Who: Edwin Jarvis Sherlock Holmes. What: Meeting new neighbors When: Backdated to June 28th, after 5:00 pm Where: Sherlock's flat, Ravenmoore. Warnings: None Status: Complete
First day on the job, and Edwin was frazzled. Certainly he’d had more busy days as a butler in the service of Howard Stark. He was used to juggling many tasks at once. What caught him off guard was the sheer differences in his new surroundings. Only a couple days ago, he and his wife were in Los Angeles, 1947 but were now thrust into (what was for him) an ultra-modern city where everything was advanced, from the phones they used, to the cars, to the very cash register he had to use at the floral shop where he was employed. Perhaps he should’ve stayed at home for a while longer before he ventured out into the workforce, becoming more accustomed to the technology and area, but Edwin wanted to jump right in, with both feet. Yes, it was daunting, but exciting, and he rarely refused an adventure.
He returned home, and checked on Ana. She was doing remarkably well, though she was understandably tired. After spending a while tending to her needs, Edwin let her know that their next door neighbor invited them over for tea. Ana wasn’t feeling up to it, and declined, but told Edwin he was welcome to meet their new neighbor and report back.
The only clothes he had were what he’d brought from 1947, and so dressed in a smart, yet casual, beige three-piece suit, he went to his neighbor’s door and knocked.
When Sherlock threw the door open, he was wearing large lab goggles, a meticulously tailored suit, and a silk dressing gown instead of a jacket. His gaze swept over Edwin once before he abandoned the front walkway entirely, retreating back into the flat. "Tea's brewing just over there in the sitting room. Prepare it however you like — I just need to shut off the Bunsen burner." Sherlock disappeared into the adjoining kitchen. Thankfully, the flat itself appeared clean (though not quite tidy) without any experiments or dangerous materials lying around. Instead, the space seemed rather Victorian and cozy, with few modern devices apart from two laptops and a pair of headphones adorning the bison skull pinned to the wall.
He came out a moment later with an assortment of biscuits. They were, to any trained eye, clearly homemade, and fresh from the oven not too long ago. Sherlock set the tray down on the table and flopped into his chair, eyeing Edwin with great interest. "So," he drew the word out, pleased to have the man's attention. "Formerly of the British Armed Forces. World War II, correct? You aided someone ranked quite high. It helped groom you for your next job: butler to an employer of enormous wealth. You're working at a florist shop now and you had a chicken sandwich for lunch." He paused only to inhale once. "Discreet, efficient, intelligent, and concerned about being dropped into modern society without warning. I wouldn't linger too much on that last bit. You'll do fine — give it time." Sherlock then sipped his tea, calmly, as if deducing people was an entirely natural thing to do when making new friends.
Mr Stark would often busy himself in his laboratory in odd stages of undress, especially when he was focused on a project. So, while it wasn’t unfamiliar for Edwin to see his neighbor answer the door in the same sort of way it was just unexpected. He was pleased to be greeted by a British accent, for it made him feel more at home. Edwin entered the apartment and looked around, taking in the odd assortment of knick knacks, including the bull’s skull wearing earmuffs hanging on the wall. Eccentric, Edwin thought, but not disturbing. “Bunsen burner? I say, are you a scientist?”
The tea was poured with meticulous care (cream, no sugar), and he gingerly plucked a biscuit from the tray with a gentle “Thank you,” when he was surprised by the man’s rapid deductions. “Yes… yes I… that’s correct. How did you… have you spoken to my wife?” That was the only way he could imagine his neighbor knowing so much. But Ana hadn’t mentioned anything, earlier, and that would be something she would’ve told him. Edwin wasn’t sure whether or not to correct his neighbor by telling him that he’d never actually fought in a battle, and was discharged rather early on, since it would open the way for personal questions, which he didn’t want to answer; he opted to remain silent.
Sherlock was pleased to find Edwin seemed quite at home in the flat. It's partly why he invited the man in the first place — he and his wife, Ana, reminded Sherlock very much of Mrs. Hudson, and he was curious to see whether they would be intrigued or repelled by his and John's lifestyle. It seemed as though it would be the former, assuming Ana was of a similar mind. "I'm a chemist," he clarified, pleased Edwin was so observant. He'd have to be, given his work history, but it was still nice to find someone so like-minded.
His amusement only increased when the man responded positively to his deductions. "I'm also a consulting detective, Mr. Jarvis. I observe details and deduce facts based upon what I see. Take, for example, your shoes." Sherlock set his tea down and tucked his legs underneath him, as if too excited to sit still. Then he refocused his sharp gaze on Edwin. "I see you've been handling a specific type of soil. If you'd been walking through dirt, the splatter patterns would be at a sharp angle. This mixture fell straight down, suggesting your hands were directly in the soil. Thus, working at a florist shop. Particularly given how strongly your clothes smell of a variety of flora." It all came out in an excited rush — he rarely got to do this, not when he had an actual, captivated audience.
Edwin’s eyes blinked rapidly to show his surprise, his teacup frozen in his hand half-way to his mouth. He then glanced down at his shoes, not even realizing they’d been dirtied. “Incredible!” he exclaimed. “And how did you know I used to work as a butler?” The second part of the man’s job description was much more fascinating than being a chemist. “A consulting detective? Why, you’re just like that Sherlock Holmes chap!” And he couldn’t be more delighted.
"That one's easy. You called your former employer 'Mr. Stark' on the network, which suggests his status, and you also insinuated that he was an inventor. What sort of man would be working for a wealthy scientist from that era? Butler, obviously. Or a valet — but, given your otherwise neat appearance, prompt arrival, and keen observational skills, it's more likely butler." Sherlock grinned, his triumph only dampered somewhat by the fact that John wasn't here to react to all this. It was always more fun — and inspiring — to have him nearby for all his clever little quips. Sherlock was so caught up in trying to imagine what John would have said to all this that he nearly missed Edwin's comment.
Nearly.
"You've heard of me?" He asked, a little bewildered. How did he miss something like that? Stupid, stupid. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to observe where Edwin might have gotten that information from when he'd only just arrived.
Edwin sat a little taller in his seat, visibly pleased that these positive characteristics were noticeable, since this was what he prided himself with. His mood shifted to one of wonder when he realized what his neighbor suggested. “Do you mean to say you really are Sherlock Holmes?” He felt as though he was in the presence of a real star. “When my wife and I arrived, we were told there might be people whom we’d recognize from works of fiction, but I didn’t quite believe it. Of course I’ve heard of you! I read your books whilst growing up, and as an adult, listened to a radio show based upon your adventures! There was even a film series, the last of which came out… well… for me it was last year, but 1946. The actor who portrayed you, Basil Rathbone? Doesn’t look or sound a thing like you. Mrs Jarvis will be so pleased to meet you!
Oh. The fiction thing. Sherlock huffed a little bit, reaching for his tea again. He was vaguely aware of the fact that his life closely paralleled a detective from a popular work of fiction. Enough clients had expressed their surprise upon hearing his name, and he'd done a little research since then. That didn't mean he was okay with the fact that his life wasn't his own and someone else shared his face, so Sherlock ... ignored it. Pretty aggressively. He'd even tried deleting the information on a few occasions, though it was now evident that he would simply be reminded of it again.
"Yes. Well. I live with Dr. John Watson — who you're also familiar with, I imagine — and my brother Mycroft is here, too. He's on the Ravenmoore council." He sipped his tea, soothed by the fact that whoever had portrayed another version of him didn't bear any resemblance. That ... would be disturbing.
Edwin was nowhere as observant as Sherlock, but as it was mentioned, an ideal butler provides service without being asked, and for that Edwin had to notice behavior in any given circumstance, then anticipate what might be needed Sherlock’s huff told him without speaking that he’d made a faux pas. So, while internally was was excited to hear that Dr Watson and Mycroft were also present, he kept his relex to be excited about it tightly reigned until he was able to speak.
“Forgive me. In my excitement I’ve overstepped my bounds. It must be very discomforting to know that you’re considered works of fiction in some places, and I was being insensitive. Shall we move on to another topic?” For Edwin, that was the end of that conversation, it need never be brought up again. “You correctly observed that I’m concerned about my place in modern society, but it was hardly without a warning. In fact, it was the appeal of modern technology that attracted us to come to Preya. That, or the possibility of a magical miracle.”
Despite having only just deduced Edwin's immense skill as a butler, it still surprised Sherlock that anyone could be so in tune with his needs ... and actually care about respecting his boundaries. It was his turn to pause, cup of tea halfway to his mouth, staring at the man across from him with a look of surprise. He was grateful, then, for the change in topic, and visibly relaxed. "You couldn't have been sufficiently warned. It's a shock regardless." The mental leap was easy to make from there, and Sherlock didn't bother phrasing it like a question: "'Magical miracle' for your wife, you mean?"
“I suppose no matter how much or a warning is given, one never truly is braced for what they’ll actually experience. Then again, I believe Mrs Jarvis is already adapting better than I, despite how she hasn’t even left the flat yet. Then again,
Edwin’s posture stiffened momentarily, but he supposed that there was no use hiding anything from a man who could read you like a book. He’d already told Sherlock that Ana was recovering over the network, so he supposed it wasn’t that much of a stretch to deduce their reason for coming to Preya. “That is correct,” Edwin said, allowing himself to relax. “She unfortunately experienced complications during surgery. A… gunshot wound.” He frowned, remembering the incident as if it were yesterday. “The doctor told us that she wouldn’t be able to bear children.”
While Sherlock couldn't really wrap his brain around the desire to have children at this stage in his life, he could tell it was profoundly important to Edwin. "Have either of you considered adoption?" He didn't ask in an accusatory tone, merely one of pure curiosity. It made sense that the couple would agree to come to Preya for the promise of more advanced medical facilities, but assuming that didn't work in their favor, Sherlock wondered whether the two had any backup plans.
Not that he really had any idea how to help them himself. This ... wasn't the type of case he usually agreed to solve, though perhaps his work influenced his opinion on all this a bit. Sherlock had seen one too many families torn apart by vicious crimes that ultimately left children without their parents. They could use people like Edwin and Ana who had so much love to give, but then again, what did Sherlock know about any of this? Very little. He wished John was here to offer the appropriate balance of sympathy and medical expertise, but he wasn't.
“N-no... we haven’t,” Edwin replied, speaking a little nervously, feeling rather foolish for not exploring the option before making the decision to come to Preya. “The injury occurred recently, and we were both rather emotional. However, given our immigration statuses, I daresay it would’ve been difficult.” Although, now that he thought about it, his employer Howard Stark might’ve been persuaded to help - there were plenty of times when Mr Stark solved a problem by throwing enough money at it, he could’ve persuaded an adoption agency with a donation large enough to convince anybody. Feeling sheepish, his eyes lowered as he continued, “In hindsight, we might’ve been hasty in our decision to come here.” But he strengthened his resolve, looking back up at Sherlock, “But having made our decision, we’ll make the best of it.”
Sherlock relaxed, lounging back in his armchair with a contemplative look. "I wouldn't be too concerned. It's common for couples to exhaust every available opportunity to have biological children before turning to alternatives." He was familiar enough with the adoption process to know it was not only expensive, but also exclusionary to many perfectly acceptable parents.
He set his tea aside suddenly and steepled his fingers. It meant he'd made a decision, and it was unlikely he'd waver from it. "I've been here for several months already, Mr. Jarvis. If someone I know can't help you, John and I will however we can. There's really no point to this place if we don't."
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” Edwin said holding his head up high now. “I’ve already put in a few discreet inquiries, but nothing publicly on the network. It might cause embarrassment.” Speaking about such topics as a woman’s reproduction was not something you advertised for anybody to read.
"Sherlock, please. My brother is the only 'Mr. Holmes' you have to defer to here." He was privately amused by Edwin's prim and proper attitude, but kept a straight face. It was easy for him to fall into that old school way of thinking — particularly because his own family adhered to those rules, and he and Mycroft more or less did as well despite all their fighting. With that settled, however, Sherlock sat up and grinned, a glint in his eyes. "Hand over your phone. I'm going to show you how to use emojis."