Frock Coated Fascination

Chapter 5

The green lined road was all too familiar to John's eyes yet he still saw something new in the Devonshire landscape despite the previous journeys. As the cases tied to the top of the carriage bumped and rattled, John settled back to his thoughts. Back to the previous day when he had been summoned to his father's study where he was joined by his mother. When his father told them both he'd received a letter from Siger Holmes proposing a three day visit to Brackley Manor, John being additionally invited at the specific request of his son.

At the time, the young Watson had thought nothing of this until the time he was packing a battered, black leather suitcase with clothes. The thought of Sherlock actually wanting his company ran round and round in John's head and he found himself oddly pleased. There was definitely something about the Holmes bachelor that fascinated him. Firstly, how was it that said bachelor was still as such? Surely, with a rather illustrious father like Siger Holmes there should have at least been some sort of arranged marriage. Besides, with looks like that, who wouldn't want a piece of William Holmes? Ladies were flocking around him at the ball so John didn't see a problem there.

Secondly, his mysterious and dark demeanour. To be fair, it did fit the exterior but the thing that confused John was that everything he had heard from anyone about the youngest Holmes severely contradicted the interior John had seen and come to know. He was like a child, hungry for knowledge, not a cryptic dark lord as he was perceived by the masses.

A nostalgic feeling descended as they neared the long driveway that lead to Brackley Manor. John straightened up as he looked over to his father seated opposite him. The rounded face of Samuel Watson was jovial as ever, glancing every now and then at the gold watch in his palm, attached to his pocket by a delicate chain of the same colour. It was one of the Watsons' only remaining family heirlooms and John's father was rather protective of it. It had been passed down from generation to generation for almost two centuries and was indeed a work of art, something John had recently come to appreciate. Its face was painted with the sun and moon, a vision in blue and gold.

As they passed the high wrought iron gates of the gothic manor, it was Samuel's turn to gasp. The building itself was as majestic as the last time John had set eyes on it, now only more eerie with daylight, given its stark contrast to its colourful countryside setting. Frock coated footmen rushed out to take their luggage whilst the two Watsons stepped out of their carriage, making their way towards the ever daunting, tall wooden doors. They creaked open and the two men stepped over the threshold, John's heart beating fast.

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The young Watson sighed as he scanned the heaving shelves over and over, searching in a rather frustrated manner. After about five minutes of exasperated sighing however, John was joined by the taller man who had previously been seated in a cushioned green tapestry armchair, absorbed in a large tome detailing the finer points of biochemistry.

"Reading Lavoisier again?" John asked, gesturing towards the book in Sherlock's pale hand.

"Indeed. I have to say, I am rather fascinated with his work on inflammation and respiration."

"Lovely," was his distracted reply.

"Looking for something, John?" The man in question straightened up to face the other standing in front of him.

"Yes in fact, I am. Do you have a copy of the Parisian Chirurgical Journal? I've been dying to read it ever since its publishing last year."

"Ah, Desault...yes I think we do," Sherlock replied, reaching upwards and finally plucking out a leather bound gilt book embossed with its golden title. He handed over the journal carefully, slowly and surreptitiously brushing his hand against John's. Predictably, John's palm recoiled, causing his balance to momentarily waver. In an instant, long pale fingers were gripping his shoulder, holding him upright. So after exchanging a muttered word of thanks with the slender man, John wandered along the shelves, looking for his next selection.

Finally, he saw it. A colourfully covered book with a red spine, emblazoned with the words 'Dee Goong An'. Easing it out, he set it atop the surgical journal and headed for the armchair adjacent to his companion's. Sherlock peered at the Chinese translation novel quizzically, resting the tips of his fingers underneath his chin.

"I didn't know you like crime novels," he remarked, eyebrow raised in seeming approval.

"I've always admired the work of detectives," John replied, "always so cunning. And the intricacy of the cases never fail to intrigue me."

"Ever since I was young, I've loved solving puzzles," Sherlock said, "and real murders are particularly fascinating. All the possible motives, possible suspects but one thing is always the same, John."

"And what's that?"

"Observations, John. Observation is the key."

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Just looking is enough. He's still fascinating, the more I learn the more I want to learn. The books he picks from the shelves say aspiring doctor and I have no doubt he's perfectly capable. He's different. Not incompetent or arrogant, always willing to learn and be humble when victory comes.

The way he looks at the frames lining the walls. Art lover. He can just look and enjoy whereas I cannot help but scrutinise. The perfect balance. His blonde hair, my dark hair. My tallness, his lack thereof. The perfect contrast. Like pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.

I see it in the way he looks at me sometimes. There's conflict in those eyes. Over what is unclear at present...maybe over me. But I shall discount that on grounds of wishful thinking. Because John Watson is engaged. But there's no telling the tricks that Father Time will play...