A/N: This is my first multi-chapter offering. Thanks to KCS and Pompey for all their encouragement!
The year 1894 was a momentous time in the career of my friend Sherlock Holmes and, by association, for me. It was a year of many unusual and unexpected happenings. First and foremost, of course, was Holmes' miraculous return from the dead. Never in a thousand years would I have expected such a thing, familiar though I was with his powers of deception and flair for the dramatic, and the shock I felt upon seeing him again was echoed by many others.
As soon as the word got out, congratulatory telegrams and letters, along with requests for his aid, began to arrive each day, until soon the carpet of the sitting room was covered in a veritable snowfall of paper.
All of London, and indeed, most of England, rang for weeks with news of the return of Sherlock Holmes. The adoring public was so enamored of this occurrence that they clamored for news of his doings, and our flat in Baker Street was besieged with any number of eager and industrious reporters, who diligently attempted to interview any and all passersby.
I soon found myself accosted on the streets by myriad representatives of the press, all plying me with requests for an interview, which I, of course, refused. Not to be deterred, the reporters turned to other means, and presently the morning and evening papers featured exclusive interviews with such illustrious and knowledgeable persons as our milkman, the greengrocer from down the street, and the woman who helped Mrs. Hudson with the laundry.
For the most part, our neighbours on Baker Street tolerated this invasion of their privacy, but after being forced to push their way through throngs of people every time they left their homes and businesses, they began to rise up en masse and revolt against their mistreatment. Holmes found himself besieged by both our neighbours and reporters, all calling for satisfaction.
For years he had steadfastly refused to be interviewed by any of the papers, preferring instead to let all acclaim for his solved cases go to the official representatives of Scotland Yard. But when our long-suffering landlady was very nearly trampled underfoot by a veritable army of pencil-waving reporters when she attempted to leave the house, he felt that matters had come to a head and must be addressed.
As such, Holmes agreed to give a short interview to The Times, in an effort to both belay the public's unending curiosity, and to persuade the reporters to leave us in peace once more. This had greatly surprised me; his previous habitual reticence would have made the very idea of speaking with reporters inconceivable. But Holmes had changed in many ways during his absence; just how much was brought home forcefully to me that autumn.
Some weeks after the completion of the affair at Camden House, I had, at Holmes' request, sold my practice and returned to live at Baker Street. I had, however, decided to continue to serve as locum for several physicians, including Anstruther, my former neighbor in Kensington. Though I missed many of my old patients and the routine of having my own practice, it had been no difficult decision to make. The house in Kensington held too many memories of my recently-deceased wife, and I found it painful to continue to live there alone. Even before Holmes' return I had contemplated selling the practice, and even possibly leaving London to start out again on my own. Holmes' return made this option unnecessary, and I was quite glad to be back in my old bachelor digs once again.
Mrs. Hudson, too, was delighted to have us both back, and in the ensuing weeks the three of us began to settle into a comfortable and familiar routine. The atmosphere in Baker Street felt much as it had years earlier, before my marriage and departure. Indeed, it felt at times as if the ensuing years since Holmes' disappearance had never happened.
As a result of the many requests for help Sherlock Holmes received during the first months after his return, we had begun to be extremely busy. It was a rare morning that less than five such requests arrived in the morning post, and we found ourselves in the unaccustomed position of having to turn down cases. The cases we were able to accept ranged in importance from petty burglaries to affairs of national importance, and often obliged us to travel to all parts of England, and occasionally, the continent.
In addition to the cresting wave of problems brought to our joint attention, that summer also brought about an unusual opportunity for me personally.
I had gone to St. Bart's one morning in early August to fulfill my duties as locum, leaving Holmes to tackle his interview alone, a task which he was very much dreading, and which would have been quite entertaining for me to witness. As such, I'm certain that Holmes was relieved that I was busy and would not be present.
I proceeded through my morning rounds in short order. After writing up the cases I had seen and intervening in a small incident between two patients who desperately needed separate rooms, I was preparing to continue my afternoon rounds, when I happened upon a former colleague of mine, Dr. Oliver Sykes. I had not seen the man in many years, and my surprise at seeing him at the hospital was compounded when he informed me that he had actually been looking for me.
"Looking for me?" I asked. "Whatever for? And how did you even know I'd be here today?" Dr. Sykes was a large man, quite tall, with big square hands, a florid face, and an imposing manner which made him seem quite intimidating. I found myself in the slightly awkward position of having to crane my neck uncomfortably in order to look up at him as we chatted in the halls.
"I'd heard that you were working here. I have been asking after you for the last few days, and was told that this was your usual day to do rounds. I have a proposition for you, Watson, which would be of great service to me and of great benefit to you," he answered, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
"I am most intrigued! What do you have in mind?" My curiosity was greatly aroused, but I still had several patients to see before my day was finished. Dr. Sykes and I decided to meet at a nearby pub to discuss this proposition after I had completed my rounds.
The rest of my day passed uneventfully and I arrived at the pub at the appointed time to find Sykes already there, sitting in a quiet corner and sipping at a mug of ale. Giving the barkeep my order, I sat down across from him to hear what he proposed.
"Now, Sykes, why exactly were you looking for me, and what did you have in mind?" I confess that I was completely at a loss as to why he would even think of me for whatever he had in mind, as we had not been particularly friendly in school. Dr. Sykes had been two years ahead of me in classes, large and gruff even then, and had been one of those students who tended to look down upon anyone younger, and in less favorable financial situation, than they. All that seemed to be forgotten now.
"Watson," he began, puffing out his chest self-importantly, "You may not have heard, but I am now an instructor at Netley. I've been there just over four years, and recently have been asked to organize a new course on battlefield surgery techniques."
I had in fact known of Dr. Sykes's appointment at Netley, having read of it in the papers, but forbore to mention this and merely nodded in understanding and waited for him to continue.
"Well, this is to be a course where students will learn what injuries to expect on the battlefield, and how best to treat those injuries under fire, so to speak. It is to be a series of lectures, actually, with visiting lecturers who will speak in their own areas of expertise. And this is where you come in, Watson. I want you to lead the lectures series."
I felt my jaw drop open as I stared at him in disbelief. But he cut me off with a wave of his large hands as he went on.
"I know you were a field surgeon during the Afghan War," he elaborated. "I heard what happened to you at Maiwand and during the retreat to Kandahar. Who better to speak on battlefield first aid and surgery techniques than a man who has actually experienced such techniques, not only as a surgeon providing care to wounded men, but also as a wounded man on the receiving end of said techniques?" He leaned back in his chair to gauge my reaction.
I confess to my complete and utter surprise at his words. Whatever I had expected that he wanted from me, this proposal was certainly not it. I was completely dumbfounded, and found myself struggling to form a coherent thought, much less clear words.
Though I had considered applying for a position at Netley after my return from Afghanistan, such an idea had been negated at first by my uncertain health and the fact that the Army had forbidden me to seek work during my recovery leave. Later, I found myself firmly entrenched in Baker Street and in my work with Sherlock Holmes. After my marriage, I was completely fulfilled with my general practice, and at this point, after all these years, all thoughts of Netley had long since left my consciousness.
"Well,.. I… er," I stammered in surprise, as a huge grin formed on my companion's large red face. He continued to watch me in anticipation, as I fumbled for words to convey my thoughts.
"But," I said confusedly. "Why me? I have no teaching experience; and Afghanistan was a very long time ago. I am just a general practitioner now, and very rarely do surgery. Surely there are many doctors who would be better suited to lead such a course."
Evidently Dr. Sykes had expected such an argument for he sat forward again, gesturing excitedly with his arms as he spelled out his reasoning.
"Yes, yes, I know that you were wounded out relatively early in your career, you've never taught a course, and that you have been doing general family practice for many years now" he said. "But, Maiwand and the ensuing retreat was one of the greatest military failures our nation has ever experienced. More men actually died during the retreat than in the battle itself. As one of only a handful of survivors," - here he managed to completely disregard my wince of discomfort before ploughing on - "you have a unique perspective on what happened and what went wrong. This could be a tremendous learning opportunity for our students. Don't you see; you are the perfect man for the job."
I continued to shake my head in disbelief. "But I have my work here. What about my patients? And the hospital? I couldn't possibly teach a course at Netley and maintain my work here!" My thoughts were even more disjointed than my words. Am I even capable of doing this? What horrors would it bring back? My war-induced nightmares had decreased over time, but Maiwand continued to haunt me these many years later. Teaching a course based on my experiences in Afghanistan could only serve to re-open the floodgates of memories that I had long buried and attempted to forget.
Yet, even as I rejected the idea, I could well see Sykes' point about the best instructor for a class on field surgery and battlefield injuries being a man who had experienced those things first hand. It made perfect sense. And I had to admit that I'd often wished I could share my experiences with the next generation of field surgeons, seeing how unprepared I myself had been in those early days for the realities of battlefield medical care.
A tiny seed of desire to accept the position began to grow in my heart. This could be an opportunity beyond my wildest dreams and expectations. It could be a turning point in the rest of my life.
"You would have to live on the grounds at Netley, for at least the first nine weeks of the course," Dr. Sykes interjected, interrupting my swirling thoughts. "If you'd prefer it, you could be in charge of the first half of term, up until fall break, and we could get someone else to take over the second half. I did have a few other fellows to speak to, in case you refused the position," he said a trifle condescendingly, implying that he'd known full well that I'd have objections.
I bristled a little at this, and so perhaps spoke more forcefully that was my usual wont. "Dr. Sykes, in addition to my medical work, I am also partner to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. I assume you've heard of him?"
"Yes, I've heard of Mr. Holmes, and I was aware that you had worked with him in the past. In fact, I've been reading quite a bit about Mr. Holmes these last few months, since he returned from – Switzerland, was it? He'd been gone for some time I understand, and you, along with the rest of the world, presumed him dead." Sykes met my eyes shrewdly at this, and an inkling of his actual agenda reached me.
Aha, so this job offer was just another excuse to gain information about Holmes and his doings. Perhaps he thought that I, as a known close colleague of Sherlock Holmes, would increase enrollment somehow. I sighed wearily, and was preparing to speak when Sykes cut me off.
"Now, Watson, this is not an attempt to spy on Mr. Holmes. We really want you to lead this course. The fact that your name is known as companion to Mr. Sherlock Holmes is rather an unexpected bonus." He raised his hand to forestall my objections as I again opened my mouth to speak.
"You are a well-known man because of your association with Mr. Holmes, Watson. But you are also well-known in your own right. Several doctors here at the hospital have recommended you to me, old chap, along with your former neighbour, Anstruther, and Stamford, also. I've spoken to doctors and other men you served with. And I have kept up with you myself." I was genuinely amazed to hear these words coming from this man who used to regard me with utter contempt during our university years.
I was even more surprised when he continued. "You are well-read, you've kept up with new developments in medicine, and you have a peculiar understanding of psychological afflictions resulting from battlefield trauma. You've quietly been researching and publishing articles in medical journals. You are familiar with the problem of narcotic addiction following injuries, and are knowledgeable about diseases contracted in foreign climes. You have worked as a police surgeon. You are an eloquent speaker, and a gifted story-teller, as many of your patients can attest, and as your stories demonstrate. And you are a damn fine surgeon. I repeat: you are the perfect man for the job." At this Dr. Sykes leaned back again, folded his arms, and waited for my response.
I must admit to finding myself speechless again, as my mind whirled with the unexpected compliments, and the possibilities of this opportunity. A large part of me wanted to accept this position. And yet another part of me balked at the responsibility it would entail and the changes it would necessitate. And after just returning to Baker Street at Holmes' insistence, I knew that he would not be best pleased at the thought of me leaving his side again.
I needed some time to consider the offer, and to garner some advice. After some additional discussion, our interview finally concluded with me agreeing to think about the proposition for a few days before giving Dr. Sykes my final decision. We parted ways then, he to go back to Netley, and myself heading to Baker Street, to discuss the news with Sherlock Holmes.
To be continued. Thanks for reading and reviewing!