The Good Doctor

If heaven exists and Watson is, by some miracle, able to get there, then this is surely what it must look like. More than anything he wants to explore the bookshop; to run his hands over each title, to find out what ancient and wonderful texts Azira has stored here. Oh, he had a library as a boy of course, or at least his father’s house did, but this is different. Here there is no looming drunken presence ready to hit him for being too loud or moving the wrong book. Nor is there a portrait of his dead mother, lovely though it was, to remind him of everything he’s been robbed of. How many hours could he spend here? How many days? There is an itch deep in his soul that makes him want to take as many books as he can and read until his eyes go blind with the effort of it, but he doesn’t. 

Watson is no fool, and he’s already observed how particular Azira is about his books. This may be a bookshop, but nothing here is meant to be moved or bought. Instead Watson forces himself to be content with simply craning his neck around and memorising as many titles as possible so that he might enquire about them later. He even sees a small pamphlet on Calvinism and chuckles to himself ruefully. 

As beautiful as the books lining the walls (and the floor, and just about every other space) are, they are nothing compared to their owner. As soon as Az hops into the seat across from him, Watson feels his breath catch in a way that has nothing to do with the unpleasant rattling in his chest. Lord. Lord, what did he do to deserve this? How can he possibly deserve to be this lucky? Even with Azira’s mock seriousness, Watson cannot help a gentle laugh falling from his own lips, though he attempts to quell the coughing that threatens to follow it. 

@conductedlight

“That is so not true!” Hopping on one foot with a toothbrush halfway out of her mouth, Hermia manages to pull on her boot, and resumes to brushing her teeth while her phone lies peacefully on her desk with the speakerphone on. “He actually thinks you’re a catch.” The words tumble out in-between paste and teeth, and she has to quickly run to her private bathroom and spit so she won’t miss any possible retorts from the young man on the other end of the line.

With her teeth done, she grabs her phone and leans it against the mirror in the bathroom, where she attacks her eyes. Hermia isn’t a fan of makeup, not on herself anyway. It’s not that it doesn’t look good, it just looks wrong, like it’s this estranged friend you’ve invited over for a BBQ and the two of you are growing apart and it’s starting to be really obvious, but you don’t really mind them as a person, you’re just in different places in your life. That. That’s how Hermia feels about makeup. Regardless, she smears on liquid eyeliner and follows it up with chunks of mascara, all a sort of disguise. Maybe ‘ her kind ‘ comes in all kinds of different shapes and sizes, but she knows what people expects, so she knows how to avoid it. Even if that’s what feels natural and right.

“Alright, I hear your car, be right out. Don’t be alarmed, I’m wearing makeup, it’s all for a good cause. Mwah,” she kisses into the phone, “see ya,” and hangs up. With a last glance in the mirror – she hates what she sees, which means that her dad will love it – she grabs her phone and purse and heads downstairs, where her dad awaits her date with as much excitement as Hermia ( she might not be dating John, but he’s a pretty awesome friend, not to mention a very talented beard, so she does enjoy hanging out with him ).

“Patera,” she greets her father mock-formally, and leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “That will be John. Don’t wait up!” She goes for the door at the same time as it is opened from the outside, and she knows her dad catches a glimpse of John as she slips out of the door. To him, she says: “It sounds like your car is giving up on life. You sure it’s safe to even sit in it?”

“Only because he knows nothing about me, I’m only a catch as long as I’m an enigma.” The words are completely true, but there’s more humour behind them than any genuine regret. Junior doctor he may be, but he’s also poor as shit, and massively gay. Still, as long as Hermia’s dad sees him as a respectable public school sort that’s all that really matters. He flicks the indicator on his car and smiles at the phone resting on the dashboard. 

It’s not that he needs a beard, exactly, his father is dead after all, and yet...gossip. Gossip spreads quickly in his old social circles. He doesn’t really like the idea of his old school “chums” and distant relatives sitting around discussing how he’s the family queer now. So he dates Hermia, or pretends to, and both of them are the better for it. Well, for the most part anyway. Her dad absolutely terrifies him, and he dreads to think what he’d do if he figured out the truth about his daughter’s lovely heterosexual boyfriend. Once upon a time it wouldn’t have mattered, what with John’s rugby training and all, but the crash had rather put an end to that; he rubs his damaged shoulder absentmindedly and frowned before pushing the thought away for a happier one. 

Makeup. Christ. “I have baby wipes in the car,” he laughs. It’s like they’re living in some kind of fucked up play. A pantomime, painting themselves in face paint to fool the audience. Look out Mr Gavras , it’s behind you. Hermia hangs up and once again gentle guitar music fills the car. It’s one of those bands where John has no fucking clue what they’re on about, but they’re still nice to listen to as long as you don’t try and think about it. As always the houses lining Hermia’s street draw a low whistle from his lips. They’re not that extravagant, but compared to his shitty shared flat this might as well be the fucking Balmoral. 

Apollo, that is of course the obvious comparison to draw. Certainly he has the beautiful gold ringlets and stunning blue eyes that one associates with that God. Watson scribbles the name into his poem only to scratch it out a moment later. It doesn’t feel right, God of light as Apollo may have been, the image still doesn’t do justice to the breath taking beauty of Watson’s muse. If an angel appeared to him this very moment, it’s beauty would have be insignificant compared to that of Az. Oh, now that isn’t an entirely terrible sentiment; he scribbles it down before turning his attention once again to Greek gods. 

Perhaps he is going about this all wrong, and he ought to draw his comparisons elsewhere. Aphrodite is the name that keeps springing to the forefront of his mind. What better way to express Az’s beauty than to compare him to the very Goddess of love and beauty herself? The only issue is the rather notable fact of Aphrodite being a woman. While he doubts Az would be offended by the comparison, Watson still finds his pen hovering uncertainly above the page. Can he do this, or is a line that he is never intended to cross? Then again, the very fact that he is writing this poem is an offence in the eyes of the law, and most others no doubt. In for a penny, in for a pound, or so they say. He writes the name.

It is then that he hears a light footfall behind him and glances quickly over his shoulder. As always, his breath catches in his throat and his heart just about stops for a few seconds. Az, making his way over, towards him of all people. Watson isn’t really one to believe in divine blessings, but if there was ever an occasion...