The Adventure of the Second Scarlet Stain
by Taz (aka quisp)

My name is Johanna Watson. It may seem inapt to begin an account of the career of my dearest friend and colleague, Sofia Holmes, by relating certain incidents of my own history, yet in the natural course of events it is unlikely that that we would have met had I not chosen to become a doctor.

I was born the youngest child and only daughter of James Watson, a lawyer, and his wife, Elizabeth. As I was preceded into the world by three healthy brothers, Albert Victor, Theodore, and Jonathan, my parents expressed no disappointment at my sex. On the contrary, it sealed their happiness and the four of us grew up healthy and happy. My parents both came from large well established families. There was no doubt that my brothers were intended to follow professional careers, or that, in the course of time, I would marry and raise a family of my own.

So things might have developed had my mother's own youngest brother, an army officer, not died of fever in the Crimea. Revelations of the horrific conditions then obtaining in our military hospitals were the scandal of the time and, caused both of my parents to become fervent supporters of the work of Miss Florence Nightingale.

It happened that I attended a lecture with my mother on the foundation of the first nursing school in the north of England. There, I met and became inspired by Miss Nightingale's American friend, Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell. The idea that a woman could peruse a career in medicine acted like a bombshell on my mind.

To the great amusement, and condescension, of my family, I announced my intention of becoming a doctor.

At seventeen I had received never any check to my pride and persisted in making plans. When I said I would follow in Dr. Blackwell's footsteps by applying to Medical School. My father became furious. For the first time in my life, he forbad me to mention the subject.

That evening, in private, my mother took it upon herself to apologize him, explaining that Albert Victor had recently cost them some money – a great deal of money – and, as a result, my brother Theo would not be going back to Oxford, but would be reading law in my father's office, and that Jonathan was going into the army. In the sweetest way, she explained that this would have no effect on my future; my portion was secure; both she, and my father, fondly expected me to marry my cousin Francis Albert. I did not appreciate fully the implications of what she was saying at the time, I only knew that a future which had opened so brightly before me had closed; it might have stayed, but for my father's older brother.

Uncle Robert was a physician with a thriving London practice. I don't recall that he paid any particular attention to us as children; he was a confirmed bachelor, and somewhat estranged from the family. That year, shortly after my eighteenth birthday, it happened that he attended a Christmas gathering at my grandparent's home. For some reason over dinner my father chose to poke what he considered gentle fun at my ambitions, to the general amusement.

After listening to the banter, and perhaps observing my flushed cheeks, Uncle Robert entered the lists, stating that it was a sin for a girl of my intelligence to be denied an education because of mere social prejudice (which is what he believed my parent's objections boiled down to). To everyone's further surprise, he buttressed his opinion by offering to pay outright for my education, and to provide support during my studies. I accepted on the spot.

This act of rebellion caused such uproar at the table that my father ordered me from the room. While I was upstairs, crying into my pillow, my father informed my uncle that he was an interfering busybody, whom he would thank him for minding his own business. My grandparents were scandalized. My mother took to her bed for a week.

In the end, though, my parents were unable to withstand the force of his pocketbook. My father's parting shot, as he retired behind his newspaper, was that I was an unnatural daughter and, if I insisted in my course, and died an old maid as a result, I could blame Uncle Robert.

I will not bore you with the trials that I endured in the course of obtaining my degree; the intolerance shown to female physicians is well known. Suffice it to say, I qualified with honors, and the following spring, I moved to London and joined Uncle Robert in his practice.

It was the pragmatic thing to do; in addition to being obligated by kindness, my uncle was growing older and had no son to leave a lucrative practice. Furthermore, his office was located near Soho, a part of London known for its theaters and music halls. I considered the bohemian nature of the residents would be more readily disposed to accept a female physician.

So, for the most part, it proved.

A passage of some few years brings me to my present narrative.

It had been a cold, rainy December; a busy day for all kinds of colds and sniffles. Uncle Robert had gone home, but I had a dinner engagement that evening and was occupying the time until then by writing up my notes on the day's cases. I was considering lighting the gas, when our nurse-receptionist, entered to say that a young woman had come in, asking to see Uncle Robert.

"Says it's a matter of some urgency, Miss." Mary gave a disapproving sniff at the impertinence. "She's in the surgery."

I suppressed a sigh, and said that I would attend her.

My prospective patient was pacing back and forth as I entered and turned abruptly.

"Where's Dr. Watson," she said. "I need to see 'im. I tol' the other nurse."

"I'm Dr. Watson," I said. "I will be happy to assist you, but my uncle has left for the day."

Upon hearing that, she cried, "Oh, my God! No!"

I had become used to a certain amount of surprise, and occasional consternation, upon introducing myself, but never experienced such a pronounced reaction before. She dashed past me out the door and I was still staring after her, when Mary popped her head in the room.

"What on earth—?"

"I've no idea," I said. "I told her Dr. Robert had gone for the day, and she ran out."

"Well, she dropped her reticule on the way. I'm off now before we get another one." Mary was tying her bonnet ribbons. "I put on your desk, in case you're still here and she comes back for it."

"I'll see you tomorrow," said I, and went back to my desk.

As Mary had said, the reticule was there. The tiny bag was only a scrap of black satin trimmed with lace. It reeked of sweet perfume. As I was going to have to wash my hands anyway, I couldn't resist looking inside to see if it contained some clue to my visitor's identity.

I opened it and poured out five pennies, a small mirror, with a pot metal frame, a broken comb, a tin of French rouge, a papier-mâché etui, and a pen. None of these things gave me a clue as to their owner's identity and, of course, there was no visiting card.

I returned all the items them to the bag. As I dropped the pen inside, I saw that my fingers were stained a dull crimson! Blood. It was my first thought. A sniff of my fingers confirmed it.

At this time Stamford arrived.

We had arranged to dine at the Royale that evening and, as he had a cab waiting, I hurried to wash my hands and gather my things. I don't know what prompted me, but I scooped the little black bag into my own handbag.

Gregory Stamford had been one of the few of my fellow medical students who had honestly befriended me. The only son of a non-conformist minister, he had stayed on at Saint Bartholomew's after graduating and we had kept in touch, seeing each other occasionally.

"I have some news," he said, over the fish.

There was a fine blush on his cheeks.

"You are in love," I said.

"I am."

"Oh, my dear, I am so happy for you! When is the wedding?"

"I…Oh, Johanna," he said. "I've only just me her."

I couldn't help laughing. "Sending your cart to market before your horse again?"

"This time, I hope not."

"She must be exceptional," I said. "Tell me her name."

"Sophia. And like her name, she is wise. You know I only fall in love with brilliant women." As he spoke, he placed his hand over mine. "It is my one weakness."

I ignored a tiny pang near my heart. I would not be made to feel guilty. Of the myriad causes for pain in this world, the worst is to pretend love where none is felt. In an attempt to distract us both from futile regret, I told him of my surprising visitor and the blood I had on the pen.

"It may be silly for me to worry, but I can't help feeling that she is in trouble." I found myself remembering her face. "She was no more than a child."

"And you would like to help her," Stamford said.

That Stamford never dismissed my feelings out of hand was one reason that I still harbored regret at not being able to return his feelings for me.

"I have no idea how to find her."

"As to that," Stamford said, suddenly smiling, "I know someone who may be able to. Would you care to walk around to Great Russell Street after dinner?"

Great Russell Street being but a short distance, I expressed myself willing, and after dinner we did so.

The general attraction of that neighborhood is, of course, the British Museum. To my surprise our destination was an annex of that institution. This was a mansion a block away that appeared to house administrative offices. Although it was late when we entered, there was a clerk still at his post in the reception hall.

Gregory had written a note, which he handed to the attendant, with one of his cards, asking that they be conveyed to Miss Holmes.

The attendant vanished, but returned shortly to conduct us up the stairs and down a long hall that was lined entirely with glass-front cases. All of the cases were crammed with books, man-made artifacts and fascinating objects of nature. At the end of the hall, he opened a door that admitted us to a room that had been furnished as a laboratory.

The walls of the room here, too, were lined with cases, but in the middle was a long bench fitted with a sink and a frame to support chemical apparatus. At the far end of bench was a stool with a young woman perched upon it.

She was peering through an ebony handled magnifying glass, at what looked to be an ancient map that was spread out before her.

As we approached, she held up her hand, forbidding us to come closer, and she continued staring through the glass. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the Sophia to whom Gregory had been alluding.

Her person, I will pause to say, was such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. She'd a heart shaped face. Her hair, thick and dark, was secured at the back in a neat bun at the back. In height she might have been somewhat shorter than myself, with a natural slenderness that was accentuated by a tight fitting drop-waist of dark blue. This garment was buttoned from her throat to her hips. Decorative braiding gave it a military appearance that was relieved only by a fall of lace at her throat. This, at time when a lady's garments were embellished with frou-frous and furbelows to the point of absurdity, was unusual. I did not recognize it as a forerunner of the clothing reform movement. I was simply envious.

Even as I noted these things, I found myself caught up by the intensity of her concentration. At last, when she set the instrument down and sighed, I did as well, in sympathy.

"It is a forgery," she said, as though speaking to herself. "Dr. Phillips will be most unhappy when I inform him that he has been taken advantage of."

I could not resist asking, "How can you tell?"

"Oh!" At the sound of my voice, she seemed to wake to our presence, and pulled a sheet of blotting paper over the map. "Stamford! How nice to see you."

"Sophia," he said. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."

"I could not resist such an intriguing note."

"I was hoping you would feel that way," Stamford said. "Allow me to introduce my dear friend Johanna Watson. She has a problem that may be of interest you. Miss Watson, Miss Sophia Holmes."

"I'm very pleased to meet you," I said, as she stood. She took the hand I offered her in a surprisingly strong grip.

"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," said she.

TBC