Story Time: Certain Misgivings, ch. 2
Title: Certain Misgivings
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG for this chapter
Word Count: 2876
Spoilers: I'm running out of spoiler jokes. Nope, none here!
Summary: Two boys meet in mutual destination at the train station, becoming friendly (in an off-handish sort of way) with the other until they are forced to part ways. Holmes, however, is completely enamored and will do whatever it takes to keep this young doctor in his life.
Notes/Warnings: A compilation of all the teen/first kiss/Watson's childhood/conflicting emotion prompts from the kinkmeme that I wanted to fill but could never get around to. So I bunched 'em together in this story!
Disclaimer: It's criminal how much time I allowed to pass between updates. Anyway, lots of Watson back story in this one.
Chapter one is here: florfina.livejournal.com/3313.html
John Watson spent little time thinking about London as his mind raced along the countryside. The moment he set foot at the receiving station that afternoon, it seemed as though work had begun with little sign of weakening. His grandfather met him, not offering to help with the luggage (You're wasting your youth making old bones like me work) and they were on their way.
The greeting was minimal and all Watson could do was listen cordially to his elder as the horses were whipped into motion. Discussion swayed towards Watson's education, where he sought employment and if there was a girl in his life. Watson smiled but answered that no, there was no girl, and no, he was still under his father at their rooms in Piccadilly.
"You're still there? The three of you?"
"Yes," A hand clamped over his hat as they jostled over a rough patch. "Father holds a steady practice and I assist him."
"And what of your brother? He's old enough to be out on his own, I think."
"He certainly takes advantage that way, though I'm afraid father won't throw him out. We're all we've got left, after all."
The old man spat. "You're mother died years ago. I know you don't sob yourself to sleep each night, but that father of yours does. He needs to get himself together if he ever hopes to raise you boys right."
Watson shrugged and looked out over the approaching landscape. All around him grazed sheep and a few cattle with birds squawking in the sky. His new companions for the next five weeks.
"I think he's done an glorious job, all things considered."
"And what do you know?" his grandfather spat again, narrowing his gaze. "You're fifteen and haven't even tasted what the world's got to offer. I think you'd do better in the army an' serving the queen rather than serving your father. You got to break away from him-- both of them. Your brother Jim is heading down a road your father opened the gates for. You'll do your best to go the other way."
He heard this speech every time he met with his grandfather and was becoming impassioned about what he had to say. Watson allowed the words to wash over him without offense, a feat which took years of self-assurance to accept.
They arrived at the house around the time the sun began settling down. Watson hopped from his seat and grabbed his luggage, secretly thanking God for sparing him this last day of rest . He thought about everything he'd be committed to once he stepped through the door and officially marking his arrival. But, as always, his mind was instantly pelted with memories instead. The small country home was two stories high with a sparse forrest at its back and an open sky overhead. A little way along the road was a path that lead to the lake where he and his brother almost drowned because of a stupid game they had devised. There was also a boulder overlooking the waters where his parents would sit and read to them. The fireplace was made of the same stones.
Taking in the rooms as he passed, Watson trudged his way up to the space he always occupied when visiting his grandparents. It was comfortable and warm, a small bed positioned beneath the window which peered over towards the watery fields. He laid his suitcase on the floor and slid it beneath the bed while tossing his bag over the covers. Watson basked in his solitude, then turned out the door and descended the stairs.
When he entered the dining area, Watson was met by the image of his grandfather staring sadly out the window. The elder turned at the sound of footsteps and sighed.
"I'm afraid I can't cook as good as your Gran, Johnny, but you'll get used to it."
He nodded before leaving him to his silence. The scholarship was important to Watson, but he also knew that the company he offered was far more appreciated by both himself and his grandfather. He didn't mind eating country food and getting his hands dirty so long as he could fulfill that small role.
They ate in familiar silence and enjoyed a glass of whiskey by the fire, laughing at stories about his early years and grandfather's service days. Watson sat up an hour after his grandfather retired and began to think about what else being here would accomplish. He was sure to gain a few pounds of muscle, which was always good, while simultaneously being instilled with a grand appreciation for the city. But labor was a great stress relief, and he was genuinely glad to be here. When he finally went up to bed, Watson sunk his head into the feathery pillow and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
*****
"And what appears to be the problem?"
"I'm worried if you can't figure that out yourself."
"Well, call it a formality between doctor and patient, but it does help to hear what you think is wrong. Besides, if you refuse to take off that coat of yours, how can I properly evaluate your condition? Perhaps you've come to me with an internal injury?"
"If I did that, don't you think I'd be spitting blood and bile?"
"I wouldn't know unless you told me. I'm not a magician."
"I figured that much."
The older man stood with his arms across his chest, waiting for the stubborn boy to either participate or leave. When Sherlock Holmes showed sighs of doing neither, Elias Watson sighed.
"It's very late past my attending hours and I've a boy to meet."
Holmes sucked in the odorless air and held, for a second, before expelling it. He locked eyes with the doctor and smiled. They look nothing like his, he thought. "Keeping you out was not my intention," he said as he began shouldering off his coat. "I got into a mild scrape amongst some colorful characters tonight. I wasn't expecting them to lash out quite so quick, and so I found myself... well, I'm sure you can tell where."
Dr. Watson hummed as he took hold of Holmes' wrist. He stepped back, watching the hands, and asked, "Can you touch your fingers to my shoulder?"
Holmes stretched out his arm and placed it right below the doctor's armpit.
"I see. Just relax your muscles and holdout your hand as long as possible." Holmes nodded and watched as the tips of his fingers aligned with the seam of Dr. Watson's waistcoat. When they began to tremble from the strain, the doctor took his wrist gently with his other hand at his elbow and began to move them in slow circles. Holmes gasped but caught himself before accidentally screaming.
The doctor looked at him and smiled, the same way his son had. "Well Mr. Holmes, your shoulder is in perfect condition. As is your elbow and wrist. Aside from that your movement isn't the least bit restrained and all your vitals are normal." He tilted his head now as Holmes too began to smile.
"I feel as healthy as a tree, to be honest. You must be the best of your profession."
"Or you must be the worst or yours; actors step through my door all the time. I know your game."
There was a strikingly familiar kindness to the man's face, Holmes thought. His hair was dark with rough eyebrows held quietly over steel blue eyes, grey hairs peppering his temples. He must have been quite handsome in his youth but the years of stress had etched premature lines at the corners of his eyes. Holmes felt comforted in his presence nonetheless. The room, too, had the worn down appearance of having been lived in and was filled with sorts of personal touches. Holmes' attention was brought full-stop towards a sketchy portrait of a woman above all else.
"And who's the fine artist behind that?" he asked, pointing to the picture.
Dr. Watson looked over his shoulder. "Oh, that's my wife Adeline. My son drew that when he was about five." There was warmth in his voice and Holmes couldn't help but feeling it too.
"It's the best portrait I've ever seen." he said quietly.
The doctor refocused his attentions on the boy and looked at him with a sterner eye. "Since you are in the prime of life, I see no reason for you to be sitting in my office just now."
Holmes leaned his hands behind his back and hunched his shoulders. His gaze continued to scan the room but he did so in order to immortalize the child's portrait in his memory. "Well you see, Dr. Watson, I'm actually not injured at all; that was your assumption. However, I was at the train station the other day and I found this book laying haphazardly tossed on the ground." Holmes removed from his pocket the small leather bound bible with the name John H. Watson stamped onto the cover. He held it in his hands for a few moments before extending it to the doctor. "There's an address scrawled on the inside and it was my only intention to return it. But your name isn't John."
"John's my younger son." He took it quietly and leafed through the pages. "I don't know how he could have forgotten it; his mother gave this to him."
Holmes watched at the gaslight gleamed over the gold encrusted pages. He thought about the train station. "My mother tried to give me one of those, though I'm afraid I never bothered to read it." He watched steadily as the man ran his thumb over the groves of the spine, wondering what he'd say.
"I must admit that since my Addy died, neither my sons nor myself read this very religiously. It was always more of her wish than mine." His eyes had dimmed along with his voice. Holmes already knew she was dead, he just wanted to see to what extent.
"How old is you son? Is he over twenty?" Holmes knew he wasn't.
"No, actually, he's about your age. I sent him off to stay with his grandfather over the summer; Lord knows he needs it."
Dr. Watson placed the book over his mantlepiece before turning back to his guest. "And where do you go to school, young man?" He asked in kinder spirits. Holmes screwed his eyes shut and laughed. "Alright then, I won't ask. What does your father do?"
Again the boy waved the question away as he slid off the desk. "I'm afraid I didn't come prepared for this investigation, Dr. Watson. Only to return your son's book."
The doctor shook his head and walked over to shut the windows. "Yes, well, thank you for that. I'll have to send it to him when I have the time." The streams of light cut off as the curtains drew closed. Holmes stood in the middle of the room and watched as the older man cleaned up to go home.
The boy had a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Are you very busy, sir?"
"I have to meet my other son James for some family matters."
Holmes hummed, bitting his knuckle and watching the man move. "Well if it's not too much trouble, I'd be glad to deliver the book for you. It's the least I could do for holding you back so late."
Dr. Watson snapped his Gladstone shut and shot a gracious look to Holmes. "I'd appreciate that very much, actually. Just let me clean up a bit more and then I'll write out the address for you."
"Pray, take your time." Holmes smiled, his hands behind his back, his heart beating steadily.
*****
Watson would start his rounds feeding the horses at five in the morning, tossing a few handfuls of grain aside for chickens and barn rats and making sure the cattle were where they were supposed to be. After that was done he was to replace the bedding and muck the stalls before hauling in buckets of water. Around that hour he'd be joined by his grandfather and be audience to his constant comments on Watson's struggling father and incompetent older brother. But, like a good grandson, he nodded and replied reasonably so as not to offend the man who provided him with food and shelter, as well as the sufficient funds that were to get him through medical school.
It was during the beginning of week two that young Watson would be nearing the end of yet another thorough talking to.
"The Watson's have always been sturdy people, Johnny."
"Fought and died in many wars, I imagine."
"Let me tell you, you don't get to talk about war 'till you've been there! Where do you think you'd be if your father had enlisted?"
"I really don't know, sir."
"He'd be dead, you know. And you what never been born!"
"Then I'm glad he went to university!"
This was met with a condescending stare. "I don't like that wit of yours, boy. Men like you, with your soft hands and grand meanings, you don't know what it's like to to be so filthy that your stink keeps you up at night."
"I've been clipping hooves all morning," he offered weakly.
"Smells good, don' it?"
Watson dragged an arm across his forehead and laughed. "Nothing like the aroma of good horses. Though I must say, it certainly beats the smell of freshly printed medical journals!"
Grandfather patted the old gelding and lead him into the stable. "You keep at those books of yours, Johnny. Be a learning man or a working man, either way you don't get off taking the easy way about things."
Watson held a burlap sack of grain, his fingers running and digging trough it idly. "You confuse me, Papa."
"Papa? Peh! there's no reason for you to be calling me that! Especially now that you're older,"
"I could say the same about Johnny. I prefer to go by John now."
The old man pushed past and grabbed a bucket, heading back towards the house. "I'm your Papa and I'll call you whatever I please." He turned to his grandson, his eyes warm and affectionate. Watson returned the sentiment as he took the bucket himself and walked ahead to the house.
"When you get back to London, I want you to send James on over. He needs to work a day in his life."
"He's not all that bad, really. In fact, he's the one you can talk to about a girl."
"As interested as I am, I don't think I will. For that boy, all I want to see is him earning his full belly and blankets for once. But you... you I expect more." They were seated on the steps, Watson with the bucket between his knees scrubbing the grooming equipment. "You got you father to learn from and your brother to learn against. You get in the hospital and save lives because that's what you're learning to do."
"But you still want me to enlist?"
His grandfather patted his shoulder. "Being a soldier means having what it takes, and I think you do. Of course I'd like to see you in my old regiment, but that's not happening tomorrow."
Watson dropped the brush he was holding into the water, watching as the splashes absorbed into his trouser leg. "But what will tomorrow bring?"
The old man smacked the back of his head and stood up. "Now don't you start that kinds of talk, boy. All I know about tomorrow is that there's a fence in need of repair, and you're just the man to do it! For now, I want to you sweep out the loft before you come in for lunch. I could barely breath in there."
The boy scratched at his temple, running a hand down his cheek.
"But before you do that," came the gravely voice from behind him. "I need you to go to the post office. I check my correspondence every monday."
"Alright, then." He said easily. It would be nice to see the town, anyway. "Would you like me to get you anything else?"
"Get me a paper."
"A paper. Is that it?"
"Is that it?" The old man huffed and trotted back into the house. Watson was momentarily thinking about what life would have been like if he hadn't asked, deciding that if not that than something else, and so put the bucket aside and prepared for his trip into town.
There were five letters addressed to the owner of Hamish House and one addressed to John. Watson looked at the yellow envelope and the small, slanted handwriting with which his name was scrawled and decided it was probably from his father. Stuffing the mail in his pocket, the young boy stepped out into the streets and watched peaceably as people walked to and fro before him. It was a quarter past two in the afternoon and he was feeling hot. Blistering cold in the evening, disastrously gloomy in the afternoon. Perhaps he'd ask for a break and walk down to the lake for a swim, maybe catch up on his reading or prepare for the return letter to London.
Author: florfina
Pairing/Characters: Holmes/Watson
Rating: PG for this chapter
Word Count: 2876
Spoilers: I'm running out of spoiler jokes. Nope, none here!
Summary: Two boys meet in mutual destination at the train station, becoming friendly (in an off-handish sort of way) with the other until they are forced to part ways. Holmes, however, is completely enamored and will do whatever it takes to keep this young doctor in his life.
Notes/Warnings: A compilation of all the teen/first kiss/Watson's childhood/conflicting emotion prompts from the kinkmeme that I wanted to fill but could never get around to. So I bunched 'em together in this story!
Disclaimer: It's criminal how much time I allowed to pass between updates. Anyway, lots of Watson back story in this one.
Chapter one is here: florfina.livejournal.com/3313.html
John Watson spent little time thinking about London as his mind raced along the countryside. The moment he set foot at the receiving station that afternoon, it seemed as though work had begun with little sign of weakening. His grandfather met him, not offering to help with the luggage (You're wasting your youth making old bones like me work) and they were on their way.
The greeting was minimal and all Watson could do was listen cordially to his elder as the horses were whipped into motion. Discussion swayed towards Watson's education, where he sought employment and if there was a girl in his life. Watson smiled but answered that no, there was no girl, and no, he was still under his father at their rooms in Piccadilly.
"You're still there? The three of you?"
"Yes," A hand clamped over his hat as they jostled over a rough patch. "Father holds a steady practice and I assist him."
"And what of your brother? He's old enough to be out on his own, I think."
"He certainly takes advantage that way, though I'm afraid father won't throw him out. We're all we've got left, after all."
The old man spat. "You're mother died years ago. I know you don't sob yourself to sleep each night, but that father of yours does. He needs to get himself together if he ever hopes to raise you boys right."
Watson shrugged and looked out over the approaching landscape. All around him grazed sheep and a few cattle with birds squawking in the sky. His new companions for the next five weeks.
"I think he's done an glorious job, all things considered."
"And what do you know?" his grandfather spat again, narrowing his gaze. "You're fifteen and haven't even tasted what the world's got to offer. I think you'd do better in the army an' serving the queen rather than serving your father. You got to break away from him-- both of them. Your brother Jim is heading down a road your father opened the gates for. You'll do your best to go the other way."
He heard this speech every time he met with his grandfather and was becoming impassioned about what he had to say. Watson allowed the words to wash over him without offense, a feat which took years of self-assurance to accept.
They arrived at the house around the time the sun began settling down. Watson hopped from his seat and grabbed his luggage, secretly thanking God for sparing him this last day of rest . He thought about everything he'd be committed to once he stepped through the door and officially marking his arrival. But, as always, his mind was instantly pelted with memories instead. The small country home was two stories high with a sparse forrest at its back and an open sky overhead. A little way along the road was a path that lead to the lake where he and his brother almost drowned because of a stupid game they had devised. There was also a boulder overlooking the waters where his parents would sit and read to them. The fireplace was made of the same stones.
Taking in the rooms as he passed, Watson trudged his way up to the space he always occupied when visiting his grandparents. It was comfortable and warm, a small bed positioned beneath the window which peered over towards the watery fields. He laid his suitcase on the floor and slid it beneath the bed while tossing his bag over the covers. Watson basked in his solitude, then turned out the door and descended the stairs.
When he entered the dining area, Watson was met by the image of his grandfather staring sadly out the window. The elder turned at the sound of footsteps and sighed.
"I'm afraid I can't cook as good as your Gran, Johnny, but you'll get used to it."
He nodded before leaving him to his silence. The scholarship was important to Watson, but he also knew that the company he offered was far more appreciated by both himself and his grandfather. He didn't mind eating country food and getting his hands dirty so long as he could fulfill that small role.
They ate in familiar silence and enjoyed a glass of whiskey by the fire, laughing at stories about his early years and grandfather's service days. Watson sat up an hour after his grandfather retired and began to think about what else being here would accomplish. He was sure to gain a few pounds of muscle, which was always good, while simultaneously being instilled with a grand appreciation for the city. But labor was a great stress relief, and he was genuinely glad to be here. When he finally went up to bed, Watson sunk his head into the feathery pillow and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
*****
"And what appears to be the problem?"
"I'm worried if you can't figure that out yourself."
"Well, call it a formality between doctor and patient, but it does help to hear what you think is wrong. Besides, if you refuse to take off that coat of yours, how can I properly evaluate your condition? Perhaps you've come to me with an internal injury?"
"If I did that, don't you think I'd be spitting blood and bile?"
"I wouldn't know unless you told me. I'm not a magician."
"I figured that much."
The older man stood with his arms across his chest, waiting for the stubborn boy to either participate or leave. When Sherlock Holmes showed sighs of doing neither, Elias Watson sighed.
"It's very late past my attending hours and I've a boy to meet."
Holmes sucked in the odorless air and held, for a second, before expelling it. He locked eyes with the doctor and smiled. They look nothing like his, he thought. "Keeping you out was not my intention," he said as he began shouldering off his coat. "I got into a mild scrape amongst some colorful characters tonight. I wasn't expecting them to lash out quite so quick, and so I found myself... well, I'm sure you can tell where."
Dr. Watson hummed as he took hold of Holmes' wrist. He stepped back, watching the hands, and asked, "Can you touch your fingers to my shoulder?"
Holmes stretched out his arm and placed it right below the doctor's armpit.
"I see. Just relax your muscles and holdout your hand as long as possible." Holmes nodded and watched as the tips of his fingers aligned with the seam of Dr. Watson's waistcoat. When they began to tremble from the strain, the doctor took his wrist gently with his other hand at his elbow and began to move them in slow circles. Holmes gasped but caught himself before accidentally screaming.
The doctor looked at him and smiled, the same way his son had. "Well Mr. Holmes, your shoulder is in perfect condition. As is your elbow and wrist. Aside from that your movement isn't the least bit restrained and all your vitals are normal." He tilted his head now as Holmes too began to smile.
"I feel as healthy as a tree, to be honest. You must be the best of your profession."
"Or you must be the worst or yours; actors step through my door all the time. I know your game."
There was a strikingly familiar kindness to the man's face, Holmes thought. His hair was dark with rough eyebrows held quietly over steel blue eyes, grey hairs peppering his temples. He must have been quite handsome in his youth but the years of stress had etched premature lines at the corners of his eyes. Holmes felt comforted in his presence nonetheless. The room, too, had the worn down appearance of having been lived in and was filled with sorts of personal touches. Holmes' attention was brought full-stop towards a sketchy portrait of a woman above all else.
"And who's the fine artist behind that?" he asked, pointing to the picture.
Dr. Watson looked over his shoulder. "Oh, that's my wife Adeline. My son drew that when he was about five." There was warmth in his voice and Holmes couldn't help but feeling it too.
"It's the best portrait I've ever seen." he said quietly.
The doctor refocused his attentions on the boy and looked at him with a sterner eye. "Since you are in the prime of life, I see no reason for you to be sitting in my office just now."
Holmes leaned his hands behind his back and hunched his shoulders. His gaze continued to scan the room but he did so in order to immortalize the child's portrait in his memory. "Well you see, Dr. Watson, I'm actually not injured at all; that was your assumption. However, I was at the train station the other day and I found this book laying haphazardly tossed on the ground." Holmes removed from his pocket the small leather bound bible with the name John H. Watson stamped onto the cover. He held it in his hands for a few moments before extending it to the doctor. "There's an address scrawled on the inside and it was my only intention to return it. But your name isn't John."
"John's my younger son." He took it quietly and leafed through the pages. "I don't know how he could have forgotten it; his mother gave this to him."
Holmes watched at the gaslight gleamed over the gold encrusted pages. He thought about the train station. "My mother tried to give me one of those, though I'm afraid I never bothered to read it." He watched steadily as the man ran his thumb over the groves of the spine, wondering what he'd say.
"I must admit that since my Addy died, neither my sons nor myself read this very religiously. It was always more of her wish than mine." His eyes had dimmed along with his voice. Holmes already knew she was dead, he just wanted to see to what extent.
"How old is you son? Is he over twenty?" Holmes knew he wasn't.
"No, actually, he's about your age. I sent him off to stay with his grandfather over the summer; Lord knows he needs it."
Dr. Watson placed the book over his mantlepiece before turning back to his guest. "And where do you go to school, young man?" He asked in kinder spirits. Holmes screwed his eyes shut and laughed. "Alright then, I won't ask. What does your father do?"
Again the boy waved the question away as he slid off the desk. "I'm afraid I didn't come prepared for this investigation, Dr. Watson. Only to return your son's book."
The doctor shook his head and walked over to shut the windows. "Yes, well, thank you for that. I'll have to send it to him when I have the time." The streams of light cut off as the curtains drew closed. Holmes stood in the middle of the room and watched as the older man cleaned up to go home.
The boy had a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Are you very busy, sir?"
"I have to meet my other son James for some family matters."
Holmes hummed, bitting his knuckle and watching the man move. "Well if it's not too much trouble, I'd be glad to deliver the book for you. It's the least I could do for holding you back so late."
Dr. Watson snapped his Gladstone shut and shot a gracious look to Holmes. "I'd appreciate that very much, actually. Just let me clean up a bit more and then I'll write out the address for you."
"Pray, take your time." Holmes smiled, his hands behind his back, his heart beating steadily.
*****
Watson would start his rounds feeding the horses at five in the morning, tossing a few handfuls of grain aside for chickens and barn rats and making sure the cattle were where they were supposed to be. After that was done he was to replace the bedding and muck the stalls before hauling in buckets of water. Around that hour he'd be joined by his grandfather and be audience to his constant comments on Watson's struggling father and incompetent older brother. But, like a good grandson, he nodded and replied reasonably so as not to offend the man who provided him with food and shelter, as well as the sufficient funds that were to get him through medical school.
It was during the beginning of week two that young Watson would be nearing the end of yet another thorough talking to.
"The Watson's have always been sturdy people, Johnny."
"Fought and died in many wars, I imagine."
"Let me tell you, you don't get to talk about war 'till you've been there! Where do you think you'd be if your father had enlisted?"
"I really don't know, sir."
"He'd be dead, you know. And you what never been born!"
"Then I'm glad he went to university!"
This was met with a condescending stare. "I don't like that wit of yours, boy. Men like you, with your soft hands and grand meanings, you don't know what it's like to to be so filthy that your stink keeps you up at night."
"I've been clipping hooves all morning," he offered weakly.
"Smells good, don' it?"
Watson dragged an arm across his forehead and laughed. "Nothing like the aroma of good horses. Though I must say, it certainly beats the smell of freshly printed medical journals!"
Grandfather patted the old gelding and lead him into the stable. "You keep at those books of yours, Johnny. Be a learning man or a working man, either way you don't get off taking the easy way about things."
Watson held a burlap sack of grain, his fingers running and digging trough it idly. "You confuse me, Papa."
"Papa? Peh! there's no reason for you to be calling me that! Especially now that you're older,"
"I could say the same about Johnny. I prefer to go by John now."
The old man pushed past and grabbed a bucket, heading back towards the house. "I'm your Papa and I'll call you whatever I please." He turned to his grandson, his eyes warm and affectionate. Watson returned the sentiment as he took the bucket himself and walked ahead to the house.
"When you get back to London, I want you to send James on over. He needs to work a day in his life."
"He's not all that bad, really. In fact, he's the one you can talk to about a girl."
"As interested as I am, I don't think I will. For that boy, all I want to see is him earning his full belly and blankets for once. But you... you I expect more." They were seated on the steps, Watson with the bucket between his knees scrubbing the grooming equipment. "You got you father to learn from and your brother to learn against. You get in the hospital and save lives because that's what you're learning to do."
"But you still want me to enlist?"
His grandfather patted his shoulder. "Being a soldier means having what it takes, and I think you do. Of course I'd like to see you in my old regiment, but that's not happening tomorrow."
Watson dropped the brush he was holding into the water, watching as the splashes absorbed into his trouser leg. "But what will tomorrow bring?"
The old man smacked the back of his head and stood up. "Now don't you start that kinds of talk, boy. All I know about tomorrow is that there's a fence in need of repair, and you're just the man to do it! For now, I want to you sweep out the loft before you come in for lunch. I could barely breath in there."
The boy scratched at his temple, running a hand down his cheek.
"But before you do that," came the gravely voice from behind him. "I need you to go to the post office. I check my correspondence every monday."
"Alright, then." He said easily. It would be nice to see the town, anyway. "Would you like me to get you anything else?"
"Get me a paper."
"A paper. Is that it?"
"Is that it?" The old man huffed and trotted back into the house. Watson was momentarily thinking about what life would have been like if he hadn't asked, deciding that if not that than something else, and so put the bucket aside and prepared for his trip into town.
There were five letters addressed to the owner of Hamish House and one addressed to John. Watson looked at the yellow envelope and the small, slanted handwriting with which his name was scrawled and decided it was probably from his father. Stuffing the mail in his pocket, the young boy stepped out into the streets and watched peaceably as people walked to and fro before him. It was a quarter past two in the afternoon and he was feeling hot. Blistering cold in the evening, disastrously gloomy in the afternoon. Perhaps he'd ask for a break and walk down to the lake for a swim, maybe catch up on his reading or prepare for the return letter to London.