milliways_bar | Entrance Post

Entrance Post

[Pre-Milliways: Baker Street 221B: The Good Doctor]

"I will stop by in the evening, I think," he said. "Half-past six or so, and I might stay for a bit of supper as well, if he is amenable." Giving Mrs. Hudson a reassuring smile, he picked up his bag, took his hat in one hand, and stepped out the door.

...into a pub. Which made not the slightest sense at all, in fact, and he should have liked to ask Mrs. Hudson just what she was about, decorating for Christmas in such a peculiar way, except that the door had closed behind him. Well, the establishment was full of (rather odd) patrons, and asking for directions back out onto the street should be simple enough.

It was at that moment that he caught sight of the observation window, and the literally earth-shattering event outside it. His medical bag thumped to the floor, falling from suddenly limp fingers, and he brought the other hand up to his chest, over his heart, still holding his hat. "Dear God in heaven."

Yes, welcome to Milliways, Dr. Watson.

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It was the sound of the bag striking the floor which first garnered April's attention, but it was the man's manner of dress which held it. She had just been on her way back to her perch in her booth from the restroom, and stopped to stare at him rather unabashedly. Of course, he was staring out the window, and likely hadn't noticed her standing there.

In fact, he had not. His attention was fairly well held by the destruction of several dying stars in sequence--had that been Cassiopea? Possibly.

Eventually he did feel that prickling across the back of his neck, the universal indicator of someone unabashedly watching you, and he glanced away from the window to notice April at last. Her manner of dress made him pause, but his good manners remained intact, at least. "Do forgive me, miss," he said after a moment, eyes flicking to the window and back yet again, something like revelation gleaming in the otherwise unremarkable brown of his eyes. "I...seem to have lost my way."

And British, too. April felt her heart turn over once distinctively in her chest.

"...it's Ms," she replied absently. "I'm- I'm sorry, I know this is going to sound really insane, but what year is it where you come from?" She shifted her weight restlessly from one foot to the other.

"...Ah." The question was so odd that he paused a moment to actually remember the date. Well, he could use the proximity of the new year as an excuse. "1889. December...23rd." He glanced about again, inexpressibly awkward, and a bit off-put by the implications of her question. "Shall I suppose I am not, in fact, going to be capable of simply stepping back out onto the street?"

April made a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat, her hand flying to cover her mouth. She was being both odd and horribly rude, but she could hardly help it.

"Are you from London?!" she blurted, blue eyes wide.

"Scotland...originally..." replied Watson, concern narrowing his eyes. She looked pale, almost shaking, her own eyes red, as if she had been weeping not long ago. "Please, do take a seat and rest a moment. You seem terribly unwell."

"But, you live in London now?" April asked, waving away his concern. "Thank you, but I'm fine. If you could please just tell me if you know Sherlock Holmes." She was suddenly desperate, and looked it.

"I..." He paused, taken aback. "Well, yes. Of course. Of course I do." Despite the surreal quality of the surroundings, the situation seemed familiar enough. Clients did every now and again come to him to reach Holmes, who often did appear unreachable.

No more objections, however, and he pressed her down into the nearest chair, hands gentle against her shoulders. "Have we met before?" he asked, removing his gloves, intending to take her pulse. "Forgive me, my memory is not what it should be." He gave her a warmly open smile, taking another glance over her features. Unfamiliar. "You seem to know already that I am Doctor John Watson."

April gasped, her eyes going wide. "Oh my God! Watson! You- you- Oh my God!" She seemed to be a rather confusing mixture of relieved, nervous, jubilant and awed, and didn't seem to have noticed that she'd been pushed into a chair.

There was a God, and he was merciful. Or maybe it was just the Landlord that was merciful. Or the Landlord was God. Whatever the case, April couldn't have been more happy to see someone, excepting perhaps the detective in question.

Watson stared back at her, more than a little bemused, pocketwatch forgotten in one hand. Perhaps she wasn't seriously ill, after all, but her nerves were plainly in shreds. Tucking his watch away again, he took hold of another chair, pulling it up in front of hers, and taking a seat. "Now," he said, quietly sincere, "perhaps you had best tell me what this is all about."

"Have you seen him?" April asked, watching Watson worriedly. "Was he very mad? Was he okay?" She paused, realizing that she most certainly be sounding like a lunatic. "I'm sorry," she apologized, swallowing hard. "I'm April. Sherlock's girlfriend."

He paused for a long moment, gazing at her, brow furrowing. The vernacular was certainly unfamiliar to him, and she must obviously be American, but beyond that...there was a strangeness about the whole matter that went far beyond her clothes, or her attitudes.

"Holmes has been to this place?" he said. First things first. "You have met him. You have..." The term she had used was unfamiliar, but the implication made him think her absolutely mad. "Before I can possibly answer your questions, I must know what sort of place this is. Did you meet him here? How did he come to be here, and how long?"

Did he not see how desperate she was for information? April could have shook him until his teeth rattled, had Watson been less unassuming and amiable. When the impulse passed, a thought occurred to her, and April sighed.

"He didn't tell you we'd be visiting on Christmas?" She bit against her bottom lip in frustration. "Of course he didn't," she muttered to herself. "He was probably hoping I'd change my mind about it," she pointed out with a knowing glance. "Well, and then we fought, and-" Rambling was quite clearly not doing a thing to convince the man in front of her that she wasn't a few crayons short of a box (She was, in fact, only missing the burnt sienna.), and so April's voice halted. Better to start over.

"Alright," April began again. "This is Milliways Bar." She made a sweeping gesture to the room around them. "It is, as unbelievable as it sounds, located at the end of the universe." She pointed to the observation window to support this, lest he think she was hallucinating. "Don't worry, we're safe in here. Yes, I have met Sherlock. Yes, he has been here before. Yes, it was where we met. The bar pulls people from different worlds, times and realities here. The best explanation I have for that is magic. I don't know how it's done. No one does. Me, I'm from New York in 1996. Sherlock has been coming here on and off for... I'd guess maybe two months. Am I going too fast for you?" The expression on Watson's face was starting to worry her.

Possibly because it was not so much of an expression, and more of a blank shock. "Yes, probably a bit, but perhaps we shall do better to have it all out quickly," he said at length, remembering to blink. Did the floor not feel so solid beneath him, he might immediately assume hallucinations. And yet there might be another pivotal point...

"Should I assume," he murmured, with some vague hope in his eyes, "that you are the mysterious Miss O'Neil?"

Mrs. Hudson had made something of an issue of a lady by that name, introduced as a distant cousin and staying at Baker Street for some short time. She had implied some indiscretion on Holmes' part, which Watson had been more likely to attribute to wistful imagination. He had rather thought the woman a client--one of Holmes' many cases left unexplained for the privacy or safety of the parties involved.

My God. She smiled. "I am," April replied, obviously quite pleased that he had heard of her, even had it been through Mrs. Hudson. "Although I don't know that I am as mysterious as all that." She paused, canting her head a bit. "Would you like a drink, maybe? I can go get you some scotch or a martini or something. I realize this is probably a lot to take in at once." Give her enough time, and her better sensabilities do typically kick in.

"You seem quite mysterious enough at the moment," Watson smiled, standing for a moment to shrug out of his overcoat and lay it across the table. "And I think brandy might be appreciated, at just this moment. Something bracing, in any case." He took his seat again, regarding her with a slightly more discerning eye. That Mrs. Hudson had been correct about such a thing--Holmes, actually attached to someone, to a woman--it was almost more incredible than the notion of a bar at the end of the universe.

April chuckled as she stood. "Am I? I thought I was really obvious all the time." After striding over to the bar, April returned a moment later carrying a brandy snifter, which she passed to Watson.

"Now," she continued, having sat again. "Could you please tell me if you've seen him?"

He took a swallow before answering, now rather worried over his own performance not half an hour ago, where Holmes was concerned. "I spoke to him," he sighed, setting down the glass and clasping his hands together against his knee. "Just now. He refused to open the door. He did promise to eat something this evening, however, which may be considered progress, in his case."

Leaning forward a bit, he tilted his head at April, his voice quiet. "You say you had a falling out?" Given Holmes' occasionally volatile personality, and her quite obvious spirit, he could hardly call himself startled.

"You could call it that, yes." You could also call it any number of other less mild terms. "But, I..." April hesitated, sighing. "I think I've made a mistake. I- I said the wrong thing, and-" She turned her bright blue eyes up to his. "You say he's not eating?"

Sighing, Watson lowered his head a bit, keeping exasperation from his expression and tones as best he could. "He does go into frequent black moods, Miss O'Neil--most often when he has no work, or nothing suitable to occupy his mind. At those times, Mrs. Hudson and myself engage in something of a struggle to keep him in reasonable health."

He paused. "You must...how long, has Holmes been visiting this place?" It must be longer, far longer than he had at first assumed, and the faintest twinge of hurt sparked just behind his breastbone.

"A couple of months, maybe. I'm not sure. Time gets... tangled here," April replied, thinking that the most astute description she could give. She noted a subtle shift behind Watson's eyes, not quite like regret but close, and she instinctively reached to place her palm against his forearm.

"You know him. Understand him far better than I do. So surely you understand why he's not been to see you. It isn't for lack of loving you, I assure you." Yes, she used the L-word. April thought it only appropriate to call a thing by its proper name.

Watson did not object to it, but possibly not for the same reason she had chosen to use it. Instead, he gave her a faintly sorrowful smile. "I admit, I was wondering instead why he did not tell me," he murmured. He looked from one side of the room to the other, the bar itself to the observation window beyond, and then softly shook his head. "He told me none of it. Not even of you."

She had hands like Mary's, delicate but capable. Easily enough, he could imagine her in the clothes familiar to his--what? To his world, to his time? Bewildering. She was not so classically beautiful as the formidable Irene Adler, but she possessed something just as arresting, a strength of soul in the unusually bright blue of her eyes.

"He feels you have replaced him, John. It's utterly insane, but that is the root of it. He hasn't told you anything because he can't bear being reminded of that. I had to force him to accept your invitation for Christmas dinner, and then he'd only consent to it when I agreed to go with him." April sighed, pushing her hair from her face. "But then we fought, and he pushed like he does, and I was an idiot."

She slumped in her seat, looking rather defeated for a short moment before a small spark of resolve lit behind her eyes. "I have to see him. I have to tell him I was wrong."

Watson was silent for a long moment, watching her with eyes unremarkable save the quiet humanity therein. "I know," he murmured. His lips curved. "I should never call myself so clever a man as he is, but after our many years as friends...I can read him well enough."

The truth of matter might be deeper, and far worse to discuss, but he loved his wife, and that truth was absolute.

"He can be impossible," he sighed, then chuckled faintly. "And yet shows these odd moments of humility and consideration." Taking up his glass again, he shook his head. "He is all contradiction." His lips curved a bit more, just a little wry. "He never did agree to come for Christmas."

"I have to see him," April repeated, sitting back up again. "Have you tried the door?" she asked, motioning in the direction which he had arrived from. She was given to worry as it was, but the longer she thought on the information he had given her, the worse it became. It did not help to know that it was her fault entirely.

"The door?" Watson repeated blankly, then raised both eyebrows in realization. "Of course, the door. No, I hadn't yet..." He rose to his feet, straightening up, automatically offering her his hand.

"But wait. At the moment it leads quite out onto the street." They would create something of a stir, he imagined, at such a busy hour of the day. "It will open as I left it, I pray?" he added suddenly, having not quite thought to worry about that yet.

"I really don't know. It does, for me. But I can't tell you if it's that way for everyone." April accepted his hand, rising from her seat. While she could appreciate his concern for propriety, she was beginning to grow impatient. She could really give a toss about what people thought for the moment she happened to be visible on the street. Granted, it might have been a good idea for her to grab a jacket at least, seeing as how she was wearing a tank top, but just then, she was singularly focused.

You did not keep her from the people she loved when they needed her. Circumstances be damned.

One glance at her eyes, and he could see just that. Mary had that look now and then, if more subtly, and he had learned quite well to simply make way, and worry about tidying up the consequences afterward.

"Here," he said, "put on my coat, at least." He took it up and draped it over her shoulders, indicating that she should button up the front.

Should she be capable of reaching Holmes when he could not, he would be moderately astounded. Then grateful. And then, perhaps, reassured.

"Well, sir, I do not think that is entirely accurate. I think heaven may have already exploded. Or imploded."

Raven blinks.

"I remain uncertain."

Watson jumps, but just a bit, and gives the man a considering glance. "Uncertain," he repeats. "That is just the word for it, yes." Just the word, just the sentiment, and perhaps just the feeling, as well. "I don't suppose you might direct me back to Baker Street?" he tries, with a little rueful smile.

Raven blinks.

"If you tell me which world you came from, perhaps."

He tilts his head, oddly birdlike.

"Additionally, I think, you might try the door again. If you can see it. And if it opens. Sometimes it is capricious, perhaps."

Perplexed by this bit of strangeness, Watson makes on attempt at speaking, then hesitates, then tries again. "I do see the door," he confirms, with a glance over one shoulder. And since it may be the most important question of all... "What is this place?"

"Exits are comforting, perhaps."

He smiles.

"This is Milliways, the bar at the end of the universe. As I think, perhaps, you saw for yourself when you looked out the window. It is a pretty view, I think."

He tilts his head in the opposite direction, watching Watson carefully.

"They call me Raven."

"Well," says Watson, which is incidentally the first thing that comes to mind. "Yes...marvelous view." Which is the second thing, and surely more heartfelt than the first.

Belatedly, he holds out a hand. "John Watson," he says, "medical doctor."

Perhaps he may be dreaming, or hallucinating. But he has shown no symptoms of any disorders, nervous or otherwise, and this place feels quite solid beneath his feet.

Holmes will never believe him. Shoddy impirical evidence, no doubt, but this does feel real.

"It is very interesting, yes." Though one might note that Raven does not actually look out the window himself.

He takes Watson's hand, briefly.

"I hope we prove well met, yes. So."

He tilts his head.

"You have questions, perhaps? There are rules here. It might be safest to know them."

"Oh, yes." Blinking a moment, Watson leans down and picks up his bag, setting it atop the nearest table, then taking a seat. "By all means, of course. Are you the owner of the establishment?"

Raven laughs.

"Hardly that, I do not think. No one has ever seen the Landlord. It is possible he does not exist."

Raven shrugs.

"Bernard is the Head Barman, and he is the closest thing we have I think. I like him. So. Rules."

He tilts his head, again.

"There is no business in the bar, no sex, and no violence. Should you be Bound and unable to return home, you may run up a tab, and obtain a room. Bar is sentient, so you need not wait for someone to supply you with food and beverages, or whatever else you desire."

He blinks.

"It is better to pay, I think, if you have money. I do not know."

"Sentient?" Watson repeats, eyes widening. "It understands, with its own intelligence? Just marvelous. Extraordinary." He chuckles just a bit, plainly amazed. Surely he had never dreamed of anything so wonderful as this. If he were in fact dreaming it, he intended to experience it to the fullest.

Raven nods.

"So far as I understand, yes. It is an interesting thing, I think."

He blinks.

"It is customary, here, to buy a newcomer a drink. I can oblige, if you choose."

"I would hardly deny you," Watson replies, his smile still a little bemused, but genuine nonetheless. "Brandy, if you please." Hopefully Mary wouldn't be too disappointed with him, drinking before so much as arriving home, but this could surely be counted as a special occasion.

Raven wrinkles his nose, slightly, then smiles.

"It will be a moment, perhaps."

He heads toward the bar, and returns fairly quickly with a snifter of brandy, a glass of milk, and a plate of cookies. Amazingly, nothing spills.

He settles himself down at the table, and passes the brandy to Watson.

"I find cookies very comforting. So."

He shrugs, and takes one. It disappears remarkably quickly.

"I see." Watson accepts the glass with a grateful nod, taking a swallow. Excellent.

Settling back a bit into the chair, he raised an eyebrow at Raven, curious. "Should I ask about your line of work? Or do such things apply, here?" Perhaps that question would fall under the rule of no business.

"I have always thought it is mostly that outisde business between patrons is not allowed. Though I think it also covers things like tempting, and answering prayers, and so forth. I am not entirely certain. Discussion is permitted, though. So."

He blinks.

"They call me Raven, who sets things right. I create worlds. I set rules. I teach. I also like bunny slippers. And cookies. It is an addiction, perhaps."

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