). You've done a lovely job with this introduction and would be happy to see any other tales in this version.