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Chapter Text

Rockingham

Chapter 1

John Watson, Earl of Rockingham, rapped his cane against the roof of his carriage before slumping backwards into the worn cushions.

“Ins Hotel bitte, Gregor, quick… schnell.” Dash it all, German was such a hassle. All these hard consonants, and then there was the goddamn grammar...

The ancient coach groaned before jolting forwards over the cobblestones on Threadneedle Street, London, and John gripped his cane tighter. Outside, the weather was pleasantly fine, a fresh wind carrying a whiff of much anticipated spring in late June thought the open window into the carriage as it made its gradual way toward Gibson Hall and Finsbury Circus garden. Spring had been an elusive thing this year of the Lord 1816, and John had wondered about the brown fields and decaying trees he’d driven by on this way to the city.

Outside, the London sky might have been fine. However, inside his carriage, now storm clouds threatened to burst, and John closed his eyes and silently fought his despair.

An hour earlier, John had been full of restless energy as he mounted the stairs toward the wide, impressive double doors of the Bank of England, the pain in his right leg a slow buzz and the cane in his hand hateful but steady and therefore necessary. With most of the London ton still out of the city, the streets of the great metropolis seemed subdued and only sparsely frequented, and John was grateful he hadn’t encountered a familiar face or carriage on his way here. Focussed on his present task to the exclusion of nearly everything around him, he didn’t know whether he would have been able to muster an amicable face, let alone a good-natured word.

The social whirl of the season had ended a few weeks ago with the opening of grouse and fowl hunting despite the harsh weather conditions of the past weeks; the members of the ton retiring to their estates for hunting or the resorts of Brighton, Bath and near Bristol for recuperation. With London so depopulated, it hadn’t been difficult to find a room in a respectable hotel, and even if the expenses for this small delight had eaten up nearly all his cash, John found it safer to stick to socially expected parameters. Admittedly, it would have been economically wiser to stick to one of the less grand places, but he just couldn’t risk being seen in a less-than-the-best-establishment by anyone who knew him. Anyone who knew of his inheritance and rise to social esteem, may he be friend or admirer or full of envy of his new position as Earl of Rockingham. Secretly, John would have rather liked to stay at his family’s town house in Belgravia, but this he had already sold to be able to rub two farthings together and… No, let’s not go there now.

Once inside the mighty halls of the building, John had made his way towards the reception desk and after a few minutes was shown into the office of Mr Montgomery, a shrewd looking man in his 70s with a bald head and an impressive dark grey moustache, who had looked after his family’s monetary interests for almost half a century now. Not having been at all confident about his success in his task in the first place, he’d nevertheless been floored and devastated by the bank officer’s refusal to even let him state his case properly and in all its intrinsic ramifications. Not even a glass of the finest brandy the man had bestowed on him could revive his spirits. The moment the words ‘cover my gambling bet’ had come over his lips, Mr Montgomery’s face had shut down.

“My lord,” Mr Montgomery had said, and John had noted how he didn’t even try to conceal his derision, “the Bank of England does neither encourage nor cover these kinds of gentlemanly past-times and their inevitable and desultory outcomes.”

And that had been that. He’d blown it if he’d ever had a chance in hell at all. In the quiet of his rickety carriage with the Watson coat of arms and family motto ‘Mea Gloria Fides’ in fading gold and blue on the doors, John sighed.

‘Trust in my Renown’, Jesus Christ.

Being an intensely private man at heart, John had debated whether to retouch the peeling paint lest they be seen in their dismal state, but a lack of materials and funds in cash had deterred that notion right away. What was more, with everything bearing down on him, a rickety coach and fading colours hadn’t been so high up the list of priorities. As satisfied as he could have been with his newly inherited title, town house in the capital of the great British Empire and estate in the heart of Britain with its vast farm lands, the news of Thomas Watson’s demise and thus the inheritance came as quite a shock.

And freshly shipped back to England from the battlefields and sick bays of Waterloo, John had been utterly unable to deal with it all. There were tenants and accounts to be considered, harvest times and customer contracts, leases, tenants and allowances. Not there would be much to harvest this year.

And then there was the Watson’s ancestral seat at Rockingham House his uncle Thomas, eldest of two sons by twenty years and infamous black sheep of the family, had been neglecting for years…

He’d tried for a couple weeks. He really had. In a weak moment, though, it all had been too much. He’d succumbed to the dread of all the responsibility, the loss of most of his freedom. As if that wasn’t enough to have your life spin on a dime - literally, John thought sourly - in true Watson style he’d gone and made sure it wasn’t just a near loss but a bloody complete one...

It had been a gorgeous night when John had escaped to Northampton. He’d made his way to the gentlemen’s club, where he’d wined and dined, the brandy flowing freely until he’d ended up in a more sinister part of town at a cards table with this enigmatic man with the blue eyes, strong jaw and high cheekbones and they’d gambled and John had been charmed and overwhelmed and foolish.

Why do you have to go there now, John?

Taking a deep breath, John woke from his dark musings and realized that the carriage had come to a standstill before the hotel he’d stayed at last night and that his buttocks felt numb from the hard bench, his right leg stiff with pain. A bead of sweat pooled in the shallow dip on his upper lip and John angrily swiped at it. He’d been so out of it on the ride through the city, his thoughts a black pool of self-doubt and misery that he hadn’t noticed how clammy his clothes felt and how cold his fingers. The carriage jolted when Gregor leaped from the coach box; and when he opened the carriage door, offering a hand to his master, John noticed his own hand trembling.

It would probably just be best to immediately pack his meagre valise and head home to Rockingham. But, John stubbornly thought, before he’d be on the road again in this blasted carriage, before he’d slunk home to cut his losses and see where they’d leave him, he’d at least take his time to enjoy one last bloody luxurious soak in a bloody exclusive and expensive hotel to let the warm water ease the pains of his body and work out the cramps in his blasted leg.

Who knew when he would next be able to afford it.

***

The horse’s hooves clopped on the path that gently weaved its way over trampled country lanes towards Rockingham. They had left London after another night at the hotel John actually could no longer afford, but he had been too tired and miserable to care. He’d checked on Gregor in the quarters reserved for coachmen to make sure the man was sufficiently provided for and then, after his bath, retired to a private parlour to wallow in dark thoughts and misery. When the waiter had silently opened the door to enquire about his wishes for supper, John had ordered cold meat, bread and cheese but had refrained from the auxiliary brandy. Because God damn it, if it weren’t for the brandy, he’d not be in this abominable situation. Might as well lay off it once and for all and save himself the pretty penny.

Out of the windows of the carriage fields and countryside could be seen, dank and interlaced with ashen brown even in the late spring of June. Well, this year’s English version of late spring in June, John silently had to amend and a wistful smile coloured his lips. He’d known other seasons of late spring, both in the English insular climate and the warmer one on the continent, when he made the gentlemen’s great tour with his friend Bill Murray. In the summer of 1804 it had taken them from Dover to Calais and into the Premier Empire of France, before enticing them further south into Austria and Italy.

Times had been restless on the continent with the bloodiest days of the French Revolution just a few years behind them and the terrors of the Premier Empire only a couple years ahead. Everyone in France seemed to breathe a bit of fresh air after both the king and queen of France as well as their judges Robespierre and his ilk had been put to the graveyards. However, as Bill and John made their way from Calais towards Frankfurt, the atmosphere had begun to perceptibly shift from celebratory and victorious to tense and cautious.

Being British citizens and virtual strangers, they themselves had been regarded with at least one wary eye wherever they went. However, they hadn’t encountered any real problems or opposition, for the ordinary inhabitants of the villages and towns west of the mighty river Rhine mostly minded their own business in trying to scrape by. It seemed that the status as foreigners had fashioned some sort of a bubble around them, at the same time making them unapproachable while also serving as a barrier between them and the general public.

The coach rumbled over an uneven patch in the road, but amidst his musings, John hardly noticed.

The city of Mainz, or Mayence, had been taken by the revolutionary French army roughly 3 years after the storming of the Bastille fortress and occupied ever since; the first hold of the Revolution on German soil. Bill and him would have followed the country roads straight into the city, had not fellow travellers warned them that it actually might be too foolhardy and dangerous.

So they’d set out for Vienna and ultimately Venice instead and spent a memorable late spring and summer exploring the galleries, libraries, channels, bars and brothels of these magnificent cities.
This had also been the spring where John’s passion for medicine had awoken.

Being noble by birth, John had known his father would never have let him pursue that particular fascination. Nevertheless, the time in Venice especially proved to be outstandingly fruitful in that regard. Instead of immersing himself into music, as had been his father’s wish, John had been able to secure a temporary apprenticeship as an assistant to a gruff but efficient Austrian-by-birth-Italian-by-nature medical doctor and had therefore been occupied and entertained that summer.

He’d even registered for German classes, even though he hardly ever went. The bit of the German language he had learned, however, incidentally served him well these days, all things considered.

In last days of autumn, they had travelled back to London on a summons of John’s father, who had wanted to see how his son’s musical tuition came to pass. Needless to say he hadn’t been pleased.

Ah, the halcyon days.

He had scraped by for a couple of years while the British Empire was constantly engaged in a worldwide war with the Premier Empire of France, both at land and sea. Attending music and economy classes at day, he’d pursued his own interest at night, until there had come this one summer in 1808, which had seen John Watson and his proclivities and talents for medicine, his service rifle in hand, pistol and bayonet strapped to his waist, to the Iberian Peninsula and straight into war…

The sudden rumbling of his empty stomach shook John out of his reverie. He’d not eaten since dawn and it would be at least another hour until they’d reach a decent inn for a quick lunch and a further half day until Rockingham. But as it happened Blue Lake House lay conveniently close to the road that led from London north east to Northampton and further on to Birmingham. Just a few miles down the country lane behind the bridge. John pursed and lips and fingered into his coat. From a pocket in the inlay he retrieved a small golden locket, and for a moment he pressed his fingers around it, cherishing it and vigorously repressing a surge of guilt.

He knew he’d as well stop going down his chosen rabbit hole, come back to the situation at hand and make the detour to visit Marianne and Magistrate Morstan, even though he was more than aware of the fact that it would border on personal ruin to tell his betrothed and her father about his dire misfortune.

After all, if it weren’t for the betrothal and the dowry it entailed, Rockingham would already be lost.

No, he would not burden Miss Marianne Morstan with all of this; he’d spare her, he wouldn’t tarnish the picture she had of him. John pressed his hand around the locket again, remembering the day of their betrothal when Marianne had given it to him.

For another moment he let his thoughts wander. She was sweet and clever, funny and had a beautiful laugh that let her brown eyes shine like molten chocolate in the sun. John had come into his title so suddenly, and the pressure and responsibilities had seemed insurmountable. He’d been adrift. Meeting her had brought back a sense of calmness he hadn’t known since his serving days in the army, and he’d felt a little less like he just didn’t belong.

No, he would just pay Blue Lake House a call and use the opportunity to spend a bit more time with his fiancée and bath in her easy sunshine - all while being chaperoned by her father the Magistrate and… well… judged.

The coach had just turned into the narrow lane that would take John the quickest way to Blue Lake House when a harsh wordless cry echoed from the driver’s box. John felt the carriage lurch to a precipitate halt, but had the presence of mind to cushion his fall forward by sticking his cane into the adjacent seat and hold onto the window frame with the other hand.

“Gregor,” he called, “was ist los?”

The answering voice, however, did not belong to his coachman. It was lower and richer in tones and the words were English.

“Stand and deliver!”

On instinct, John’s hand that wasn’t holding the cane startled to grab his service pistol at his hip, only to realise a moment later that, of course, it wasn’t there.

Outside the carriage he heard the distinct click of a pistol being cocked.

“Open the door,” the highwayman said, and John couldn’t keep down a slow groan escaping him.

This, he was beginning to think, was really absolutely not going to rank among his favourite days. Adrenalin shot through his veins. If he’d only had the bloody pistol. In a life gone by he would.

“Slowly. Do it now. No tricks.”

The highwayman stood in the shadows on the road, a dark grey horse looming behind him under the low hanging branches of the trees that lined this particular stretch of country lane. A white mask coved the lower half of the man’s face in a dramatic contrast to a long and elegant black coat. His hair remained hidden behind a wide-brimmed rather buckled felt hat that also shaded his eyes. John counted at least two weapons; the pistol in his hand and a short but serviceable blade strapped to his hips with a brilliantly scarlet sash that clashed magnificently with the deep aubergine of his shirt.

Oddly enough, however, the cut of his breeches, the fit of his shirt under his coat seemed accurate and precise, highlighting his lean, tall frame, his long legs and trim waist. His feet were clad in knee-high albeit a little shabby hessian boots that accentuated his calves and the overall appearance of fashionable casualness. Every part of his attire was quite at odds with what John expected an ordinary highwayman’s intentions and demands to be.

Really, John grudgingly admired, between the bridge and the gates of Blue Lake House, an attacker couldn’t have picked a better place for an ambush. He glanced up at Gregor who sat frozen on the coach box, eyes large glassy pools in his white, fearful face.

“I advise you to be as sensible as your driver,” the smooth, rich voice said from between the white mask. With a step closer to the coach, the robber lifted his hand a bit higher and John found himself staring into the barrel of the gun.

“Get out. Now.”

Frustration welled up inside John. Gregor wasn’t being sensible, he was terrified. With Blue Lake House so close by, John had had reason to believe he was going to end his day a bit more content than he’d begun. With a nice glass of wine in his hands and his lovely intended on the settee in front of the open windows in the intimate parlour, where he’d asked for her hand in marriage. It had certainly been a beautiful night.

Now, with his hopes of a discrete loan from the bank forfeited, his stomach empty and with more than a couple hours on the road home, he was supposed to hand over his meagre purse and his uncle’s golden tie pin? Hardly.

The numbing rush of anger flaring through his veins, John didn’t stop to think. He opened the door of the carriage in a flash of dark wood and billowing curtains and launched himself at the man in front of the carriage. Letting his higher vantage point work in his favour, the highwayman didn’t have a chance. John crashed into him, throwing him off balance.

With a cry of surprise, the man folded backwards before his arse and back hit the muddy road, the impact knocking the wind out of him. His pistol sailed into the nearby bushes, where it vanished from sight. There were lean muscles beneath the tight shirt and surprisingly strong legs hidden within the close-cut breeches, but John immediately lunged on top of him and grabbed the collar of his coat in both hands, ignoring the flailing arms and tight fists.

His cane lay a few feet out on the road where he’d lost it in his mad dive, but on such close range John didn’t need a weapon.

Applying his momentum to ruthless advantage, he slammed the attacker’s head back into the road, causing the gravel to crunch. A satisfying kick in the groin and cuff to the ear had the man go limp and drained of all intentions for further fight.

Grabbing for the blade at the highwayman’s hips, John’s fingers encountered warm and taut skin before his hand closed around the hilt of the blade. Barely a moment later, he was bowed low over him and pushing the blade up to his throat.

“Care to elaborate, arsehole?” John said and pressed the fine blade a little closer to the man’s jugular. “Or are we done here?”

“Done,” the man rasped. His mask had gone all askew in the fight, revealing a prominent jaw and a smoothly shaved chin, and when John looked closer, he found himself staring into wide eyes the colour of sea-glass amid long dark lashes. John shook him once for good measure and a mob of riotous curls spilled from beneath the highwayman’s hat.

“Wise choice. Up you get. Gregor, du bist gut?”

“Ja, mein Herr,” came the voice of his coachman from behind. Gregor slowly stepped down from the driver’s box onto the road, where he stood still, unsure what to do next.

“The sash… Binde,” John told him and Gregor hurried over to do his master’s bidding.

“No, wait… you’re a soldier…? I was expecting… someone else.”

The highwayman seemed to have come out of his momentary stupor. With John’s hands still clutching his collar and Gregor now unknotting the scarlet sash from around his waist to bind his hands together, he could only stir feebly, his eyes now punched up and teary. He must have sustained a mild concussion when John had slammed his head into the ground, but John refused to be sorry.

“Yes, someone who wouldn’t fight back, I assume. Gregor... in die Kutsche mit ihm, schnell.”

Together they hoisted the highwayman up and dragged him to the carriage, where John pushed him inside and followed suit, Gregor retrieving the cane and handing it to him the way he would a sword. To the sharp snap of the reins and a whine from the horses, the coach rocked into motion towards Blue Lake House.

“This is a misunderstanding,” John’s prisoner rasped. His coat was dirty and tangled around his shoulders, his face smutched and a bruise was forming at his right temple. A wild part inside John was satisfied how much damage he had caused, when he noticed a thin tickle of blood on the man’s neck, matting his dark rugged curls.

John sighed. He lifted the cushion he was sitting on and carefully stored the blade where his opponent would be hard-pressed to retrieve it should he be foolish enough to try, and eyeing his prisoner warily, reached into the pocket of his own coat for a handkerchief.

“Hold still,” he ordered and carefully leaned forward to inspect the damage. Head wounds, while bleeding profusely, were not always a sure sign of a more severe injury. John had seen worse on the continent, but as far as taking on patients went, they usually didn’t bleed into your very own coach and ruin the cushions.

The highwayman eyed him suspiciously, but after a moment he cautiously lowered his head a bit, thus baring his neck, and John got to work.

Pushing the man’s dark curls out of the way, he was oddly relieved to notice that he had been right. The wound was shallow and would stop bleeding and heal in its own time if he just kept up pressure. This would require a poultice and some decent wrapping, but of course those items were currently out of hand. The highwayman did hold still but seemed to brace himself for another cuff on the ear. When it didn’t come, the tension in his willowy frame eased a bit. He was younger than John had expected, maybe in his mid-twenties, with lush dark curls and oddly striking features. Oddly handsome despite his bloody scalp, bruised temple, smutched cheeks and split lower lip.

“You’re a doctor,” the young man unexpectedly said, and John’s hands froze. Sudden unease washed over him and instinctively he shook his head.

“No, I am not.”

“Yes, you are,” the highwayman said, and up close his sonorous voice was even darker and richer than before.

“And a good one. That’s reassuring.”

When John remained silent, the man scoffed.

“Don’t be boring,” he demanded, and his penetrating gaze spoke volumes. “I can tell you are a doctor from your hands and the medical bag under your seat.”

John followed his hand as the man pointed downwards beneath John’s seat where his leather medical indeed sat wedged between the floor and bench.

“And I can tell the fact that you have served in the war from your cane and the way you just fought me.”

“What the—“

The highwayman’s mouth flickered in a knowing grin, and John was struck mute by the sheer gall of him.

“Please. This is tedious,” the man drawled, but winced when John returned to applying pressure on his head wound. After a moment, though, he sighed and John suddenly found himself the sole focus of clear, utterly unusual sea-glass eyes and a grin just shy of an arrogant sneer.

“I know you’re a war veteran and you’ve been injured on the continent where you not only served as a soldier but also frequently acted as a medical professional. You’re not rich but your clothes are well cared for, which speaks of frugality. You’ve attended university and—“

John didn’t return his grin but instead did cuff him on the ear again.

“Shut up,” he groused, anger and confusion flaring hot within him. His opponent flinched and shut his mouth with an audible click.

“I don’t know how you see all that but don’t believe for a second you can fool me or catch me off guard, so you can bunk off. I’ll take you to justice for trying to rob me. Though I’d much rather punch your face again and throw you under my coach, and no mistake.” John wasn’t really sure he meant the last part, but he was certainly angry and confused enough that the words spilled forth anyway.

“Am I right to assume you didn’t expect me?” the man asked, befuddlement colouring his rich voice. “But you’re driving his coach.”

“Don’t be stupid, of course not. Why would I expect to be ambushed, for Christ’s sake?”
John’s captive stilled. “I am not a highwayman, “ he said, apropos of nothing, voice flat and sensual mouth colourless. John snorted.
“Nice try. Not a highwayman, eh? Then let us look at you. Maybe you do have a concussion.” The last was said half under his breath in abject befuddlement. “Here, press down tight. Don’t take it off before I say so.” Pushing the blood-soiled handkerchief into the startled highwayman’s still bound hands, John leaned back into his own seat, regarding the other man with mock scrutiny.

“The mask. I might not be in with the dandy set and therefore might believe you when you tell me this is the latest height of fashion. Also the hat, even though I really cannot come up with a time and place where felt hats have ever been considered fashionable at all.” John was pleased to see the highwayman’s mouth open in astonishment. Cocking an eyebrow, he added “But even you must admit that the gun is a dead giveaway.”

To his astonishment the other man chuckled. “Nice pun,” he said, but then markedly sobered. “It wasn’t loaded.”

“Then that makes you a proper fool. Too bad you won’t live to learn from your mistake.” Which was actually a pity, John caught himself thinking. Maybe the man in front of him was one of the thousands of soldiers left to their own devices after the war, now roaming the country in search of work, food and a place to sleep. The war may have been over for a year now, but despite the fact that Wellington had defeated Napoleon and his Grande Armée at Waterloo, a good many British soldiers had come back home penniless, rugged and broken in body and spirit.

Even so, becoming a highwayman was this man’s own choice and he would have to suffer the consequences.

“Now the part where you blocked the road—“

“Oh, come off it,” the highwayman interrupted, and now there was a flicker of panic behind his unusual eyes. “It was a… mistake.” The way he said it made John wonder if this capricious creature in his arrogance had ever admitted to making a mistake. Too bad for him that even his prettily wrinkled nose and puckered mouth wouldn’t sway John.

“I thought you were someone else,” the highwayman said next, loosening the kerchief he’d pressed to the back of his head with an elegant move that shouldn’t be possible with his still bound hands, and leaned back into the seat. The posture might have been convincingly suave and casual, just a man sinking back into a more comfortable position if it weren’t for the slight trembling of his knee. “After all, you’re driving his coach.”

“You’ve said that before,” John remarked, “explain yourself.”

“Listen, Doctor,” his captive said, rearranging his posture yet again. “When I said I was expecting someone else, I meant it. Obviously, you thought I was a highwayman, but as a matter of fact I was only play-acting one. If I were the hardened criminal you accused me of being, wouldn’t the pistol have been loaded? Think!” he added and tapped his uninjured temple with one long index finger.

“And if I had been this other unfortunate person, I would somehow have been amused by all this? Quick now, you have about two minutes left, we’ve just passed the gates of Blue Lake House.”

This information startled the man violently. “You’re taking me to Blue Lake House? Listen, please, I was paid to play-act the highwayman. If you had been Thomas Earl of Rockingham you would have expected me. I saw the coach and its coat of arms—“

John interrupted him roughly. “You bloody liar, I am John Earl of Rockingham, John Watson is my name, and I was most certainly not expecting you, for fun or in earnest. Now shut it, man, Magistrate Morstan will punish you for this.”

These words drained the last bit of colour from his captive’s face, and he shook his head so violently John feared for the head injury. “Drive on, Doctor, we must discuss this. I implore you.”

But it was too late. There were voices outside, among which John could make out the rumble of his future father-in-law, and the sound of boots approaching the carriage.

“Worried, are you? If you know the magistrate’s name, chances are Morstan knows you for being a highwayman.”

“No,” the other man said, his face pale, and John felt smug to see a flicker of real fear marring the sea-glass of his eyes. “Morstan knows me for being a prostitute.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

The conversation that followed would certainly rank among the top most excruciating and unpleasant experiences in John’s life. Magistrate Morstan, lean as a whip and twice as sharp, was clearly displeased to find his future son-in-law alone in a coach with a male strumpet, both of them displaying signs of disorder. So in the magistrate’s study, after being manhandled inside by two guards, who took a stand at the door once they’d pushed him and the highwayman into two chairs in front of Magistrate Morstan’s desk, John spluttered through an explanation. But no matter what arguments he brought forth, it was all to no avail.

“Sir, I would have hardly brought him here to you, if I had or had at least intended to—“

But Magistrate Morstan cut him short and wouldn’t listen. John’s frustration and panic grew. All the while the highwayman sat next to him, hands unbound now, fiddling with his dirty shirt sleeves, a look of quiet anger on his features, but somehow seeming not to pay them any head at all, for John saw his mercurial eyes flit over the furniture, study desk and draperies until finally landing in the upper right corner of the room. There, a bow-fronted chest of drawers stood with a small square picture frame perched on top.

It took a sharp elbow to the shoulder to make him pay them the appropriate amount of attention.

“You see me at a disadvantage, Sir, beg your pardon,” the man said demurely, and John was astonished to see an instant change come over him. At the drop of a hat the highwayman’s demeanour transmogrified. His posture seemed to fold in on itself. His chin dropped, making him appear small and utterly harmless, and where before there had been an arrogant sneer colouring his full lips, John now could see them tremble. He looked suitably cowed, the very picture of a meek lower-class man in front of his superior. “I was led to believe that his lordship was expecting me.”

“I was bloody not expecting to be robbed or played,” John shouted in outrage, “what are you saying, man? Sir,” he turned to the magistrate with imploring eyes. “You know what kind of man I am, you know my reputation is flawless.”

“Do I?” Morstan said and eyed him suspiciously, before he harshly beckoned to Gregor, who was standing by the fireplace, a meek and confused look on his face. “You, come here,” Morstan ordered, making Gregor jump before he was able to interpret the gesture and step forward. “Your version now, and better be quick about it. Tell me what happened. And why don’t you carry a gun for protection against thieves and brigands?”

Gregor approached Morstan’s desk with reluctance and worry clear in his eyes. His salt-and-pepper-hair was all mussed from where he must have wretched his hands through. “Mein Herr, ich…” He didn’t need to wring his hands to show that he was lost.

“Gregor doesn’t like guns and won’t carry one, Sir,” John came to his aid. He smiled reassuringly at the coachman, who dropped his shoulders a bit in apparent relief. “And he doesn’t speak English,” he said impatiently. “We try to work around it and I assure you I am more than capable of translating anything he tells you.”

“He is a witness, Mr Watson,” Morstan forcefully said, and John was worried to note that in addressing him, the magistrate had deliberately ignored his title. This didn’t bode well. “Surely he can stumble through the basics and give an account of what he really saw.” Morstan had risen from his desk and was eyeing Gregor sharply.

John caved. “Gregor, bitte sagen dem magistrate… bloody hell.” His German, albeit improving over the last two months, was no match for the magistrate’s requirements and had a tendency to fly away in times of stress. “Sagen ihm auf Englisch.. oh, dash it all, Mr Morstan, I can translate for him.”

Morstan smiled in wry amusement. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Am I to rely on his words in your stumbled interpretation? Who’s to say he’ll just line up words and you tell me whatever you think helps you best? Certainly not.”

“But what I told you is the truth,” John cried, slapping his open hand to the armrest of his chair. Next to him the highwayman jumped. “Why wouldn’t you believe me? I would never have acquired the services of a male—“

“Sir, about that,” he heard the highwayman say. “As it is, I wasn’t trying to…“

“I don’t care what you say, Sherlock, I know who you are. And you, Mr Watson, the countenance of a proper gentleman is certainly something you should aspire to with more dedication. If you gad around the country with the likes of this,” he pointed at the highwayman, “you are trouble. I should never have let my daughter accept your proposition.”

“Sir—“, John spluttered, the term ‘proposition’ instead of the more fitting and sufficient ‘proposal” curdling in his stomach like milk gone sour. This really didn’t bode well, and there was only so much John could do to avert the blinding panic that was threatening to overtake him. On the arm rests his hands clenched into numb, white fists.

Magistrate Morstan thoroughly ignored him as he fully turned to glare at the highwayman - Sherlock, Morstan had called him. “Quit being a tergiversator, I have told you before to stay out of the country and don’t get involved if you know what’s good for you.” He shook his head, and on the table between them John saw his knuckles turn white. “A plain strumpet. You do know any JP could get you immediately hanged for this?”

The highwayman paled, all the bravado he had shown toward John in the carriage gone.

“You have acquired a reputation, Sherlock, that isn’t good for you,” he said, his voice low and calm - a superior berating his inferior, though John found it extremely puzzling that the highwayman wasn’t already in chains on his way to prison at the very least. Maybe the laws concerning sodomy had changed?

Sherlock had gone an even whiter shade of pale by now and was clearly distressed by the threat Morstan and the law were posing to his life. John felt almost sorry for him, and while part of him gloated at the fact that the arrogant bastard got a proper dressing-down, he felt increasingly unsure about having delivered a man to the gallows, who had obviously come into dire straits and had taken the wrong way out.

“Sir, wait” John caught himself saying, “whilst I can only encourage you to deliver criminals to justice, I want it be noted that I did not in any way, shape or form hire this man for—“ He swallowed but forced himself to stubbornly go on. “—for the sake of a Cyprian Game. Therefore you cannot send him to the gallows to atone for that.”

Both Morstan and the highwayman were staring at him now; Morstan in distain and impatience and the highwayman in what John could only call breathless astonishment. His sea-glass eyes were blown wide and he looked at John like he’d gone and grown a second head.

“I may be forced to consider you a gentleman, Mr Watson, but you shall not expect leniency from me. You have been discovered traveling with an alleged man of the Cyprian trade and therefore ruined both your reputation and any regard I might have held for you for the sake of my daughter.”

He turned to Sherlock again.

“Consider this your final warning. Should you ever appear before me or any other JP again, I’ll make sure you will not get involved any more and shall have you transported to the colonies. Is that clear?” The highwayman swallowed and nodded, his features contrite. Morstan acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. “Good,” he said and turned to John again. “As for you, Mr Watson, we will keep this quiet. I have known your uncle, may he rest in peace. He was a good man and I won’t let your vices sully his name. But be warned that such conduct will let the likes of you sink down faster than you can ever imagine. If your filthy proclivities become known, it won’t be through me. But if you ever come near my Marianne again, I swear that I shall denounce you to the world for the deplorable and vile creature that you are. It is just as well Marianne currently resides in Bath, so she doesn’t have to lay eyes on you.”

John’s face flamed a hot red. “Sir, you cannot—“

“Yes, I can and I will.” Morstan’s voice rang with finality. “Consider your engagement with my daughter terminated. And now get out of my sight.”

“Sir!” John was lost for words. Surely this couldn’t… But Magistrate Morstan had already turned and was busying himself with a stack of papers on his desk in clear dismissal. John was vaguely aware that the highwayman - Sherlock - had taken his arm and was now gently but determinedly steering him towards the door Gregor was holding for them. John struggled weakly and they bumped into the chest of drawers, before Sherlock steered him through the door and out into the sunshine to the carriage.

“Get in, Doctor,” Sherlock said, adjusting his coat that had bunched up around his torso in their brief tussle, “and let us drive off before he changes his mind.”

John found he was too numb to answer immediately and fell into the cushions, his head empty and his body utterly boneless. They lapsed into silence as Gregor snapped the reins and off they went, soon leaving Blue Lake House behind them.

“I must apologize,” Sherlock said and he sounded like it cost him to admit. “But if you had kept on aggravating him, he would have me hanged for the highwayman I am not. He clearly doesn’t hold any regards for you and your engagement isn’t worth dying for.”

“Maybe not for you,” John said hotly, rousing himself from his stupor. His fingers had started to tingle and he could feel a dark weight pressing in on him. “I am ruined. Jesus Christ!” he whispered as what he just said fully sank in, sending his faculties into disarray. “It’s true, I am ruined.” And wasn’t that just infinitely worse than before, when the bank of England wouldn’t grant him a loan but he’d still been engaged? He’d at least have that one option left. Now, though, he was certainly at the end of his rope.

A wave of red blindness overcame him, tingling up his arms and toes. As if through a tunnel it fogged up his vision, muting his senses, and John was flailing helplessly, caught in the onslaught.

***

“Doctor? Doctor!” The voice sounded far away; dull and colourless, it came wafting toward him like it would on a very misty morning, when the saturated air would swallow nearly all sound, thus making the world seem shapeless and smothering. It was crawling to him over the battlefield, seeping through the red fog tunnelling his vision. John stirred and immediately grabbed for his service pistol, his medical kit, coat, hell anything - only to come up empty handed yet again.

“Listen to me and try to calm yourself. You’re safe, Doctor Watson. You’re in your coach, no one will harm you here. Just breathe, yes, breathe.”

Slowly, as if surfacing from within deep waves of leaden water, John was able to notice the rocking of the carriage. Someone had grabbed his flailing wrists and was holding them tightly. Blunt fingernails were pressing into the tendons and skin of his palms, grounding him and enabling him to try and focus again. His forehead was sweaty and clothes clammy as if he had just run ten miles, the muscles in his injured shoulder all clamped up and straining. His heart ached for reasons John wasn’t yet able to discern, but all through this the steady pressure on his hands held on.

“A fit of the vapours,” the voice said again and it sounded much closer and deeper now. “Breathe with me, Doctor Watson.”

John blinked and before him the highwayman’s angular face - Sherlock’s face - swam into focus. Together they heaved several laboured breaths that left John weary and utterly exhausted.

“Lay off… the ‘Doctor’…,” he rasped once he found his voice again, “I told you… I am not.”

“Let us argue about that later, shall we?” Sherlock said, and with one last press to his hands let go of him and leaned back into the cushions. “You have been out of it for a while, I suggest you drink this.”

He pushed an open flask into John’s hand, and John was surprised to note that it was obviously alcohol burbling inside, and that it somehow didn’t smell neither bad nor particularly cheap. He also noticed how elegant the flask looked, how heavy it felt in his hand.

“I don’t drink whisky,” he panted, before trying to eye his former captive suspiciously. “Where did you get that from?”

“Nicked it off the guard that pushed me inside,” Sherlock said offhandedly and tried to push it back into John’s hands. “You‘ll need this. It wasn’t your first fit, I’ll hazard, so you know you do.”

“What do you know about it, eh?” John groused but his voice wasn’t as sharp as he would have liked it. His tone fell flat, and the laboured breath he had to take afterwards didn’t exactly lend it any credit.

“You’d be surprised,” Sherlock answered darkly, but took the flask from him. He corked it and then let it vanish from sight into his long dark coat.

“Are you feeling better?” There was a glint of concern in his eyes, or maybe it was just the aftermath of his panic attack? John couldn’t be sure, but then it struck him what Sherlock had said before.

“’Nicked it off the guard’, are you mad?” he said and couldn’t help the mad giggle bubbling out of him.

“These two were trained fighters.”

“I am aware. Soldiers. Just like you.”

The way he said it, the way he seemed so absolutely sure about it, struck John as ominous, and he tried to focus his gaze on the stranger in front of him. Who was this man, appearing out of thin air on an empty stretch of country lane and - intentions notwithstanding - taking one look at him and knowing so much about him? Being so attuned to his sudden need. He seemed to have immediately grasped the signs of a panic attack and had acted accordingly to coax John down from the precipice by grounding him, calming him so he wouldn’t get lost in his own head.

The aftermath of his panic attack had left him rattled and made it so much harder to get his wits together. John felt utter exhaustion set into his muscles, and his eyelids began to droop.

How could Sherlock have known?

“I didn’t know, Doctor, I saw.”

Wondering whether he’d ask aloud, but still too winded, unable and unwilling to deal with the other man now, John let his exhaustion take its toll. His eyes fluttered closed, he sunk back into the cushions and just like that the world turned dark.

***

When he awoke again sometime later, the wispy sun had sunk and was half behind the horizon. “Where are we, how long was I asleep?”

Sherlock was lounging in the seat across from him, his long legs stretched out cater-cornered as far as they would go in the cramped space of the ancient carriage. He had lit an old-fashioned pipe and was smoking pensively, a small square object in his hands, which he was studying intently. Across the object’s surface, the faint sunlight was dancing over glass, when he turned it. Upon noticing John wake, he sat up and gingerly pocketed it before John could get a closer look.

The image of glancing light, however, stayed with him.

“We passed the road sign for Rockingham a little while back and should be close to your estate now,” Sherlock said.

“Christ, I must have slept hours.” Right on the heels of that thought followed another. “Why are you still here?”

Sherlock huffed in wry amusement. “And leave an impaired man to his own devices? Whatever you might think of me, I am not that callous. I wanted to make sure you’re alright.” With a voice much lower and his gaze roaming the countryside they were passing, he added “The thing that you did in Morstan’s office, where you wouldn’t let me get hanged for a crime I didn’t commit? That was… good.”

When John blinked, lost for words, Sherlock huffed again and a moment later he displayed the most elaborate eye-roll. “Don’t worry, I didn’t steal your purse, or I would also have absconded with your tie-pin, boots and at least one of your horses.”

“What would you have needed my boots for?” John asked, the idea of waking up to bootless feet and a carriage that was too heavy to be dragged by one single horse a sobering one.

“Money, of course. It wouldn’t have been much, though,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly, and the damn bastard didn’t even pretend to make excuses.

John had to turn his head to hide his dumbfounded expression. The sheer gall of the man.

“Is there any truth to your story?” he asked, once sufficiently sobered, and eyed the man in front of him closer.

Though he was still shocked at what had happened, there were some questions to be asked if he wanted to find out what exactly was going on here. John would ask them all, but knew he had to be on his toes if he didn’t want to let this ‘highwayman’ get the better of him.

As it was, Sherlock seemed to be what was the only link to what was behind this catastrophe that was his terminated engagement, and he’d damn well make sure the man would not bunk off before John had all his answers. Whether he liked them or not.

“Did someone hire you to play the highwayman with me?”

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’ll never get her back, Doctor,” he said. “Let it go.”

But of course, John couldn’t and his resolve hardened. Across from him Sherlock saw and pursed his lips.

“Yes.”

“Who did, and why?”

“I was told to wait for you exactly where I did, stop you and…” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“And what?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, crossed his arms in front of his chest and refused to answer. John sighed. “I still don’t get it,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “You’re a whore? Really? For male clients?”

The smile this elicited was somewhat tight-lipped and sour. “All the evidence point to that, don’t they.“ Sherlock shrugged again. John only glared at him.

„Fine,” Sherlock relented and the eye-roll he bestowed on John was nothing short of impressive. “Relax, I wasn’t going to do anything to you, I wasn’t going to harm you. As I said, I was told to merely stop you and retrieve a certain… object of value.”

John was taken aback. “Object of— But I don’t… Where’s my locket!” Frantically patting his coat, he was relieved to find the locket right where he had stored it moments before Sherlock had stopped his carriage on the road. Relief washed through him but that was quickly remedied when he noticed Sherlock’s eyes zooming in on the locket.

“You wanted to steal it,” John exclaimed, suddenly outraged again. “What would you have wanted with it, who told you to ambush me and rob me of it?” The first wisps of panic began to uncurl in him again, and closing his hand tighter around the locket he pressed his eyes together.

“I don’t know, it was just an assignment. I was paid, told what to do and didn’t ask questions.”

“Do you always do as you’re told without asking questions?” John demanded, righteous anger flooding his veins. Sherlock smirked.

“Not very often.”

“Who hired you?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

They glared at each other, and just as John considered throwing all concern for the other man's bruised and damaged head overboard and simply pummel him, a terrible thought occurred to him. Sitting up to his full height and practically looming over the taller man, his voice turned deep and dark. “Did Morstan hire you? Am I to assume he wanted my engagement disrupted? He certainly never seemed to like me. But I am an Earl, for Christ’s sake, and I thought—“

“You would therefore make a nice and respectable son-in-law?” Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh.”

John found bile rising in his throat. The accusation, the sheer tone in which Sherlock had said it, all derision and belittlement, as if John wasn’t worth his salt, rankled with him. All of a sudden, he was the little boy again, and his father was standing behind him where he sat at the virginal or with the bloody clarinet in his chubby fingers. His father with a conductor’s baton in his hand, rapping it over his already sore and split knuckles every time he dropped a key. Telling him he wasn’t enough, he was an utter disappointment, telling him…

To his surprise, Sherlock shook his head, pulling him out of the memory. “No, it wasn’t Morstan.”

John took a deep breath, all impotent rage, and tried to clear his vision. His father had been dead for six years now, and John hated that the mere memory of the man could still throw him into a tailspin.

“Then it must have been a rival. Someone acquainted with the countryside. Someone who knew I would travel to Blue Lake House and that I would take you there. It’s only logical.”

“Yes, it is indeed logical,” Sherlock agreed in a slow tone. He suddenly looked like he was rallying himself through some internal debate. John cleared his throat noisily and was dismayed when Sherlock hand shot upwards to silence him.

A moment later his mouth abruptly pursed in distaste. John heard him growl under his breath.

“Oh, stupid, stupid.”

If it hadn’t been his words, his eyes would have given Sherlock away. There was something hidden in their depth now, and the way Sherlock held himself, the way he had frozen and seemed a million miles away gave John pause. He regarded him pensively for a moment, the distinctive feeling overcoming him that maybe his passenger had more to say on the matter. For another moment Sherlock seemed withdrawn and brooding, like he was working out something in his head.

To what conclusion he came, John never learned. Something in the other man’s eyes seemed to shut down, and throwing him a suspicious glance, Sherlock folded his hand across his chest and pressed his lips together; with the coldness his eyes were now displaying, he was the very picture of harsh and dismissive silence.

“What is it?” John asked, scrutinizing the younger man’s pale and drawn face.

Then it hit him. “You have been played as well, haven’t you?”

Sherlock startled violently, but his eyes remained hard.

“Never you mind, Doctor. My toils are none but my own,” he said, his tone icy, and John felt another surge of anger toward his strange and secretive passenger. It took all he had not to pounce at him and throttle the damn git.

“By who? Tell me—“

“Whom, Doctor, as I am sure they told you at conversation classes, so don’t be an imbecile.” Sherlock spat, his voice all venom.

For a moment they glared at each other, stalemated.

“Fine, be like that,” John rejoined, gritting his teeth. Silence spread between them and still the carriage rumpled on.

It was plain obvious that John wouldn’t get another explanation. Something really didn’t add up here. His resolve to not let this man out of his sight hardened.

“Then how come Morstan knows you as a prostitute and why weren’t you hired as one?” he asked, while across from him his companion had started biting his own lower lip, his face and the knuckles of both his hands white. There was a dark glow in his eyes that made John wonder what was going on behind them.

“Why only stop my coach and steal my locket?”

“What, my lord,” Sherlock scoffed and leaned toward him, his body language at once all sly seduction. The change was instantaneous, as if a curtain had just been lifted, and so damn convincing that John involuntarily held his breath. Sherlock’s hands had unclasped from around his own forearms, his brows unknotted, and in the blink of an eye the ‘highwayman’ had vanished and in its stead John sat facing the salacious prostitute.

„Would you have preferred me to look at you and decide it wasn’t your money I wanted?” Sherlock’s voice had turned deeply intimate, a rumbling purr that goaded him and made sudden goose bumps erupt on John’s skin. He could feel them travel down his legs and arms all the way up his neck into his hairline. Sherlock saw, and his smile turned all meretricious. “Subdue you with my superior strength, undress you at gunpoint and overcome your token resistance?”

John winced. “I get the picture, now cut it off.” He ran his hand through his mussed and dirty hair, his mouth suddenly parched. “You say you don’t know who hired you, but you must have met them.”

“I still couldn’t tell.”

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

“Doctor, I—“

“Call me ‘Doctor’ one more time and I’ll make damn sure you’ll need one,” John bellowed, and watched with grim satisfaction how Sherlock’s mouth immediately snapped shut. “Whoever hired you must have suspected I’d fight back, and that I’d take you to Magistrate Morstan. That’s why they told you where to wait. It’s just down the road. But why hire a prostitute to do a highwayman’s job? Oh.”

Feeling his face flushed with anger again, John felt his heart clench in his chest. “Let us suppose Magistrate Morstan didn’t hire you, but he certainly knew you were a whore and the sort of clients you serve. So, when I came to him with you in tow he jumped to assumptions and acted accordingly. I’m sure I am to assume this whole charade was to disrupt my engagement. Then it surely must be a rival. My god.” This was truly shaping up to be a horror story.

Sherlock didn’t answer and only glared at him with wide sea-glass eyes, but John for once didn’t mind because the pieces were just coming together. “But why? Why go to such trouble?” His head snapped to Sherlock. “Quick, tell me how the one who hired you looked like.”

“I hate to repeat myself,” Sherlock said, angrily brushing a dark curl out of his forehead that immediately bounced back. “But for you I’ll graciously make an exception. I cannot tell. He was… tall. It was dark when we met and he paid in advance. I couldn’t even tell you how he smelled like, so don’t bother asking. I only heard his voice. He could have been hired himself for all I know.”

John watched him suspiciously, a vague idea forming in his mind. “I think you do know, or at least suspect, but never mind that now.” He took a deep breath, but it was more out of anger than fear. “How about we strike a deal? I need Marianne or I am ruined, I won’t give her up just like that. Tomorrow we’ll travel to Bath, so I can talk to her and find out who’s trying to remove me from the picture.”

“We?” Sherlock looked mutinous, but John shushed him by dangling the locket in front of his face.

“I am sure there is more money in this for you once you deliver your loot. You want this?” He shook his hand and the dangling locket glinted in the fading daylight. “You heard his voice, you say. And you damn sure want to know why you were set up along with me, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s sulky glower sans all his former bravado was confirmation enough and John grinned humourlessly. “Come with me to Bath, help me identify the man who hired you to ruin me and I give you the locket.”

Sherlock didn’t answer but when he eyed the locket again - an expression of longing on his face John didn’t know the other man was aware he was displaying - John knew that he was hooked. But Sherlock obviously didn’t want to make it easy. “And what are you planning to do once you know your rival? Duel him? Pistols at dawn? Don’t make me laugh,” he scoffed. “You should know how messy and painful getting shot is.”

“I do know,” John said, his hand involuntarily creeping to his damaged shoulder. “Look,” he amended a moment later, “I am not an idiot.” Sherlock scoffed but John ignored him. “A duel won’t get me Marianne back. But proof that I was set up tonight might. If I can convince Magistrate Morstan that things weren’t as he imagined, then I have a chance. Marianne is in Bath, so that’s where we’ll go.”

“I see you really do want to act like an idiot, ‘Doctor’,” Sherlock said with an arrogant sneer, but it didn’t really have any bite to it. John was relieved to see that all the prickly resistance had drained out of him.

Chapter Text

They had lapsed into an uneasy silence as the carriage approached Rockingham House. Located in the countryside just southwest of Worcester, it had once been an impressive building with the grounds to match. Their way had taken them through gates a quarter of a mile off the stately east wing, and the path winding down from the front steps of the building formed an elegant curve that took the travellers through a beautiful copse of trees and bushes that shaded a quaint but pretty patio. In better days long gone by, the staff of the house would have made sure to line up in front of the stairs to the wide oaken front door, bowing and curtsying the return of their master. Guards would have greeted them at the gates, respectfully tipping their heads as carriages drove by. At night there once had been lamps illuminating the path up to the manor’s entrance, greeting returnees and guests alike with their warm light, no matter how late or early the hour.

Now though, at close to midnight, house and grounds looked abandoned and oppressive; trees towered like giant spheres in the dark of the moonless night and the bushes in the wide park to one side of the manor, where John had played during the handful of half-forgotten summers he had been allowed to come here by his strict and uncaring farther, rustled eerily. Rockingham House stood tall and mysterious in the cold night air, and it was there where Gregor steered the horses, two small oil lambs at the carriage the only illumination to guide their way.

“That’s it?”

John’s passenger leaned out of the window of the coach for a better view, his curls dancing in the night wind. He’d sulked in silence for the remainder of their journey to Rockingham, but as John looked at him now, he could see his eyes were aglow with a strange light. For a moment his face appeared wiped clean of his mutinous mood as he looked back at John. The right front wheel of the coach chose this moment to hit a rut of positively unholy size, and Sherlock yelped in pain as his already sore head banged painfully against the top of the window frame.

“Ow!” The young man whined pitiably and sank back into the cushions. Served him right for his curiosity, John crowed, but the curative part in him resolved to set up a poultice and tend to him as soon as they’d had a chance to wash off the filth and dust still clinging to them from their tussle in the dirt.

“It looks dark, Doc—“ Sherlock swallowed the last syllable, looking chastised when he saw John scrunch up his eyes and glare at him. John secretly rejoiced. Good. The git was already learning his lessons.

Ignoring the question that was or was not implied, John addressed his coachman in a mixture of German and pantomime, so he could make his intentions clear. Gregor nodded and once he’d stopped the coach, John opened the door and scrambled out, legs weak with both the aftermath of his panic attack and sitting too long. Sherlock followed at a more sedate pace, but was holding his head straight and seemed to be intent on moving it as little as possible. His eyes were wide and glassy, but John noticed them flicking up to the façade, a curious look in them.

“It’s old,” Sherlock remarked. His face turned distasteful when he eyed the stairs as if they had personally offended him. John smirked. His patient would certainly encounter a few problems not jostling his head while ascending to the front door, and John didn’t envy him.

“The foundations date back to the 1300s,” he declared, “but I think the additional wings to the main structure are Jacobean or something.”

“Tudor, more likely,” Sherlock corrected absently, before putting his foot to the first step.

John boggled. “Weren’t Tudor buildings half-timbered?”

But Sherlock clicked his tongue in admonishment. “Half-timbering was a money-saving device. From the looks of it, your ancestors could afford a lot more, and they did. The additional wings were state-of the-art back then. It was typical to not build a whole and entirely new building, but rather add new structures. The juxtaposition is quite interesting from an architectural point of view. The glazing is decidedly post-Tudor, but the E-shape of the wings is meant as a flattery to ‘Gloriana’.”

John’s head snapped up. “Elisabeth I.?”

“Obviously. Doesn’t make it less of a dull and run down building in the middle of nowhere.” Sherlock suddenly looked bored and cantankerous, which made John snort in spite of the insult to his home.

Sherlock certainly didn’t seem like one for outward flattery toward the upper echelons of society, unlike so many others John had encountered since coming into the title. So, he guessed, the insult was to only be expected. However, Sherlock had bothered to start lecturing him, so surely there was more to say on the matter? But maybe the other man’s head was paining him too much by now.

Be that as it may, John would allow himself one more question, before he’d take the other man inside to tend to his wounds.

“Did your clients teach you all this?”

It was immediately clear he’d asked it wrong.

“My clients?” Sherlock’s head snapped up at him and John could tell the effort it took him not to wince again. Face white, Sherlock stared at him, and John got the feeling he’d somehow gone and put his foot in his mouth, though he really couldn’t tell how. Surely a male prostitute also ‘entertained’ clients?

Something didn’t feel right at all.

As it stood, it was instantly clear that Sherlock wouldn’t say anything more, for he had wiped his face clean of any expression and seemed hell-bent on braving the stairs as quickly as possible, if only to get away from John.

“Mein Herr?”

John turned to Gregor, who had descended from the driver’s box when they’d gotten out and was still standing beside the carriage, waiting to be dismissed. He was watching Sherlock struggle with the fourth step on the stair in the increasing darkness further away from the lamps at the coach. His eyes had a curious look in them.

“Gregor, er wird… schaffen,” John assured him. Then another thought occurred to him and he looked back at Gregor.

“Wir haben Brot und… wie heißen es? Cheese?” But the word was escaping John, and cursing under his breath he walked back to the coach, took a small book out from under one of the cushions, Samuel Johnson’s ‘A dictionary of the English and German Language’, and consulted it in the weak light of the coach lamps. “Ah, Käse. Und vielleicht—“ He consulted it again. “Kaltes Fleisch?”

Gregor smiled. “Ja, mein Herr, wir haben das alles. Und Wein. Ich werde es auftragen, sobald die Pferde im Stall sind, ja?”

John could only make out the few nouns but Gregor was pointing down the path towards the stable, so it wasn’t actually difficult to make that particular leap. “Gut,” he said and Gregor smiled again, this time a little wider.

Catching up with Sherlock on the stairs - they were both slow, as it was; John with his bum leg and Sherlock with his concussed head, but John, slyly, proved to be a little less slow - John came to stand next to him. “Come,” he said to the other man, who had listened to the exchange with apparent interest, though he hadn’t watched it. One of the carriage’s lamps in hand so they wouldn’t trip in the darkness, John started to further climb the stairs. When the other man didn’t move but narrowed his eyes, John turned to him and gently reached for his sleeve. “Don’t tarry, your head needs a check-up.”

It looked like Sherlock would have shaken his head, if only he could have managed without pain. The long ride in the ill-sprung carriage was taking its toll and the fact that he had bumped his head on the window frame had only added insult to injury.

John had barely ascended another two steps, when the man abruptly stopped. Having obvious difficulties with the range of movement his neck could currently perform, Sherlock turned his whole body around and back to where the coach was still standing and Gregor was unpacking John‘s few belongings.

“Oh, obviously,” he said, his eyes still glassy, but now all gleeful and wide. He looked as if he’d just solved a good puzzle. “That’s why he cannot speak English.”

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“It’s obvious your coachman was traumatized when he served in the war. I’d wager that’s how you met. He was a soldier just like you.” He grinned. “I bet his brain is like your leg.”

Feeling caught off guard, John glowered. “What about my leg?”

Sherlock started to roll his eyes, but then seemed to think better of it and just blinked, annoyed. “That’s the pièce de résistance. There is nothing wrong with your leg, my lord. Obviously,” he explained, and John didn’t know whether to punch him or get a pen and paper to copy down Sherlock’s every word. So he cocked an eyebrow, a flush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“From the way you hold yourself, I can tell you were shot in the shoulder. The trajectory was likely downwards, which means the shooter was positioned above you, probably in a tree. He was close and it was a legit shot. Good quality gun, likely German, but shoddy ammunition, likely French. Your face doesn’t show any signs of the emaciation many experienced in the war, but your eyes are hollow, probably because you still experience nightmares. Now, your leg,” he drawled. “Your limp is really bad when you walk and your posture exuded discomfort when you just got out of the coach. But you fought me like a raging bull, so my guess is the injury is at least half in your head, half-imagined. I can tell about ‘Gregor’”, and here he did go and roll his eyes, his voice gaining speed again, “that he also must have been injured. Not at the head, that much is obvious, but he has suffered some kind of trauma and isn’t German by birth at all.”

John stared. “How can you know he’s not German? His German is perfect.”

“Please,” Sherlock exclaimed, but he didn’t sound anything like pleading at all. “Look at him! He’s English by birth, maybe mixed with a bit of French blood. I would have to take a closer look at his next of kin to be sure.”

John stared some more. The word fell out of his mouth without thinking. “That… was amazing.”

Sherlock stared back at him, looking so surprised that it took him a few seconds to find his voice again. When he did, he sounded unbelievably young. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, it was quite extraordinary. How did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw.”

John eyed him suspiciously and just opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind at the cryptic reply, when the sky flickered with lightning. It was still far away yet undoubtedly moving towards Rockingham House, and when one is standing out in the open on a flat surface amongst one single high building on one side and giant trees on the other, one had better head somewhere safe. And dry.

“Come on,” John ordered, his voice brooking no argument; not that Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue. In fact, he looked rather miserable. When the lightning had flickered in the night sky, he’d been incautious and had snapped his head toward the light, the movement jarring his sore head and making him wince again in pain. John also noted a tickle of fresh blood staining his collar. He made to move up the stairs again, his cane clicking on every other step. “Let us head inside. Your head needs checking and I need a wash.”

***

John carried a lamp and the medical supplies he kept in the spacious kitchen into the spare room next to his own bedroom. In his army years he’d lobbed around an ever-growing convolute of paraphernalia; lancets and forceps made of steel for extracting bullets and other surgical operations, sharp needles, curved for easier handling at stitching up lacerations. He’d been proud to even call a small but sturdy bone saw his own, which he’d used on multiple occasions during the years he’d been deployed. Herbs and tinctures, both liquid and powdered, had expanded his collection along with thread made from horsehair. Clean linen, cut into stripes for wound dressing. These had been the hardest to come by. Many injured soldiers had died from lack of clean dressing material in the military tussles and battles leading up to the first defeat of Napoleon in 1814 and, subsequently, to the great allied victory at Waterloo one year ago.

Personally lobbied by the Prince Regent George, Prince of Wales, Prime Minister Lord Liverpool had established funds to further the vigorous prosecution of the war in Continental Europe against the powerful and aggressive Napoleon, Emperor of the French, and his Grande Armée. John himself hadn’t cared one wit about politics, but nearly everyone on the British Islands had wholeheartedly supported the anti-French alliance that had formed in 1813. Many of his fellow students had already gone to war in 1807 and 1808 and John hadn’t hesitated to grasp his chances to flee both his overbearing, uncaring father and his dreadful day-time studies.

His night-time exploits at university had equipped him with a good knowledge of anatomy and herbal lore. But it hadn’t exactly qualified him to be an army surgeon. Michael Stamfort, a fellow student at university, who had enlisted with him in 1808 and had also gone along to the Iberian Peninsula, had gotten John a chance with the medical corps.

So it had happened, that, for the first time in his life, John had felt a sense of belonging. He’d taken to the army like a duck to water, enjoying the tight-knitted camaraderie and blossoming under the challenges his new life had in store for him. Bill Murray had joined their troops under the command of Sir David Baird when an expedition of reinforcements had entered Corunna Harbour in October 1808. John couldn’t have been more contend; for him, Bill and Mike had gotten fast friends and the three of them soon acquired the reputation of being thick as thieves and twice as efficient.

Growing up on a secluded estate in the Cotswolds John had never had real friends, with his father shunning all social interaction for the sake of his music. The times he’d entertained guests at home had been few and far between. It was only at the music halls of London that John’s father had been happy, and even this had always been no more than a mere assumption, given that he had never taken John along.

In the army John had had friends, duties to follow that had made him feel needed, and many interesting challenges to brave. Despite all the misery and deprivation around him he had been… happy…

It had all ended when the bullet had struck him, leaving him flailing and weak and damaged beyond repair. It was hard to not be bitter about his fate.

“Put the water pitcher on the table and take off your coat. Put it by the door,” he ordered, eyeing the cloth dubiously. “It needs to be brushed but you can do that tomorrow. Now wash your hands and face, but be careful with the split skin.”

Setting the lamp on an ancient washstand with a slightly dulled looking glass attached to one side of it, John then beckoned Sherlock to a chair in front of it with his face turned into the light. His new position as an Earl didn’t exactly further a need for his medical prowess, and so his supplies had distinctly suffered after his return to England. But as it stood, he always made sure he stayed reliably equipped with the basics for times of need. Now, he placed his kit on a footstool next to Sherlock, who had grudgingly abided, and got to work.

John washed his hands, and pushing the young man’s damp hair out of the way, made sure the cut he’d received in their tussle wouldn’t require stitches. The bruising around the damaged area was extensive, but most was hidden under rugged and dusty curls. John moved the lamp closer to examine how far it had spread.

Sherlock’s skin under his hands was warm, and it didn’t escape John how intimate ruffling through the dark luscious curls felt. Berating himself for the thought, he gently cleaned the cut, before turning back to his kit and pulling out various jars of ingredients. All the while keeping a careful eye on his patient, he carefully measured them into a mortar, then took the pestle and ground the herbs into powder. Sherlock craned his neck and actually slid forward in his chair to watch him curiously, but John didn’t feel the need to fill the silence between them. The movements ingrained in his very soul by years of practise, he worked methodically and a great calmness came over him.

“Is this hypericum calycinum?”

John nodded, surprised by both Sherlock’s interest and the fact that he could identify the herb by its Latin term.

“Yes, but I’d say it’s more commonly known as St. John’s wort,” he confirmed. “The other is comfrey. It encourages the granulation of wounds and calms them.”

He could practically see Sherlock absorb all this knowledge, and smiled. The younger man’s eyes were large in the candlelight, his cheekbones somehow sharper now that he had washed his face and rid it of all the dirt. His angular jaw was thrown into relief and the sea-glass in his eyes now seemed to lean more into some kind of bottle green.

Like that, drenched in the golden light between the candle and the ancient looking glass, his face was striking.

Beautiful.

Wondering where that thought had come from, John nearly missed the next question.

“And the flowers?”

“Marigold.”

Mixing the concoction with a bit of rosemary oil, John took a clean stripe of linen. Saturating it with the herbal mixture, he gently pressed it onto Sherlock’s scalp, causing him to wince.

“You will need to keep this on for the night. Don’t take it off or you’ll risk infection.”

With another piece of dressing he secured the poultice, before cutting back the excess cloth with a penknife he kept in the pocket of his waistcoat, so it wouldn’t fall into Sherlock’s face every time he moved. His temple was next and John cleaned it, using another scrap of cloth.

Through the looking glass on the table and with eyes glittering in the candle light, Sherlock was watching his every move.

“Cleanliness is the key to successful healing,” John explained, driven by a sudden need to explain what he was doing that he hadn’t felt before. Receptive and inquisitive about his methods wasn’t the usual default position for his patients.

But what if this was just a sham and Sherlock was merely biding his time? So close to the other man, tending to his wounds and caring for him, it occurred to John that their dynamic had changed to his own disadvantage. His penknife being the only weapon in handy reach, he suddenly felt wary. Sherlock might be pliant now that he was in need of medical attention, but that didn’t mean the man wouldn’t try and use a moment of inadvertence to his advantage.

He needn’t have worried, though. Sherlock’s peculiar eyes watched him with avid interest, while under John’s hands his features and lean body had relaxed, and so John fell back onto what he knew best.

“Fresh wound dressing, clean jars, mortars and pestles go hand in hand with good health. The more attention you pay to sanitary instruments and washing your hands before you treat a wound, the better the outcome.”

He saw Sherlock close and open his eyes in the equivalent of a nod. “This is how you’ve saved a lot of soldiers,” he said with confidence, and John wondered whether it was faith in his frankly dwindling skills or dull flattery.

In the army John had known his skills, his strengths, and what they had been worth on the battlefield. However, it had been more than a year since he had treated anything more severe than a head cold - after-care for the disaster that was his scarred shoulder being a different matter altogether - and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the praise and acknowledgement of someone whom he still considered at best dubious and at worst an enemy. He dabbed a bit harder at the damaged skin, and Sherlock hissed.

There was nothing John could do about the bruising. Arnica flowers would help with the pain and sooth the irritated skin. John applied a salve of the yellow flower petals, then did the same to Sherlock’s split lower lip. Examining his work and judging it to be sufficient, he turned and had just started to tidy up his supplies and store them back in his kit, when Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Are you sure this is what you want to do? It could be dangerous.”

There was no question about what Sherlock meant, so John didn’t try and pretend.

“I said I need Marianne. She is the one. I care for her and she suits me.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently and rolled his mercurial eyes. “Why her? Honestly, an interesting man like you? You could have dozens. You’ve been back less than a year, do you actually know her at all?”

That bastard.

“I don’t need dozens,” John said, deliberately ignoring Sherlock’s last question and temping down on the feeling of unease that threatened to surface every time he thought about his fiancée. Marianne was lovely and delightful, and John was thankful she had considered him, thank you very much.

The way Sherlock’s eyes narrowed made his temper flare up again, and for a moment he wished he’d given Sherlock a real concussion to deal with. His voice was all flat when he answered. “And where would I find them now?” He penitently shook his head. “No, I need her. We were supposed to get wed in two weeks and return to Rockingham.”

There was a knock on the door and both men’s heads snapped up. Sherlock winced again but the sound was barely audible over Gregor, who was opening the door now, a wooden board with a hunk of cheese, cold meats and two wine glasses in hands. Strapped over one shoulder was a basket that bobbed with every step he took, and inside John spied a bottle of red wine and a loaf of bread.

“Mein Herr?” Gregor said and at John’s nod put the board onto the nearby bed. Then he left as silently as he’d come, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock’s belly chose that moment to give an ostentatiously loud rumble and John stepped back from him towards their food. They would eat here in this room, Sherlock at the washstand he still sat at and John at the small table by the window. Cutting bread, meat and cheese into generous slices and pouring the wine, John dealt out a healthy portion to his patient, who - with a curious air of mild disdain that didn’t quite befit the display he posed - began to wolf it down immediately. The ride from Blue Lake House to Rockingham had taken several hours, leaving them both starving, and watching Sherlock now practically gormandize their cold supper made John wonder about the last time the young man had eaten anything at all. He was certainly thin enough, and who knew where he had been before trying to rob John.

John ate at a more sedate pace, and when he was done, a glass of wine in his hand, a question popped up in his mind. “What’s your name? Your full name.” Really, why hadn’t he thought to ask before?

“I wonder when you’d ask,” Sherlock said, catching John off guard and wondering if his own face was actually that readable. “Sherlock Ascott,” he answered and reached for another piece of cheese.

John frowned. “And that is your real name?”

“You can pretend it is if you like. I don’t care if you don’t.”

“Of course you don’t.” Rolling his eyes, John considered his next move.

He’d have to watch this one. And he would.

“Will I have to lock you up tonight so you don’t try and bunk off or will you stay and rest? I will have to wake you every few hours in case your concussion is worse than I suspect.” He pointed to the right. “I’ll be next door.”

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” Sherlock said, and as John growled under his breath in irritation, he grinned mischievously. “Lock the door if it makes you feel better, but I won’t leave. You said we have a deal and I will hold up my end of the bargain.”

“You will?”

Sherlock’s grin turned wider and cheekier. “For now.”

“Good,” John said, then collected their wine glasses and empty board and turned to go.

At the door, though, he turned back again, as if remembering something.

“Hand me your boots and breeches, now,” he ordered, a grin on his face.

Sherlock’s own grin extinguished. “Excuse me?” He sounded outraged at being ordered around like that, but then the salacious smile John had seen in the carriage earlier slid over his face. John was amused to note that the dressing, split lip and darkening bruises somewhat ruined the effect. “My lord, I had no idea,” Sherlock purred, but John could see it for the act it was.

Oh, yes, he’d really have to watch this one or he’d be in a whole lot of trouble. Well, if it was at all possible to be in even more of a whole lot of trouble that he already was, anyway.

“Well,” he said, and waved a hand at Sherlock to shoo him into motion. “You have the whole night to wonder about it, and if you want to do that on the streets in your shirt and drawers after dropping down from a window on the second floor, far be it from me to keep you from it.” He grinned again, smugly. “A word of caution: It's nearly two hours by foot into the next town, and one can never know whether there might be highwaymen lurking around. So I'd advise you to think carefully.”

When he left two minutes later, breeches and the boots with their two wine glasses stored inside in one hand and the wooden board in the other, he gave the long black coat Sherlock had left by the door a nudge with his foot to push it into the hallway. Sherlock was in his long aubergine shirt and cotton drawers, lean legs and bony feet bare, and the look he was throwing John was pure mutiny.

Chapter Text

John deposited their supper utensils in the kitchen downstairs, then went to check on Gregor. The coachman had taken the carriage and horses to the stables, and by the time John got there he’d already rubbed the horses dry and hung a cloth bag with oats around their heads. The man was more than apt to deal with horses; in fact, the few times John had seen him tend to them in their boxes since he’d had taken him on as a servant, Gregor had looked calm and utterly in his element. It was clear the horses felt the strong and caring hand, if their good behaviour, health and shiny coat were anything to go by. They clearly seemed to like Gregor and vice versa, and John was grateful for it.

John smiled as he silently watched him clean their hooves and went back inside. Gregor would be fine tonight. John only hoped he would be able to say the same about himself.

Against his better judgement he hadn’t locked Sherlock into his bedroom. It was probably safe to assume the man wouldn’t go anywhere tonight. His head wound had looked quite painful, and his thin face and body gave off the impression that he hadn’t exactly slept on roses and drank from ambrosia before meeting John. If he were smart, he’d go to bed and try to get some rest before breakfast. And, considering their conversation within the last few hours, it seemed like the young man was indeed that; pretty smart. John only doubted he’d be docile enough to act the part, and wondered again why a man like that, who could obviously read, remember a lot of facts and put them together in such an astonishing way had gotten himself into a situation where he’d had decided to be a common whore...

John smiled wryly at his own situation. Just a few hours ago he’d frantically tried to convince Magistrate Morstan he wasn’t a client of or in any way, shape or form acquainted with the prostitute, and now this very prostitute was tucked in bed in his second-best bedroom right next to his own.

Trying to shove the thought out of his head, John closed the kitchen door behind him through which he had left the house for the stables and headed up to his own room. He was still in need of a proper wash and then there were his plans for their upcoming trip to Bath to consider. First, he’d need to think about money to be in a position where he could actually afford to cover their travel expenses, and then…

The light was still on in Sherlock’s room by the time John had gotten upstairs with his wobbly leg. John could see it leaking under the door. Maybe the man was suffering from the pounding headache John had expected him to develop. Or maybe he was indeed trying to flee? Creeping closer and pressing an ear to the door, he was surprised to hear noises that reminded him of… pacing. Yes, the man was pacing the room. There and back, there and back, slowly, over the bare floorboards and the worn Persian rug by the unlit fireplace. Puzzled, John continued to listen. What was Sherlock doing? For a moment John considered stepping into the room and shooing him off to bed, but then decided against it, seeing as he would have to check on him in a while anyway.

He’d have a wash first and maybe sit down at his desk and figure out a plan how to get Marianne back. Yes, that’s what he’d do.

But after nearly one and a half hours, it was after two in the morning, he gave it up as a bad job. Who was he kidding? He was bone tired and out of his depth, and one only knew that way lay bad and unripe decisions. So he pushed back his chair and took the lamp from his table to go and check in on his patient.

Sherlock was sitting in one of the stuffed chairs by the window, when John knocked and entered the room. He had pulled his gangly legs up on the seat and wrapped his arms around them, his nose nearly touching his kneecaps. It was frankly astonishing to see he had managed to fold his long and lanky body to make it fit into such a small space. Sans breeches and stockings and clearly uncomfortable about it, he had tucked the tails of his long aubergine shirt around his legs. Whether he’d done so was owed the necessity or a wish to somehow cover himself a bit more, John could only guess. A throw blanket was draped haphazardly over his shoulders against the cool night air that, leaving his long pale legs bare. John stepped closer into the light and was glad to see the dressings were still in place and that Sherlock’s wan face had gained a little colour.

“How are you feeling?” John asked, checking the young man’s head before running a gentle hand along the dressing around his head. No excess swelling, no fresh blood. That was a good sign.

Sherlock, however, looked expectedly miserable. “I am still here.”

“Yes,” John said, and because there was nothing else to add, went on checking the man’s eyes by moving the lamp in front of his face. The pupils delayed nicely, and the man’s peculiar sea-glass eyes, while following the lamp first, soon set on John.

Up close in the candlelight John had to correct his earlier verdict. Sherlock’s eyes, while having shone a distinctive bottle green when John had tended to him, now looked a rather nice shade of aquamarine, and John was surprised to see the colour wasn’t in fact static. While the ciliary portion was bright and indeed of a clear aquamarine, the inner pupillary zone surrounding the pupil presented a much darker hue. Tiny green-brown inclusions danced in the candlelight, and despite himself John felt rather charmed. A lot about this man’s face was indeed striking and rather unorthodox, but John noticed that, with the dark curls tied back by the dressing of the poultice, Sherlock’s eyes and his sharply chiselled cheekbones drew all his focus.

Earlier John had denoted the man ‘beautiful’ and as he looked at him now in the soft candlelight where the alluring play of light and shadows created a softness and pliancy where John was sure there were none, he could only corroborate his own judgement.

What an enigmatic and beguiling creature this man was. I bet he has loads of patrons, with that face of his… And they are all male… like me…

Shying back from the perilous thought, John promptly moved and put the lamp on the windowsill.

“Why don’t you go to sleep?” he said. “You need it.” Moving his hand, he made a gesture that encompassed the spacious four-poster bed, its linens, sheets, aged but fluffy pillows and warm duvets. Outside it might be spring, though a rather unorthodox and cold one, but inside the old walls of Rockingham House, with the fireplaces that hadn’t been lit in more than a year, it seemed as if the chill never really faded.

It was with dread and shudders that John awaited the coming winter. If he’d still be here to experience it.

“Why doesn’t Gregor speak English?” Sherlock asked into the silence, pulling John out of his mind. The other man had turned to him in the chair and was eyeing him curiously again.

“He just doesn’t.”

This merited a dramatic eye-roll and John nearly grinned again. This man certainly was something else and despite everything, John found himself both amused and intrigued.

“He cannot learn English,” he said by way of an answer, “if it’s any of your business.” Seeing Sherlock’s plump lips twitch and eyes blink, John sighed and tried to elaborate. “He… got wounded. On the continent.”

“Doesn’t he have any family to care for him?” Sherlock cautiously enquired, as if testing the waters for more questions. John didn’t blame him. He’d be curious himself.

“I don’t really know, but I don’t think so. No one has come forth to look for him. He served under William of Murray, one of my best friends in the world, after Bill— William— everybody just called him Bill— after he gained a commando in Spain.” He clenched his hand and pressed the fist onto his thigh. The pain felt steadying. Grounding. “I sort of inherited Gregor.”

“Is ‘Bill’ dead?”

This question was a surprise. “How did you guess?” John asked. Really, this ability of Sherlock’s was getting uncanny.

“My lord.” Having launched into another one of his impressive eye-rolls, Sherlock now seemed to hesitate, then reined himself in and merely blinked. “I never guess. It was obvious… from the way your voice turned all— wistful, when you spoke his name.”

“Ah,” John said. He stepped back to the other chair a bit further from the window and sank down into the dusty cushions. Bloody Christ, but this house needed a good and proper cleaning and a frankly unholy amount of dusting. Gregor and the occasionally hired women from next town could only do so much to rein in the decay.

He’d be able to afford it, finally, once he’d taken Marianne home.

“You miss the war, the danger,” Sherlock stated out of the blue, and John practically shook with the blow of the non sequitur. His heart lurched in his chest and he could feel all colour drain from his face.

“What the…”

“You miss being useful.”

This was getting too much. First Bill and now… Scraping a hand over his tired face, John got up again and made for the door, when Sherlock’s voice rang out behind him. It was still sharp and sure, but for once it seemed to sound a little tired.

“You forgot your cane.”

Well, the endemic bravado was still present.

“What…?”

But Sherlock was right, and John’s body nearly tilted to the side at the loss of his cane.

“You’ve already forgotten it earlier when you tended to my injuries. It's been here the entire time.,” Sherlock clarified, and John grit his teeth, at a sudden loss. How could he not have noticed the cane was missing, in fact had been missing for roughly two hours now? He was unable to walk without his cane, for Christ’s sake.

“You are able, obviously.”

John turned around, bum leg cramping with the sudden movements and hands shaking. “Shut up, you. What business is it of yours? Go to bed, man, and bloody rest before I send you out to sleep in the stables.”

John’s voice had been harsh, but Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer, sea-glass eyes inquisitive, before then he just shrugged off the throw blanket, rose from the chair and sauntered over to the bed. There he lifted the duvet and sheets and gracelessly sank into them.

“Doctor’s orders?”

“Don’t you get cheeky on me. Go to sleep now,” he said, trying to sound stern, but probably missing by a mile. “I’ll check on you again in two hours.”

With that John grabbed his cane, which was still leaning against the washstand where he’d left it earlier, and practically fled from the room.

***

True to his words, he checked on Sherlock again in the early hours of the morning. The young man was asleep in bed, and John put the lamp on the bedside table and gently shook him awake. Sherlock did rouse without toil, eyes bleak and hair tousled from sleep but neither disoriented nor otherwise impaired by his head injury. Satisfied John went back into his room and finally got to bed himself.

The next morning found John in the kitchen in his shirtsleeves, a cup of tea at his elbow. At the hob Gregor was frying eggs and tomatoes, and John was just leafing through his dictionary to explain to the coachman what they were going to do today, when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He was still dressed in his aubergine shirt, but now he was also wearing a set of dark grey front fall breeches and cotton stockings of the same colour. For a moment John was thrown at how silently and easily the man had crept up on him, but then he noticed Sherlock wasn’t wearing any shoes, for John had taken his boots away last night.

“I see you’ve found the clothes I left for you,” John said. He’d left them on a chair outside of Sherlock’s room. “Is this the shirt I laid out?”

Sherlock huffed, and when he raised his arms, John was dismayed to see the cuffs barely brushed his wrist. “This shirt is itchy and at least two inches too short on the arms. And the breeches…” Reaching down a hand, he irritably fiddled with the clasp of his right trouser leg. “They are too short at the knees and too wide in the waist, but assuming were your uncle’s I can tell why.” The way his gaze swept over him from head to toe made John’s temper flare up, but he bit his lips and refused to be baited.

Sherlock was right, anyway.

The Watsons, while being able to trace their line back to the times of William the Conqueror, had always been a broad-shouldered but rather stocky and graceless breed, and no amount of fresh blood inserted to their line during the last 750 years had done anything to change that. John had seen enough portraits of his ancestors to have this on good authority. So it came to no surprise that on Sherlock’s lean form, pert rear and long legs Thomas Watson’s breeches did indeed end up a bit too high above the knee and bunched a bit too much around the hips.

Sherlock stopped irritating his borrowed clothes and flopped into one of the chairs where he reached out for the teapot. “I prefer my own.”

“Too bad you didn’t bring a spare set, then,” John quipped, but then reined himself in. Seeing as they would spend the next few days in each other’s company, it just wouldn’t do to aggravate Sherlock more than was absolutely necessary. So trying to be amicable, he asked, “Do you live nearby? We can pick up a few things for you as soon as I am packed.”

Sherlock’s answer was uncharacteristically short. “No.”

John waited for further elaboration, but when Sherlock only resumed drinking his tea, he frowned. “Then where do you live?”

“What does it matter, where I live? Didn’t you want to travel to Bath immediately?”

“But where are you from? Surely you must live somewhere,” John said, puzzled. Sherlock only regarded him coolly, one eyebrow cocked towards his dark fringe that had come loose from the bandage in his sleep.

“Must I, my lord?”

John suddenly felt very foolish and befuddled, and after a moment decided to drop the matter for the time being. Sherlock was right; he did want to get to Bath as quickly as possible, and having to stop somewhere or even head into another direction for the sake of collecting the man’s bits and bobs seemed too much of a waste of time. Wonder what a whore possibly possesses. Whatever it is, maybe he has hidden it somewhere or stored it with someone… maybe a patron? John didn’t really know how these things worked. Did Sherlock work the streets, did he ‘entertain’ his clients at home or…

“Attired thus,” Sherlock interrupted his musings, tugging at one of the sleeves of his ill-fitting shirt, “we will be able to ride out straight to Bath, so you’d better not waste time on imagining my lodgings.”

Well, Sherlock was right on that.

With that particular problem solved, John noticed three others. “We will have to come up with a reason for you to be traveling with me,” he said, reaching out for one of the plates Gregor had put on the table between them and lifting a fork to his scrambled eggs and toast. “I can hardly pass you off as a relation, we look absolutely nothing alike.” And wasn’t that a shame, somehow? In the morning light with his face washed and hair brushed out, Sherlock did look well put together and carried himself with an easy confidence - if the way he was curiously regarding his surroundings, how he sat at the table and drank his tea as if he’d been doing this in John’s house for a fortnight already and how he had talked to John was anything to go by.

It certainly must be quite something to be in the company of so enigmatic, handsome and confident a man, and John found himself suddenly wondering how exactly men like Sherlock found their… clients.

A moment later John remembered Sherlock’s salacious act from last night and immediately grew suspicious again.

“Will we need to avoid staying in public hostelries or visiting certain… établissements?” he asked awkwardly, feeling a flush creep up his neck into his face, and hating it. “To avoid meeting one of your… Will anyone recognise you?” What if they did meet anyone who knew Sherlock was a…

Across from him Sherlock lifted an elegant eyebrow, seemingly amused at seeing John flail and flounder. “If we did, do you really think they would start calling you names in public?” He snickered, and John felt his hackles rise even higher.

“Oh, please forgive me for not knowing how people like you work their trade,” he groused in defence, and Sherlock laughed.

“Rest assured, my lord,” he said, and his eyes twinkled in the morning light as if Sherlock was enjoying a private joke. “No one will recognise me for what I am.”

“That is… good, I guess,” John said. “Reassuring. We will just pass you off as an acquaintance of my uncle’s friends that I am giving a lift to Bath. We surely cannot pass you off as a servant,” he added, and Sherlock nodded impatiently.

“Yeee—ss,” he drawled, hissing the ‘s’, “it was a gentleman that hired me to accost you and I need to be traveling in your circles to identify him. I don’t care what you tell people. As long as they see me in your company, they will assume I am a gentleman like yourself.” Sherlock huffed, and, drumming his long fingers on the table, added, “People are goldfish, they will believe whatever you tell them and not look twice, so as long as I look and act the part, which I will even in your uncle’s hand-me-downs, no one will be the wiser. So don’t bore me with the details, just tell them what you need to and tell me what I should call you.” Sherlock let his gaze sweep over him again, and John wondered what exactly it was he saw. “’Rockingham’ is clearly too new for you to remember, so what would you prefer instead? ‘Watson’?”

“God, no,” John dismissed, thrown off-guard by Sherlock’s sudden diatribe, accurate as it may have been. The man sure had audacious bedside manners and seemed to know no boundaries if his shared observations and the way he’d shared them were anything to go by. However, if John didn’t know better, he’d surely suspect Sherlock was also reading his mind.

“How did you…?”

But Sherlock only cocked an eyebrow as if to say “please” in that non-endearing way John had already experienced. It seemed that communication was key with this one, and John reminded himself that picking a fight with the annoying git at this point - no matter how out of his depth he felt with the man and that uncanny mind of his - would hardly get him anywhere near Bath in the near future.

“I have only come into the title two months ago, so yes, ‘Rockingham’ is too new for me to remember. As you should have enquired before you accosted me yesterday,” John said, enjoying the fact that he could get one up on Sherlock, who looked like he had bitten into a lemon at the memory of his unfortunate mistake. “And ‘Watson’ has always been my father. Just call me John.”

“Good,” Sherlock said calmly, his composure seemingly back in place. “John.”

With the problems of Sherlock’s relations to John and how they might address each other sorted, there was only the question of clothes left, and John eyed Sherlock over the rim of his tea cup. It was true that Thomas Watson’s cast-offs were indeed unsuitable for a man of Sherlock’s height and circumference, but John decided he didn’t care. They would be happy to reach Bath in five days as it was, and really couldn’t take the time to properly outfit the man. Sherlock’s dark coat would have to be sufficient to hide his ill-fitting clothes and for anything else the bloody man could just unsheathe the needle and adjust the cuffs and waistband himself.

That only left John with the question of money.

“Hurry up and finish your food,” he urged Sherlock on, who he noticed only now hadn’t touched his plate so far and didn’t exactly look like he was at all going to. Well, his problem. “ It’s 110 miles to Bath, so I better get packed and then we’ll take the coach to Blakesley, I need to…”

But John wasn’t able to finish his sentence, for, with a bang, Sherlock had put his tea cup onto the saucer in front of him and was staring at him, aghast. “We will not be riding out to Bath?” he asked incredulously. “We’ll be taking the coach? But that will take us a week!”

John nodded in confirmation, and gestured with his cane toward his leg, which he had stretched out in front of him towards the kitchen fire, so the muscles wouldn’t cramp up so easily in the chilly room. “Of course we’ll be taking the coach, I cannot ride with this leg,” he explained with a stern look at his companion. “I’ll never make it to Bath on horseback. And since we’ll be needing to make a quick detour to Blakesley to visit a friend of mine before we can get on our way you should better hurry and eat your breakfast, so we can leave.”

“This is absolutely intolerable,” Sherlock complained, and ignoring his breakfast once and for all, got up to stride towards the door that led back to Rockingham’s main hall and staircase. “Hand me a cloth brush,” he said, an air of annoyed long-suffering around him. “I need to see to my coat.”

John sighed in resignation. This was going to be five very long days.

“There’s one in the cloak room. Wait, I’ll show you.”