A/N. This is dedicated to my brother, and it is based his description of his first flashback when he returned from Iraq. He is leaving for Kuwait very soon and keeping him in your prayers would be appreciated. The hymn is 'How Firm a Foundation', and it is probably one of the most beautiful songs I've heard.
It was a gloriously boring Sunday morning on Baker Street. The bow window was left open, allowing both the blissful breeze of an almost autumn and the bustling sounds of London to drift into the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had gone to church, leaving the boys to idly wait for the normal luncheon crowd to dissipate before they could scavenge for their own food. The last case finished neatly before the weekend, and there was promise of another before the next week was out, which had both Holmes and Watson unworried.
Holmes stretched languidly as he finished another Japanese number puzzle. Watson extinguished a cigarette as he finished organizing some of the newer case files and stood to look out the window. Somewhere a child laughed. The day couldn't be more pleasant.
Except for that irritating little fly that was buzzing around somewhere in the room. Both Holmes and Watson looked up and started looking for the beast. Watson make emphatic shooing gestures in hopes of propelling the fly out the window.
Holmes swiveled his head around a bit before concentrating on a spot two inches above the coffee table. With a maniacal grin, he raised his puzzle book high in the air like a meat cleaver and brought it crashing down on the insect. Somehow, the resulting sound of the book slamming onto the table was only a half-step from a gunshot, and it was the last thing Watson was expecting.
In an instant he could smell it. The dry, sharp Maiwand sand that the ruthless wind had constantly forced him to inhale came flooding back into his mind. He could smell the horses and the gunpowder and the reek of sweat and, most potently, blood. From the back of his mind, Watson almost thought he heard a man scream in pain.
His muscle memory decided to react to the smell. Watson's knees crouched quickly as Watson's hands flew to the places were a gun holster and a field medical kit were meant to be. Instead of a hip revolver, his one hand found only a hip. The other hand had picked up the first thing it could grasp, which happened to be… an inkwell.
The inkwell came from a desk, which was in a sitting room, overlooking Baker Street, in London, not Afghanistan. It took Watson a moment to get his mind back to the right location. He put down the inkwell, and his hand automatically drifted to his shoulder, futilely trying to rub out the memory. It had been a long time since the war had haunted him so suddenly and intensely. The last five seconds counted among his more distressing episodes.
"Are you all right, dear fellow?" Watson looked to see his friend cleaning off the remains of the fly from his puzzle book. Holmes wore a concerned expression aimed directly at him.
"It's nothing, Holmes. Just a bit startled," said Watson in an attempt to be nonchalant. He hurried to his room, mumbling something about lunch and a better coat.
Holmes sighed. He'd seen the haunted eyes; the way Watson had rubbed his hurt shoulder. War must be quite a horror to put pain in such a soul as his. A man is strong if he bears his own demons, but soldiers bear the sorrow of hundreds of unmerciful ghosts who latched unbidden onto the survivors as they left the battlefield.
Putting down the book, Holmes strode to his violin. Watson had no intention of speaking his pain today, but the words, and hopefully healing, would come in time. At the moment, Holmes offered what solace he could hope to give. Taking one of the few hymns from his repertoire, Holmes closed his eyes and let the Stradivarius sing. The pure, plaintive wail poured into the entire building, drawing mourning into the open like poison from a wound.
The meaning of the American hymn's lyrics had escaped Holmes' understanding for a time, but he grew to recognize how its message of 'leaning on Jesus for repose' was a great comfort for the hurting. The song neared its end as Holmes reflected on the poignant last line. 'That soul, though all Hell should endeavor to shake, I'll never, no never, no never forsake.'
Holmes came dangerously close to praying his friend would understand the meaning of the gesture. The noise from outside the window had lulled. A peaceful walk would be beneficial for them both. Holmes turned to see Watson standing in the doorway, hastily rubbing what must be dust from his eye before suggesting Simpson's for lunch.
Sometimes God even answers the prayers of men too proud to ask.