John Watson was going to the horse races.
It had been three days since he had heard from Holmes and, by God!, he wasn’t sitting around waiting for him like a lost dog or an obedient housewife. Besides, Holmes hadn’t left him any instructions or details about the case, so it didn’t concern him. Why worry? Why wait all day and night for Sherlock to come back when he didn’t even have a toe in the mystery that the man was off solving? He had Baker Street and his days to himself. He might as well take some enjoyment in it.
As the cab dropped him off, he could barely keep his wits about him. What a day for the races! It was perfect. The weather was agreeable and the air was…well, it was questionable at best, this close to the stables, but it smelled of possibilities and freedom. John Watson was sure he could feel the excitement in the air as he stepped through the doors.
Everyone was bustling about, arguing about the horses’ chances, debating how much money would make a proper bet, and twittering away about this and that. It was marvelous.
“Horse races are the entertainment of uncultured thrill-seekers. They refuse to risk themselves, so they watch others do it for them and then throw money around to make it seem like they’re adding to it all. Rubbish,” Sherlock had once said to one of John’s invitations to join him.
You don’t know what you’re missing, my dear Holmes.
A few sorely placed bets later found Mr. Watson sitting along in a corner, staring at his empty hands. His head ached and now the chances of the horses and how much money they could earn just didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“Gambling – a waste of money you don’t actually have,” was ringing in his head.
Why was Holmes always right?
A flask appeared in his hands. He looked up and a beautiful woman sat across from him.
“Looks like you need a little liquid pick-me-up,” she said with an American accent.
John examined the flask – silver with a begonia adorning its front – and took a sip before handing it back.
“Thank you, Miss…”
“Isbon. Anne Isbon,” she said, extending her hand in greeting.
He shook it. “Dr. John Watson.” What was an American woman doing here at the horse races?
“Good?” Miss Isbon asked.
What a beautiful voice. John had never been partial to the American accent, but he might be warming up to it. Such a clear bell she spoke with.
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”
Her brown eyes sparkled intensely in the fading sunlight and her smile crinkled them ever so slightly over apple-red cheeks. What gorgeous dimples. Simply breathtaking.
“Miss Ibson, I am curious. What brings you here?”
“To England or the races?” she asked with a coy head tilt.
“Either.” If she decided to tell both, so much the better for him. He would listen to every word that could ever issue from her lips.
“I like horses. And I’ve done and seen everything else in this city already. Why, Dr. Watson, are you here?”
What a disappointment. She wasn’t going to tell him about her travels from America to England. What a long and beautiful story that must be.
“At the races,” Miss Isbon added when he didn’t answer right away.
“Ah, yes, sorry. My room-mate is out of town. And I like horses.” What perfectly clear, white skin she had.
“Clearly, not the right horses. Try Adelle’s Aurora this time. He worked very nicely for me before.”
“I can’t. Every horse I look at loses today.”
She looked away. John worried. All the negativity was going to send her to another man. He had to say something to bring back her attention. Maybe he should thank her for the suggestion. But, then, she pulled out the begonia flask and slid it across the table to him.
“You can do it, Dr. Watson.”
He hesitated, then took a gulp. “Please, call me John.”
To his surprise and her delight, Adelle’s Aurora won and Watson began to regain what he had lost. He took a celebratory swig from her proffered flask and bet again, with her guidance.
John won again. Miss Isbon offered the flask once more, but instead, he ordered them each a drink. They bet again and he toasted her.
“To my lucky charm!”
This was turning out to be a far more fantastic expedition than he had expected. Just as he had won back a little more than he had lost, though, the races were over and night had settled on the city.
“But, John, that does not mean the evening is over!” Miss Isbon said as she finished her last drink. “We should go somewhere else. I am enjoying your company.”
“I don’t know.” John reciprocated the feeling, but he couldn’t be sure it was in their best interest. He didn’t want to give this country’s visitor the wrong idea.
Something tripped her and she fell into his arms. She laughed and looked up at him. “Now you’re my lucky charm, John.”
He was holding her. John Watson was holding a beautiful American woman in his arms. “I know a nice pub just down the road. We can continue our evening there.”
“That sounds lovely,” Miss Isbon said, now getting back on her feet.
They quickly found a nice table together and began ordering drinks and some food.
John could hardly believe his luck. He was spending an evening drinking and talking with, easily, the most beautiful, enchanting, and intelligent woman to ever come out of America. She could not be more perfect.
Who needs Holmes?
Somehow, the conversation did manage to land on Sherlock anyway.
“You said earlier you have a roommate, yes?”
“Yes. One Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A brilliant man with a penchant for observation, disappearing, and frustrating me.”
“Hm. Sounds charming.”
“True, but when I’m not seeing patients, we do enjoy solving mysteries together – sometimes for the police, others for private hires.”
“That sounds exhilarating!”
He told her all about Holmes and the excitement they encountered and that was all well and good, but they were both getting on in their drink count and he was still curious about how she came to be in England. And if she would be staying for some time.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” she said when he finally asked her. She leaned in, inviting John to do the same. “I…find English men far more fascinating,” and she began giggling.
What a preposterous notion! Coming to England simply for the men. Though, it did start to seem like a perfectly marvelous idea and he found himself laughing as well.
The bartender walked over to their table. “I think you two best be off now,” he said.
Still laughing, John said, “Of course, yes. We’re going. Miss Anne?” They stood and he put some money on the table. “Thank you, kind sir. Good show.” He took Miss Isbon’s arm and they stumbled from the empty pub.
He somehow managed to hail a cab.
“221B Baker Street,” he said as they climbed in. “Where are you staying, Miss Anne?”
“With you, Mr. John.”
How tempting. “But, you…”
She leaned against him, put her head on his shoulder, held his hand, and said, “With you, Dr. John Watson.”
Oh. Her hand. Her head. Her little body leaning on his. “Just Baker Street, then, chap.”
Soon, they were at the door. She held onto him as he tried to understand the intricacies of lock and key.
Miss Anne began giggling again. “I thought you had a roommate,” she whispered. What a scandal that could cause, being caught!
“Yes, but he’s away for….business.” John unlocked the door and helped her inside.
She leaned into him and whispered, “How lucky.”
He shut the door. Lucky, indeed.
John lead her to the stairs. “Up we go.” She giggled more as she attempted to make her way up. He followed close behind with the intention of catching her should she fall, though in his equally intoxicated state, he’d be a very ineffective catcher.
At the top of the staircase, Anne turned around and put her back to the door. He cleared the last step and she grabbed his jacket to pull him in.
“But what if Mrs…” he was cut off when she began kissing him.
Oh God. Oh my. They could be heard. They could be seen.
“Mmmmmf,” he tried to say something. She took it as encouragement and pulled him closer.
John worried at the hour, where they were, who might hear, but he also admired her…mouth. At that moment, her mouth was quite a lot more important.
Suddenly, the door opened and they were on the floor of the flat.
“Have a good time at the horse races?” Sherlock said.
“Holmes!” John exclaimed, rolling off of Anne. “You’re home!” He jumped from the floor, wiping frantically at his face.
“So it would seem.”
He felt someone grab his leg and looked down, almost surprised to see Miss Isbon still there. He helped her up rather clumsily.
“This is…this is…uh, Miss…” he tried to gain some composure, but Sherlock cut him off.
“Lovely to see you again, Miss Adler.”
She smiled and stroked John’s shocked face. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Becca Has Words 