The Railway Train
Desert Spring, CA- June 1865
John Watson stepped onto the wooden porch of the modest, one room farmhouse he shared with his mother and younger sister. It was early morning and the sun had not yet risen, but John was unable to sleep. He slowly paced the porch a few times before taking a seat on the rocking chair he found himself in most mornings. He took note of the wood beneath his feet. It was beginning to rot, signaling the years of weather and use it had endured.
John remembered his father building this porch.
He was barely six years old when his father decided to pack up their family and move to California in hopes of finding gold. John remembered his mother being upset about moving, and in turn, he was upset too. He liked the house they lived in and being close to his grandparents. He liked the friends he met at school and the animals they had. He was especially excited to have a new sibling, even if it meant he would have to share his toys. None of that mattered to his father. Not even his mother’s protests could puncture Mr. Watson’s iron will.
So, they sold their house and most of their belongings for a covered wagon and just enough cash to get them from Kansas to California. They arrived in Desert Spring seven months later with just enough food to last the week, one less horse than they started with, and a new baby named Harriet.
It took two months for John’s father to build their house, just in time for winter. The last thing he built was the porch, and on the final day he let John lay the last wood plank and hammer in the nail. He didn’t even scold him when the nail bent sideways, making the seal between the board and the one next to it uneven.
Instead, he looked at John kindly and said, “Son, one day you will have a wife, have a daughter, have a son. And you will build a house for them, to keep them warm and safe. And you will know what it is to be a man.”
At the time, John prized the words of wisdom his father passed down to him. Now, fourteen years later, John found himself sitting in the same rocking chair his dad always did, toeing at the rough edge of his poor carpentry, and wishing his father had been anywhere near as warm as he was in that moment.
Instead, he was often cold and distant, scolding John often for even minor instances. Things only got worse when the gold supply in California dried up, leaving their family with only a few hundred dollars, which John’s father used to sustain his whisky habit. Years went by of John and his mother carrying his father to bed from the front lawn, keeping him from fights with the townspeople, and dodging drunken punches. So, it wasn’t really a surprise to John when his father was drafted into the Civil War and never returned. The telegram they received stated that he died from a heart attack, but John wasn’t entirely convinced he didn’t drink himself to death.
Now the war was over and John was still living with his mother and Harriet. Most boys his age had already gone to college, had a job, and were marrying, but John stayed in Desert Spring working for the railroad. This way, he could support his mother and sister, who were still in mourning, at least socially. Besides, John wasn’t sure he liked the idea of marrying and having children anymore.
As he sat on the porch, the sun started to peak above the horizon, and John thought about the life he would live once his mother could work or remarry. Maybe he would be a cowboy or learn carpentry. Maybe he would farm or bartend. Or maybe he could go to school and become a doctor like he had wanted to before his father’s death.
John chuckled to himself at the ridiculous idea.
Behind him, the front door to the house creaked slowly and a small, sheepish face poked out. John turned and his eyes met Harriet’s.
“Morning,” she said quietly as she slowly closed the door behind her, trying not to make a sound.
John nodded back as she sat opposite of him on their porch swing. He looked at her face, still young, but with an adult-like hardness in her eyes.
“Mama’s been crying,” she said softly.
John stiffened and prepared to stand, but Harriet shushed him and put up her hand, motioning for him to stay sitting.
“She’s asleep now,” she said, “She said something about a man in the street. Said that he called Papa a nasty drunk. That, wherever he is, he’s not with the Lord.”
John’s face hardened, void of any real reaction. He stayed silent, but they both knew what he was thinking: He’s not wrong.
Harriet sighed and looked at John dissatisfied.
“I know he was not the kindest man, not the kindest father.”
John scoffed.
“John, please. For Mama. She knows the things he did, she endured it too, but it doesn’t change the fact that she lost a husband. Lord knows we can’t get anywhere in this world without a husband.”
“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay.”
“John, you’ve done so much for us,” Harriet smiled kindly and John admired that at fourteen she could speak with such conviction. “I promise, when Mama is out of mourning, you will be able to live your own life. Maybe you’ll find a nice girl.” She smiled teasingly at the end.
John smiled back, but only in courtesy.
“Maybe,” he said as he looked back down to the uneven boards beneath his feet.
…
“Watson!”
A man greeted John as he approached the railway.
“Morning, Stamford,” he replied, happy to see his friend, “What’s on the agenda today?"
Stamford fidgeted nervously with his dirt-stained trousers. John looked at him quizzically, searching for an answer.
“Sholto’s looking for you. Didn’t say why. Can’t imagine it’s good. Never is,” Stamford said as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
John sighed and rubbed his face with his already dusty palm.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” he said, “he’s asked favors of me before.”
“Well it’s no secret that you’re his favorite,” Stamford said with a laugh.
"He doesn't have favorites, Stamford."
Stamford dismissed John with a wave of his hand, “Well whether he does or doesn’t, I’m certainly not one of them. I thought he might shoot me with his pistol last week when I knocked over that cart of tracks.”
“Stamford!” a demanding voice scolded.
John and Stamford instantly straightened and turned around to see Sholto’s domineering face staring at them.
“Sir,” Stamford said nervously.
Sholto looked at him intensely. “Get to work,” he spat.
“Yessir.” Stamford shuffled off to the tool supply with his head down.
John began to follow, but Sholto stopped him.
“Watson, follow me.”
John shot Stamford a sympathetic look and followed Sholto.
“We have a new hire, Watson, and I would like for you to train him.”
“Train him?” John blurted without thinking.
“I know it’s unusual,” Sholto sighed. “But so is our… trainee,” he paused, seemingly preparing himself. “Let’s just say I owed his brother a favor. And I must warn you Watson. He has…” Sholto searched for a kinder word than the one he was thinking, “a unique disposition.”
John met Sholto’s eyes with concern as they approached the manager’s tent. What could possibly be so off about this man that would cause the typically unwavering hardness of his manager this much unease?
His questions were answered as he pushed through the fabric opening of the tent. Sitting in Sholto’s chair was a tall, mysterious looking man with sharp cheekbones and dark, curly hair. His shiny, black shoes were crossed on Sholto’s desk and matched his expensive, nicely pressed suit that John noticed brought out his strikingly blue eyes. John stood confused by the strange, yet captivating young man while Sholto entered the tent.
“Oh for God’s sake Holmes get your feet off my desk and show some respect,” Sholto barked.
“Dull,” the man responded.
Sholto fumed. “Excuse me?”
The man took his feet off the desk, but only to aid in his show of physical exasperation. He stood up and threw his hands in the air. “Dull!”
Sholto moved dangerously close to the man called Holmes. “Now you listen to me. The only reason you’re here is because your brother makes up for the respect and dignity you clearly lack. I will not hesitate to march into his office at this very moment and explain that there is no place for you here. He has made it clear to me that you are on extremely thin ice. Don’t think that doesn’t apply here.” Sholto, who had been barely an inch from Holmes’ face, cleared his throat and walked furiously out of the tent.
Holmes met John’s eye with a slightly embarrassed face that quickly changed to something more playful.
“Yeah. I’ll be right back,” John said and quickly slipped out of the tent to where Sholto was standing, still fuming.
“Watson, I understand if you aren’t able to work with him. Lord knows I can't. But, I promised his brother I would try and I figured I’d put my best man forward.”
He smiled kindly at John.
John only nodded curtly, understanding that it wasn’t really an option. He turned around and reentered the tent. Holmes was standing where he was before, waiting for John’s return.
John cleared his throat nervously. “Okay, uh, hi, I’m John Watson.” He extended his hand.
“Sherlock Holmes,” said the other man reaching out to shake hands.
“So, we should probably get started.”
“I guess so,” Holmes said, nodding awkwardly.
John exited the tent and headed toward the tool supply.
Once Holmes appeared beside him, John took another look at his clothes. “Do you, uh, have a change of clothes? Anything more fit for labor?”
“Heart attack or gun wound?” Holmes asked out of the blue.
John stopped walking and looked at Holmes. “What?”
“Was it a heart attack or gun wound that killed him? Your father.”
John stared at Holmes intensely, but more with wonder than anger.
“Uh… the telegram said it was a heart attack,” he stammered. “Sorry, how did you know? Did Sholto say something?”
Holmes scoffed. “Of course not. He holds you in much too high regard to divulge that information to me. I simply observed.”
“Observed? How?”
“You’re working for the railroad. You’re around 20 years old and you haven’t gone to school and presumably haven’t married- you have no wedding ring. Your clothes are cheap and your hands are worn, a sign of long labor- you’ve been working here a while then, at least six months. If you were working to support yourself, you’d find a better job, you’d pursue a career. This isn’t a job for the long term, the railroad will be finished in the next few years, but you don’t need longer than that. Supporting a mother then, maybe even a sister. Your father isn’t present, dead, obviously, probably in the war. The way you hold yourself and the way you see Sholto as a father figure, your father was cruel, harsh. I can see that by the scar above your left eyebrow. The scar is tilted and jagged, most likely from glass. Perhaps a glass bottle. Your father was an alcoholic then. So when he was drafted, I doubt it took but a few months for his heart to give out if he wasn’t shot before then.”
John stared at him incredulously with his mouth hanging slightly open.
“That was… brilliant.”
Holmes was taken aback. “Really?” he asked.
“Yes,” John breathed, “Absolutely brilliant.”
Holmes blinked a few times as if he was questioning if John was being sincere. “That’s not what most people say.”
“What do most people say?”
Holmes' lips turned into a wild smile. “Piss off.”
John and Holmes laughed in unison. As their chuckles wore off, they caught each other's eyes and John smiled fondly. He jolted himself back to reality.
“Yeah, well, you really can’t wear that while we work,” John said pointing to Holmes' suit, “At least take off your coat.”
Holmes rolled his eyes, but took it off and set it to the side. He rolled up his sleeves revealing skinny, yet muscular arms.
“Ready, Holmes?” John said, motioning with his arm to the tool supply.
“After you, Watson.”