Torchwood Fic: Then and Now (1/6)

[merucha]

Title: Then and Now (1/6)

Author: Emma

Characters: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, others

Rating: Starts PG, but hey, it’s got Jack and Ianto in it!

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Summary: Jack meets the greatest detective of all time – twice.

Author’s Note: After reading Invincible Summer, someone sent me an anonymous email asking me how Jack and Ianto ended up with Sherlock Holmes’s house in Sussex. Here’s the story.

Author’s Note: God knows how this is going to turn out. Dear God, Arthur Conan Doyle is spinning in his grave hard enough to be able to sell electricity back to the grid. The description of Holmes’s house is taken from The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane.

 

These two remarkable documents were found in the secure archives of Torchwood Cardiff during its conversion from active base of operations to the Torchwood Museum and Research Center. If it were anyone but my redoubtable ancestors I would dismiss them as second-rate fantasy. As it is… well, let’s just say they have a certain amount of plausibility.

 

 Donna Francine Davidson-Hart

Curator

Cardiff, October 2457

 

p.s. To those who will claim that Jack Harkness could not possibly play the part of a Victorian gentleman, I reply that the first job of a con-man is to present the persona his audience expects, and Grandpa Jack is nothing if not a first rate con-man. You should also consider that Doctor Watson has long been rumored to be an unreliable narrator.

 

p.p.s. Yes, of course I asked. All I got was a lewd grin from Grandpa Jack and a “some things are just better left alone” lecture from grantad Ianto. They still own the house.

 

 

Then: The Luck of the Parringtons

            Dr. John Watson

 

            The events recorded here have never been exposed to the light of day, nor will they be for centuries after all the people involved have departed this mortal world. There are certain things we are not yet prepared to accept or understand, and perhaps it is better that we remain ignorant for a little while longer. Therefore I have instructed my solicitors to send this on to the Torchwood Institute, Cardiff branch, fifty years after my passing.

 

*******

            After my dearest friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes retired to the Sussex Downs in 1903 I remained in our rooms in London, living the life of an elderly bachelor or respectable if limited means. My practice was small but steady, and I had the income from some sound investments I had made during those brief periods when I had been considerably more plump in the pocket. There were others such as myself in the city, veterans of India and Afghanistan, who banded together in mutual professional support and friendship, and I spent three or four nights a week at my clubs engaged in pleasant conversation. Every so often, Lestrade, Gregson, or some other of Holmes’s police acquaintances dropped by Baker Street to discuss the latest criminal news, and to inquire after their old competitor and mentor.

 

            It was a pleasant enough existence but I missed my old friend. Over the years I had grown used to his acerbic wit, his assorted eccentricities, even his abominably incessant violin playing during late-night bouts of ratiocination. I enjoyed the excitement his cases brought into my life, and the opportunity to observe the workings of the keenest mind in Europe at close quarters. I missed our little daily routines, the long leisurely breakfasts over which Holmes would expound on his latest theories about the burn rate of cigar ash or the ingredients in Stradivarius’s varnish formula, or the simple evenings spent in front of the fire, discussing politics and crime with equal consideration.

 

            Thus, it was with great happiness that I received a telegram from Holmes inviting me for a fortnight’s visit at his small estate. I wired back an enthusiastic acceptance, arranged for a colleague to take over my practice, and, on Friday morning, boarded a train for Eastbourne, that being the closest large town to Holmes’s residence.

 

            Upon arrival I found that Holmes had arranged for a friendly local doctor to take me up in his dogcart. We passed the trip agreeably discussing our most difficult cases, and it seemed a short time to Holmes’s front door.

 

My friend looked the very picture of health. His city pallor had given way to a healthy country flush. Days composed of tending the hives, pottering about in the gardens and taking long walks on the beach had improved his constitution to such an extent that in his early sixties Holmes was much more hale and hearty than he had been a full decade earlier. We shook hands and clasped shoulders and I fancy I saw a glimpse of emotion in my old friend’s eyes.

 

“I hope you didn’t mind my not meeting you personally at the station, Watson. When I told doctor Curtis about your arrival, he insisted on bringing you, since he would be in Eastbourne on business this morning. Come. You must be hungry. Train fare is never satisfactory.”

 

We sat down to a most excellent lunch of fish stew and freshly-baked bread with honey. Holmes’s appetite showed as much improvement as the rest of him. We lingered over the meal, exchanging news as old friends who have not seen each other for a while are wont to do. He laughed good-naturedly at my tales of the misadventures of our policemen friends, and admitted he kept in touch with both Lestrade and Gregson and sometimes took a hand in guiding their investigations.

 

After lunch we took a long walk along the cliffs. Holmes’s house sat on the seaward slope of the downs, with a magnificent view of the channel. On this clear afternoon we could see the village of Fullworth nestling around the calm waters of the harbor and further out, beyond the white chalk headlands, several small boats bobbing gently on the waves. I remarked to Holmes that the place seemed to have great restorative powers.

 

“Indeed it does, Watson. I have found a great deal of peace and contentment here.” He looked to the horizon, absorbed in thoughts I could only guess at, then shook himself lightly and smiled. “Come on, Watson, let’s return home. I’ve invited a local friend to join us for dinner. His name is Harold Stackhurst and he runs a coaching establishment for young gentlemen about a half mile away. Good fellow. He was a great deal of help to me when I first arrived. He’s bringing a new teacher he wants me to meet. As we will be four we might play cards after supper.”

 

I fell in happily with his proposal. Upon arriving back at the villa I left Holmes to discuss the arrangement of a cold supper with his housekeeper and went upstairs to scrub off the dust of my long journey. I was so pleasantly tired that after my bath I dozed off until Holmes came to tell me his guests had arrived.

 

Upon entering the parlor my eyes immediately went to the man standing by the windows. To my physician’s eye he was the most perfect specimen I had ever encountered. Tall, lean, straight of limb, with a chiseled face and twinkling blue eyes, he seemed to have stepped right out of the pages of those dreadful romances that were all the rage among young ladies.

 

“There you are, Watson.” Holmes’s amused tone warned me he had noted my fascination. “May I introduce Harold Stackhurst? He befriended me from the first.”

 

The schoolmaster had been sitting at the chess table contemplating a possible move. He stood up and approached me with his hand extended. He was a big, bluff fellow, obviously an athlete in his younger days and still exceedingly fit. His handshake was strong and firm.

 

“Welcome to Sussex, doctor Watson. I am a great admirer of your literary efforts. To finally meet both the subject and the author is indeed a pleasure.”

 

Such sincere flattery could not help but confirm the positive impression created by Holmes’s earlier comments. I exchanged pleasantries with him, but my eyes kept straying to the other man, to whom I had not yet been introduced. Finally, Holmes took pity on my curiosity.

 

“And this is Captain Jack Harkness, Watson. An army man, like yourself.”

 

“It’s a great honour, doctor Watson.” The man’s voice was quite good and I fancied I could detect the signs of a trained musician. “Count me among your admirers also.”

 

“Jack has been kind enough to step in as science master until McPherson arrives from the continent,” Stackhurst said, “which is quite fortunate, as I have a new boarder whose interests lie in that direction.”

 

“Tell us over dinner, old chap,” Holmes said. “Watson must be famished, and I am not so far behind.”

 

Holmes’s housekeeper had done him proud once again.. A substantial cold supper had been laid out in the small but perfectly appointed dining room. We tucked in with gusto while Stackhurst told us about his new boarder.

 

“Viscount Parrington, eldest son and heir of the Earl of Chancton. You might well stare, doctor Watson. I was as surprised as anyone when Mr. Carruthers, the earl’s private secretary, called on me. It seems the boy is mad about engineering, and the earl has decided to let him train for a career. According to Mr. Carruthers, the earl prefers a son in the professions than one living the dissolute life of a wealthy wastrel in London. He tells me those were the earl’s very words.”

 

“I believe,” Holmes said sardonically, “that it is possible to do both.”

           

            Captain Harkness raised his glass to him in a silent toast which Holmes returned. Something in Holmes’s gesture struck me as peculiarly intimate, as if Captain Harkness were someone of long personal acquaintance, yet I was certain Holmes had never mentioned him.

 

            The evening passed in connivial good humor and it was late in the evening when our guests finally departed. I retired immediately as in spite of my earlier nap I was still feeling the effects of my long train journey and rigorous walk. The bed was comfortable and the room cool and pleasant, and I slept better than I had in months.

 

            The next day dawned sunny and clear. Holmes and I decided to start with a vigorous stroll on the beach. Climbing down the steep, narrow cliff path left me a bit breathless and Holmes tweaked me about my sedentary habits. We spent a good two hours among the tidal pools, and even took a swim in one of the larger one, Holmes having assured me the beach was usually deserted this early in the morning.

 

            Finally our stomachs informed us that it was long past the breakfast hour. We dressed and returned to the house to find it full of the homey scents of freshly baked scones and frying bacon.

 

            We continued in this manner for several days. My own city languor became a thing of the past as I hiked and swam every day and ate plentifully of the local catch and the vegetable garden’s bounty.  On the evening of the fourth day, however, our peace was disturbed by a loud commotion at the front door. It was Stackhurst, and a more different man from the pleasant, cheerful fellow I had met on the first evening of my visit would have been difficult to find. He was followed at a calmer pace by Captain Harkness.

 

            “A disaster, my dear Holmes! A complete disaster!”

 

            “Calm yourself, Stackhurst. What in the world has happened?”

 

            “Parrington! The wretched boy is missing!”