Sherlock's Point of View: Meeting Watts
Sherlock sat in his chair by the window, the curtains drawn, despondent. He needed a case. He needed a distraction from life’s constant banality. He had learned so much so quickly, infiltrated much of the City’s vast underworld, often with satisfying results. But he was growing restless. He didn’t doubt his decision to leave the Colony, and regret had never once crossed his mind. However, there was an increasingly nagging feeling that he didn’t really belong in the City, either. That there wasn’t a place for him, anywhere. Something was missing from his life, but he had no idea what it might be.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that it took him a moment to realize someone had knocked on the door. Leaping to his feet, he forced himself to relax. Even if it was a client, the chances of it being something truly fascinating were slim. Whoever it was knocked again. “Yes, come in!”
A blond man cautiously entered, eyes widening a little as he took everything in. The man was a bit shorter than Sherlock, well-built, though not as if he worked out regularly. Simply a life of intensive physical activity, which was interesting. He looked to be in his mid twenties and the possibility of that being the result of artificial enhancement was highly unlikely, given the state of the man’s shoes. Indeed, the only article of clothing that seemed in good condition was the electric blue jacket.
Sherlock’s analysis of the man’s movement confirmed his initial suspicion that there had recently been a rough incident of some sort while on the street, which may have been directly related to his sudden loss of credits and confidence. A client? There wasn’t any other reason for Sherlock to receive visitors, this man certainly wasn’t associated with the mafia or any gangs, and yet Sherlock wasn’t certain why he was here. That was interesting.
“Please, come in. Have a seat.” he gestured to the sofa, “You've recently fallen on hard times, may I offer you a drink?”
His visitor sat down and looked up at him in surprise. “Sure. How could you tell –”
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand as he poured a small glass of scotch, hoping to encourage his strange visitor to stay and forgive his eccentricities, at least until he got around to whatever business brought him there. “Your clothes, sir. At one time, you were able to afford some rather high-quality brand names, but they now show various signs of wear and your shoes are quite roughed up. I can think of no reason why someone with enough money to buy them in the first place would let them become so worn out and still continue wearing them, other than he no longer has the same funds he once did.”
“Huh.” He took the offered glass, and hesitated.
“It's scotch,” Sherlock said, “Put simply, it is an alcoholic drink made from barley and matured in oak casks. Trees being a rare commodity, it's hardly made anymore. I am not in the habit of offering it to visitors, since I only have the one bottle, but I thought you might appreciate a friendly gesture.”
He was skeptical. “You're suggesting I haven't had many friendly gestures lately.”
Sherlock shrugged, “Judging from the way you walked in here so cautiously, along with a number of other small indicators in how you carry yourself, I think it is a safe conclusion.” The man remained unconvinced. Had he not developed a thorough knowledge of the criminal underworld in the City, Sherlock might have been offended. As it was, suspicion was to be expected. Sherlock suppressed a grin at his visitor’s reaction to the scotch. At least he’d tried it.
“I heard you were looking for a roommate. Housemate. Whatever.”
Of course! It hadn’t even occurred to him, but naturally that was the explanation. Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his eagerness. If he was going to continue living here, he needed help with the rent. Besides, Holmes had his Watson, though he didn’t dare imagine he would be so fortunate as to find a similar companion. “Yes, I am. Are you interested?”
“Well, it seems a nice enough place. I wanted to meet you before deciding.”
“Of course, forgive my manners, and allow me to introduce myself. I'm Sherlock.”
They shook hands, “Most people call me Watts.”
Watts? An amusing coincidence. “And what is your profession?”
“Currently unemployed, but hopefully I can find another job soon. I just need a place to live until that happens. I’m a doctor.”
Sherlock’s brow rose slightly, his skepticism barely contained. Honestly, now. “A doctor?”
“I worked on a patrolling med-team,” Watts clarified, “Got injured during a pick-up. Lost my leg, and lost any desire to work that kind of job again.”
“Ah,” he involuntarily glanced down, though he knew there would be no indication anything was amiss, “Cybernetics?”
“Better add-on possibilities,” Watts joked.
Sherlock didn’t quite grin back. The prevalence of cybernetics was one aspect of the City Sherlock had yet to adjust to. They simply... unnerved him. However, it was hardly a reason to refuse a roommate. “So, you chose to quit,” he pushed his uneasiness aside, “your skills are perfectly fine?”
“Some months rusty, but otherwise fine, yes.”
“Yet you referred to yourself as a doctor, rather than a paramedic.”
“I am a doctor. I went through all that trouble of getting an M.D, and wound up rounding up wounded instead of sitting in an office or an operating room.” Sherlock remained skeptical. Watts sighed, “I thought I could help people better that way. Wasn't satisfied with waiting for patients to come to me. I got the chance to pick up a lot of useful skills too. I'm a hell of an improviser, not that it's done me a whole hell of a lot of good.”
It was plausible, possibly even true, though Sherlock could tell it wasn’t quite the complete truth. Still, if he was being truthful about his talents, then an ability to improvise not only indicated imagination and intelligence, but was a skill that was vital to success while working in less than ideal conditions. That was a skill Sherlock knew he would have a need for. “I see. Yes, I think this arrangement will work.” Now for the ‘hard sell,’ as it were. “Dr. Watts, I must warn you that I have some odd habits. I play violin and I smoke a pipe, would either bother you?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“My line of work requires that I keep strange hours, that I may get unannounced visitors, and that whenever one of these visitors calls I must have use of this room,” he gestured around him, “to conduct my business. Is that acceptable?”
Watts hesitated, understandably. "What's your line of work?"
Sherlock grinned a little as he leaned back in the chair, the tips of his fingers together. He will think I’m crazy, but there’s nothing for it. "I am a consulting detective."
"You're a what?"
"I'm a detective, but I do not work for the police, nor am I a private detective in the traditional sense. My interest is in the strange cases, the puzzles that the police cannot quite solve. People come to me when they need a fresh look at a baffling situation. Like Sherlock Holmes."
The name went unrecognized. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The distinct lack of education in any historical literature among City residents was depressing. "Surely you've at least heard of him?"
Watts shook his head, "Nope."
With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock rose and walked over to the bookshelves by the desk. With a gesture to the Collected Works, he explained who Sherlock Holmes was and why they shared a first name. Then he turned back to face his potential new roommate. If Watts was going to say no, now was the time. "Read them. It will give you a better idea of what I have come to the City for."
"Uh, alright.” Watts stood, still a bit uncertain. “Well, then, I guess I'll just go back down to the offices and sign my name to the lease."
Sherlock hid his surprise. Reluctant acceptance was acceptance all the same. "Have you many things to move?"
"A few bags, some small furniture."
"Good, between the two of us it should go quickly. Where is your old residence?"
"Corporate sector, Tenth and Prime Street."
This time, Sherlock hid nothing. "My, hard times indeed."
"Yeah, well," Watts was uncomfortable, "funny how no one on that side wants to hire you again once you've quit on account of moral conflicts."
Sherlock fixed him with a questioning look. Moral conflicts? Granted, they just met, but Watts did not seem an immoral person, which meant a morally right action cost him his job... which reinforced the small hope in Sherlock’s mind that this arrangement might work after all.
He did not expect them to become ‘friends,’ of course, but at least he had found a potentially amiable and satisfactory living companion.
Sherlock sat in his chair by the window, the curtains drawn, despondent. He needed a case. He needed a distraction from life’s constant banality. He had learned so much so quickly, infiltrated much of the City’s vast underworld, often with satisfying results. But he was growing restless. He didn’t doubt his decision to leave the Colony, and regret had never once crossed his mind. However, there was an increasingly nagging feeling that he didn’t really belong in the City, either. That there wasn’t a place for him, anywhere. Something was missing from his life, but he had no idea what it might be.
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that it took him a moment to realize someone had knocked on the door. Leaping to his feet, he forced himself to relax. Even if it was a client, the chances of it being something truly fascinating were slim. Whoever it was knocked again. “Yes, come in!”
A blond man cautiously entered, eyes widening a little as he took everything in. The man was a bit shorter than Sherlock, well-built, though not as if he worked out regularly. Simply a life of intensive physical activity, which was interesting. He looked to be in his mid twenties and the possibility of that being the result of artificial enhancement was highly unlikely, given the state of the man’s shoes. Indeed, the only article of clothing that seemed in good condition was the electric blue jacket.
Sherlock’s analysis of the man’s movement confirmed his initial suspicion that there had recently been a rough incident of some sort while on the street, which may have been directly related to his sudden loss of credits and confidence. A client? There wasn’t any other reason for Sherlock to receive visitors, this man certainly wasn’t associated with the mafia or any gangs, and yet Sherlock wasn’t certain why he was here. That was interesting.
“Please, come in. Have a seat.” he gestured to the sofa, “You've recently fallen on hard times, may I offer you a drink?”
His visitor sat down and looked up at him in surprise. “Sure. How could you tell –”
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand as he poured a small glass of scotch, hoping to encourage his strange visitor to stay and forgive his eccentricities, at least until he got around to whatever business brought him there. “Your clothes, sir. At one time, you were able to afford some rather high-quality brand names, but they now show various signs of wear and your shoes are quite roughed up. I can think of no reason why someone with enough money to buy them in the first place would let them become so worn out and still continue wearing them, other than he no longer has the same funds he once did.”
“Huh.” He took the offered glass, and hesitated.
“It's scotch,” Sherlock said, “Put simply, it is an alcoholic drink made from barley and matured in oak casks. Trees being a rare commodity, it's hardly made anymore. I am not in the habit of offering it to visitors, since I only have the one bottle, but I thought you might appreciate a friendly gesture.”
He was skeptical. “You're suggesting I haven't had many friendly gestures lately.”
Sherlock shrugged, “Judging from the way you walked in here so cautiously, along with a number of other small indicators in how you carry yourself, I think it is a safe conclusion.” The man remained unconvinced. Had he not developed a thorough knowledge of the criminal underworld in the City, Sherlock might have been offended. As it was, suspicion was to be expected. Sherlock suppressed a grin at his visitor’s reaction to the scotch. At least he’d tried it.
“I heard you were looking for a roommate. Housemate. Whatever.”
Of course! It hadn’t even occurred to him, but naturally that was the explanation. Sherlock didn’t bother to hide his eagerness. If he was going to continue living here, he needed help with the rent. Besides, Holmes had his Watson, though he didn’t dare imagine he would be so fortunate as to find a similar companion. “Yes, I am. Are you interested?”
“Well, it seems a nice enough place. I wanted to meet you before deciding.”
“Of course, forgive my manners, and allow me to introduce myself. I'm Sherlock.”
They shook hands, “Most people call me Watts.”
Watts? An amusing coincidence. “And what is your profession?”
“Currently unemployed, but hopefully I can find another job soon. I just need a place to live until that happens. I’m a doctor.”
Sherlock’s brow rose slightly, his skepticism barely contained. Honestly, now. “A doctor?”
“I worked on a patrolling med-team,” Watts clarified, “Got injured during a pick-up. Lost my leg, and lost any desire to work that kind of job again.”
“Ah,” he involuntarily glanced down, though he knew there would be no indication anything was amiss, “Cybernetics?”
“Better add-on possibilities,” Watts joked.
Sherlock didn’t quite grin back. The prevalence of cybernetics was one aspect of the City Sherlock had yet to adjust to. They simply... unnerved him. However, it was hardly a reason to refuse a roommate. “So, you chose to quit,” he pushed his uneasiness aside, “your skills are perfectly fine?”
“Some months rusty, but otherwise fine, yes.”
“Yet you referred to yourself as a doctor, rather than a paramedic.”
“I am a doctor. I went through all that trouble of getting an M.D, and wound up rounding up wounded instead of sitting in an office or an operating room.” Sherlock remained skeptical. Watts sighed, “I thought I could help people better that way. Wasn't satisfied with waiting for patients to come to me. I got the chance to pick up a lot of useful skills too. I'm a hell of an improviser, not that it's done me a whole hell of a lot of good.”
It was plausible, possibly even true, though Sherlock could tell it wasn’t quite the complete truth. Still, if he was being truthful about his talents, then an ability to improvise not only indicated imagination and intelligence, but was a skill that was vital to success while working in less than ideal conditions. That was a skill Sherlock knew he would have a need for. “I see. Yes, I think this arrangement will work.” Now for the ‘hard sell,’ as it were. “Dr. Watts, I must warn you that I have some odd habits. I play violin and I smoke a pipe, would either bother you?”
“No, I don't think so.”
“My line of work requires that I keep strange hours, that I may get unannounced visitors, and that whenever one of these visitors calls I must have use of this room,” he gestured around him, “to conduct my business. Is that acceptable?”
Watts hesitated, understandably. "What's your line of work?"
Sherlock grinned a little as he leaned back in the chair, the tips of his fingers together. He will think I’m crazy, but there’s nothing for it. "I am a consulting detective."
"You're a what?"
"I'm a detective, but I do not work for the police, nor am I a private detective in the traditional sense. My interest is in the strange cases, the puzzles that the police cannot quite solve. People come to me when they need a fresh look at a baffling situation. Like Sherlock Holmes."
The name went unrecognized. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The distinct lack of education in any historical literature among City residents was depressing. "Surely you've at least heard of him?"
Watts shook his head, "Nope."
With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock rose and walked over to the bookshelves by the desk. With a gesture to the Collected Works, he explained who Sherlock Holmes was and why they shared a first name. Then he turned back to face his potential new roommate. If Watts was going to say no, now was the time. "Read them. It will give you a better idea of what I have come to the City for."
"Uh, alright.” Watts stood, still a bit uncertain. “Well, then, I guess I'll just go back down to the offices and sign my name to the lease."
Sherlock hid his surprise. Reluctant acceptance was acceptance all the same. "Have you many things to move?"
"A few bags, some small furniture."
"Good, between the two of us it should go quickly. Where is your old residence?"
"Corporate sector, Tenth and Prime Street."
This time, Sherlock hid nothing. "My, hard times indeed."
"Yeah, well," Watts was uncomfortable, "funny how no one on that side wants to hire you again once you've quit on account of moral conflicts."
Sherlock fixed him with a questioning look. Moral conflicts? Granted, they just met, but Watts did not seem an immoral person, which meant a morally right action cost him his job... which reinforced the small hope in Sherlock’s mind that this arrangement might work after all.
He did not expect them to become ‘friends,’ of course, but at least he had found a potentially amiable and satisfactory living companion.
