Chapter Text
The card had read: 'The Duke And Duchess of Northumberland request the pleasure of Lt. Dr John H. Watson’s company tomorrow evening at half-past seven. Music. Dancing. Continental banquet dinner. Syon House Conservatory, Hounslow, May 16th 1833. An answer is kindly solicited.'
Three days after receiving such a communique, lieutenant and army physician John Watson straightens his waistcoat where he's standing behind a tall arrangement of Italian meringues resembling pinkish clouds. An equally opulent arrangement of sugar-glazed fruit in tiered crystal bowls teeters precariously on a neighbouring marble pedestal. If John stepped out of his chosen hideout the two glasses of champagne he's had would not sway his steps; they akin to a drop in the ocean in the alcohol tolerance of an officer with a long and decorated service history. So long, in fact, that he needs to remind himself several times a day that he is home for good, now, instead of just sojourning in the capital until duty calls again. He's earned this life of leisure but learning to enjoy it appears to come with a learning curve.
One part of this acclimatisation he is yet to master, and perhaps he never shall: the clothing. Even in the heat of the densely packed bodies at this soiree, he is thankful that London’s fashion of the day has shifted away from breeches and thus allows him to wear the long trousers he’d grown accustomed to in the military. Many men still favour models which narrow down towards the ankle, but John finds them constricting and too reminiscent of the ridiculousness of the prior century's fashion. Perhaps the wider, longer cut of these trousers might even make his limp less distinct. When walking slowly, it is hardly noticeable, but he still feels like a doddering fool in the midst of all these upper crust dance fiends. He can't even recognise all the different dance varieties; the polonaise and Grand march he'd learned as a part of his officer training seem to have fallen out of fashion, and some of these newer styles resemble more closely the informal village dances he'd attended as a youth rather than something he'd expect to see at such a grand estate as the Syon House. Now, if only the frock coat became acceptable daywear instead of just belonging in the military! John would also be glad to bid good riddance to ruffles and frills in shirts in lieu of something a bit more practical and less… French.
“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance.”
The words are spoken behind his back, but something in the tone convinces John that they are directed at him. He turns on his heel, new shoes digging a bit into the side of his foot. He had delayed having new dance shoes made since he did not plan to socialise in the immediate future. He is a widower, an honourable position for a man, and since he commands no large household, what urgency would he have to seek out a new wife, especially considering the complications his predilection for the male sex poses in terms of finding fleeting bed companions. He has never advertised these habits, though he knows that, in times of war and in high society, such things are often a thinly veiled secret or even an assumed necessity.
Just as he sets curious eyes on his prospective conversation partner, John clears his throat and allows his shoulders to settle into that old, familiar firmness of a man in service of His Majesty.
The man addresssing him is a balding one, dressed in finest silks in colours which John suspects only a man with a profound interest in high fashion and a tumefied confidence would choose. The shades are beautiful together but not too flashy; they command a presence but telegraph no frivolity. This man has a sense of style and a coffer to match.
“We must have one, indeed, though it cannot be our host. I never expected such an invitation for I've not had the pleasure of his acquaintance,” John comments courteously.
“Lieutenant Watson,” the man states, not quite admiration in his voice but not disdain, either. “Or perhaps you would prefer Doctor Watson now that civilian life beckons.”
“I wouldn't quite use the word beckon. I simply became too infirm to serve,” is John's curt reply. He does not like to discuss said infirmity; the ornate cane gifted to him by his late wife some months before her death from childbed fever says enough, and that's why he's left it at home tonight.
As though losing her had not been great enough a burden, the child had been lost as well. Before it happened, John would have assumed that the frequency of such tragedies of children dying young would lessen the impact. It did not. In less than a year, he'd lost what little he had to look forward to after being invalided out of service. He cannot be in the army, but there remains nothing for him at home but the minutiae of being the head of the household. Nothing to tether him to empty rooms and whispering servants. They pity him, and that pity poisons the very air he breathes as he twists in the sheets at night as his leg injury shoots tendrils of pain up his calf.
The man addressing him is studying his shifting expressions, perhaps seeking salient details of what he's just learned. John won't provide any. His misery is his alone.
“Commander Lestrade speaks very highly of you. His father was a great family friend and he, by extension, mine,” the stranger says. There is no pity in his eyes, or his tone.
“Lestrade and I met and became friends serving under Sir Thomas Picton,” John confirms. Picton had been a key figure in breaking the French army’s attempt to expand the Bonaparte influence in Spain. He had been one of the leaders in the battle of Vitoria that had led to British Victory over the Peninsular War and a retreat by the French, Napoleon’s older brother Joseph as their newly shamed leader.
John would describe Gregory Lestrade as his closest friend. The man is the second son of a notable landowner — an old, prestigious family that moves in high circles. Many believe them to be for destined for peerage, especially now that one of their sons is a decorated war hero. He’d saved John by pulling him out of harm’s way and tying a tourniquet when John had lost consciousness due to blood loss from his leg.
“I’ve heard the Duke of Wellington describe Sir Picton in terms not fit for civilised ears, but he is a capable commander, is he not?” the balding man inquires.
John chuckles. “Yes, I would say he is every bit the rough, foul-mouthed devil as ever lived, just as Wellington has said, but I doubt we’d have won without him. Perhaps age has mellowed him.”
"Where was it that you acquired your unfortunate injury?" the man asks in an oddly mellifluous tone. He sounds as though he knows the answer already but is gauging whether John wants to discuss the matter.
"Battle of Efutu; we were forced to retreat to the colony in Sierra Leone. Once it was established I was likely to live, I was put on a ship out of there."
"Ah, Efutu — the opening notes to the Pra River treaty," the balding man muses. "I doubt the Ashanti are done with us even if we stay in our coastal lands. I recently instructed the local governor––"
John clears his throat to interrupt. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mister…?”
“Lord Holmes.”
“Of Surrey,” John adds with a nod of recognition. He has not seen pictures of Lord Mycroft Holmes in the papers but is aware that the progress-minded holder of a second parliamentary seat from Sussex is a figure of great power and influence. Little is known about his family other than the gossip columns occasionally speculating upon his unmarried status. He is old money personified and could have done what so many of his ilk do — focus on hunting and managing the family fortune. Instead, he participates actively in society both socially and politically.
John follows politics with a keen interest; he might even describe it as one of his very few hobbies. He has no desire to participate in such matters himself — being something of a cynic when it comes to men wielding power — but keeping himself informed helps whittle away many an empty hour and gives him something to talk about with civilians.
“Should I assume this invitation is your doing, then, since you seem to know so much about me?” John asks.
“You may adopt that assumption, yes. Though I trust Lieutenant Lestrade’s judgement, I wish to evaluate a man myself when I am considering hiring them for a task of utmost importance.”
“A task? What might that be?”
John is tempted to point out that he's not available for hire, that he’s a man with his own household to run and not some errand boy. Yet, he is too curious not to see this conversation to its conclusion.
He glances down at his shoes. They should not belong to him but to someone younger and more idealistic, to a man whose outlook on life is not weighed down by the death and pain of battlefields and family losses.
“We shall speak again," Lord Holmes decides. "If you would be so kind as to call on me tomorrow? We shall have tea.”
John nods. He does not ask for an address; he can get it from Lestrade who he’ll see in the morning for their stroll. It’s a habit they've adopted at Gregory's prompting after John had been discharged from the war front. Gregory still serves, so their meetings must be arranged around his furlough. These walks give them both some structure into their days and a respite from the expectations of being able to function normally within the strange luxuries of London life.
“Enjoy the evening,” Lord Holmes enunciates politely before retreating into the crowd.
John raises his brow, crinkles his nose, and straightens his posture. The high-waisted coat makes him suck in his guts instinctively. Army service at wartime certainly sees to a young man’s figure, and he's not had much of an appetite lately.
He is still young, objectively, but does not feel like it.
The throng of guests has thickened into a claustrophobically thick crowd, and John doubts he will linger at this party for long. He shan’t sign any dance cards; with his leg he’d only make a fool of himself attempting a Varsouvienne or the five-step waltz. He’ll enjoy some food, soothe his nerves with some more champagne, then hail a carriage home.
He doubts sleep will arrive willingly once he gets to his bedchamber. The cryptic meeting he has been summoned for tomorrow is likely to prevent rest tonight. He cannot decide if this is a good thing or a burden. All he knows is that the tedium of his days has been fractured, and for this he should be glad.