The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 19

John and Harry rode to London in absolute silence.  The two times in the past week Harry had tried to speak to John, however politely, he'd been soundly ignored.  John had finished packing.  His trousseau would be waiting at Lord Sherrinford's London house for the final fitting; so John had been somewhat surprised at how little he had to pack. 

There had been a few trinkets of his mother's that Harry had not thought worth selling: a small brass locket with one of John's pale childhood locks closed inside; a few ribbons that she'd worn around her neck in lieu of ostentatious jewels and which John imagined still smelled like her, just a little; and a handkerchief that she'd delicately embroidered, so pretty that the square was never used but hidden away so the threads wouldn't fade.  John had these in a small box tucked away amongst his few medical texts. 

The servants that were left on the estate, many of them people who had been born here in the time of John's father and grandfather, tearily wished him well as he left.  He would come back, he promised, and he thanked Mrs. Richardson for tending to him so well during his illness. 

John wished he had the wedding purse, a little bag of coins to distribute upon his nuptials.  The servants didn't seem to care, though, as if they understood John was being sold for their continued livelihood.  John promised himself to make sure the little extra money was sent along quite promptly, for their loyalty.

And now the long ride to London.  With stops, it was only eight or nine hours.  With Harry, it was about eternity.  Were their horses more youthful and fleet, their travel time might be cut significantly.  But they were in their own… no, Harry's carriage, John corrected stubbornly in his head.  And the horses left to pull it were not Lord Sherrinford's sprightly beasts.  John thanked his luck that the weather was clear and that their journey was not one of several days of unending jolts and rocking and thick, thick silence.

Their arrival at Lord Sherrinford's grand London house, sprawled in the middle of Mayfair, did not improve matters.  Harry was tired, hung over, and snappish.  He'd spoken in John's general direction during stops, though John had not replied.  His flask had been too small and emptied too early in the trip, with John glaring each time Harry unscrewed the cap.  Now he snapped at the servants, who were too well-trained to do more than utter, "Of course, sir," when unfounded comments of carelessness were directed at them.

Harry stomped up directly to his room.  John spent a little more time outside the palatial façade in wonderment.  The Watson's manor home was much larger than any village home, of course, but still modest.  The Holmes' London property was utterly astounding.  John couldn't rightly see all of it as close to it as he was.  He strode the length of it and back twice before trying the steps – the long carriage ride had stiffened his leg. 

A footman so formally attired that John might not recognize him if three such footmen were in a line together led John up to his room.  For his luxury after his trip, a bath was being filled in an adjoining dressing room.  John took full advantage and took his time in the hot water.  He thought briefly of ordering dinner to his room and calling it an early night but he didn't want to seem standoffish or too delicate for travel in front of his new family.  And certainly not in front of Sherlock, he added to himself. 

A valet helped John dress for dinner after his bath – no double duty for the servants in this household.  When John felt suitably groomed and presentable, he descended for supper.  Another footman (the same one?) led him to the study where Lord Sherrinford worked at a desk nearly as large as a bed.

"Captain Watson, welcome."  Lord Sherrinford stood and grasped John's hand as if he was genuinely glad to see him.  "I apologize for not being home to greet you upon your arrival.  I received a summons from Marlborough House this afternoon and had to rush away.  Please do sit.  Your brother has not yet come downstairs but I do expect him shortly."

"Is Sherlock about?"  If Lord Sherrinford noticed the change of subject or the tightening of John's mouth at the mention of his brother, he didn't reveal it.

"Sherlock has quite removed himself to the house I found on Baker Street.  I do hope you find it to your liking.  If not, we can make other arrangements."

"I'm sure it will do just fine."

"It's quite quaint.  A three-story townhouse with both a first and second floor sitting room, space enough for a housekeeper, maid and footman.  I'd send more servants along, but Sherlock finds their habits disturb him."

"Habits?"

"Cleaning, working, being industrious.  Ah, speak of the devil and it arrives forthwith."

"Brother, your footmen interrupted a very important experiment.  For what?  Dinner?"

Sherlock flopped into a large leather chair, his sprawl making it seem too small and very uncomfortable.

"Good evening, Sherlock."

"Ah, John, you have arrived.  How many days does that make until the wedding then?"

"Three, Sherlock."

"I suppose you'll have to have the footmen roust me out for that, as well, Mycroft.  I had completely forgotten about it.  Why is the excess skin around the wrists unusual, John?"  Sherlock's words so completely flowed into each other that John didn't realize Sherlock was speaking to him at first.

"Oh!  So the sketches were quite accurate, then?"

"Of course they were, John.  I would hardly put false information in my notes."

"Right!  Of course, sorry.  Well, usually when you perform an amputation, you leave as much skin around the stump side as possible, to cover the exposed end of the arm or leg."

"How very curious."  Sherlock shifted to lean forward, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.  "As an army surgeon, you would have performed many amputations."  He said this thoughtfully, not really asking, but John answered anyway.

"Far too many."

"You've seen enough violent injuries to know what they're about, then?"

"Of course."

"I shall take you in the morning to see the hands."  He drifted off in thought and remained silent for several minutes.  John wasn't sure what do to and Lord Sherrinford simply continued to peruse the papers in front of him.

"Stop reading so loudly, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted suddenly.  His brother only lifted an eyebrow in response.  "It's impossible to think when the cogs in your brain are turning so rustily!"

"Perhaps we ought to go into supper.  I don't believe Sir Harold will be joining us."

"Dinner, supper, tea.  Life is not meant to be lived around mealtimes, Mycroft."

John turned his head towards one of the dark windows, London invisible beyond.  There was another small ting against the glass.  At first he thought it was bits of hail, but it had not been bitingly cold today and the noise was too evenly spaced and regular.  Pebbles?  Who would toss pebbles at the window of a mansion such as this?  John limped over to the window of Sherrinford house and peered down into the street.

"Sherlock, a squalid little urchin is trying to get your attention."  Lord Sherrinford's droll voice rose from his desk.  He had not risen to look out the window like John; of course, he hadn't needed to.

Sherlock was already calling for his greatcoat in the hall.

John glanced between Sherlock's retreating form and the street.

"Go on, then, Captain Watson."

One final glance to assure himself Sherlock had not dashed away already and John fell into place two steps behind his future husband.