A/N: This is NOT a crossover. I aim for historical accuracy in all my work, and have worked from the historical record of Arabia during WWI, not the Hollywood record. Source material is located in the endnote.

This story started out as another element to my Anthology series, but quickly took on a life of its own that did not fit the aesthetic of that piece. So I tweaked it a bit. I've always wondered what Holmes was doing before and after LAST during the war. I suppose this is is a section of my own answer.

I do not think that I shall forgive Mycroft for sending me on this fool's errand.

I do not like the desert. I did not like it when he sent me there almost twenty five years ago, and I do not like it now. I wish nothing more than to be home in Sussex, or in our old rooms on Baker Street. But alas, the Queen has called both me and my companion into service once more. Mycroft has had many little missions for me to complete during this new round of the Great Game. Most of them have been in locations that were somewhat hospitable to human existence. But of course, I always knew I would end up here.

It is impossibly hot and incredibly dry. Though I, like my target, have chosen to adopt the local dress of the natives, a long dishdasha covering my body and a keffiyeh held in place with an agal protecting my head, I do not feel as if a pair of trousers and a starched shirt would have protected me from the dreadful heat any less.

My guide is incredibly amused by my frequent curses against the desert. This Bedouin was born and bred in this forsaken place, and takes our journey in stride. He smiles and laughs as I struggle to recall his dialect of my Arabic, a language that I was convinced I had left behind upon my return to England. He assures me that we cannot help but reach our destination soon, but our target moves fast.

Why must this unusual man choose the desert for his heroics?

I suppose it could be worse. He could have chosen the trenches for his stand, although if he had there would be no reason for Mycroft to send me out to ascertain his intentions. Were he in the trenches his intention would be to die like so many others are dying every day. He would have already laid down his life in service of the crown, and been butchered.

The desert has made a man out of cannon fodder. Although I can't approve of the location, I am rather interested to meet the man.

It is another three hours before we arrive in an ocean of black tents that seem to have sprung up out of the desert rocks and sands. Men and camels and horses mill about and shout and converse in various dialects that I do not quite understand.

I can easily spot the man long before he is pointed out to me, his light hair and once white dishdasha clearly highlighted against the sea of black and brown and grey. His blonde head is bent over a notebook that lies in his lap as he gently reposes against a large satchel covered with what I can only assume is goat hide. The desert wind lightly scatters his robes as he remains utterly engrossed in his missive.

He seems to sense us as we draw closer to his roost, and shakes himself out of his self-imposed reverie, smiling softly as he lifts his head toward me.

"Al-Aurens," my guide motions, and drops back to allow us a proper introduction. The man rises, and I am forced to grin at how I so dwarf him in stature. Yet this inadequacy seems to go unnoticed entirely by the man in front of me, who retains that same small smile.

So expecting of am of a full salaam that I am almost taken aback as he extends a hand towards me in a pure British greeting.

"Major Lawrence," I nod as I shake his hand.

"Mr. Holmes," he replies, allowing his smile to grow a fraction of an inch at the flickering of emotion on my face.

"You have been informed of my arrival," I comment, pleased with the extent of his knowledge and investigative methods.

"Yes," he answers. "I know that you are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, that you have been sent by London to ascertain my ambitions and intentions for Arabia, though you have been instructed not to reveal your true purpose to me."

I have gone from pleased to moderately impressed. The extent of this man's myriad of abilities and the prodigious power of his mind have not been exaggerated. He is as good an investigator as he is a tactician.

He places his notebook and pen inside the satchel, and picks up his keffiyeh and agal.

"You will walk with me," he states as he draws the cloth around his head. It is not a question.

I nod in acquiescence, and we begin to walk side by side, weaving through the haphazardly placed tents.

The Bedouin warriors that we pass by do not each fail to salaam to my companion. I hear the names Al-Aurens, Aurance, Al-Laurens and a myriad of other names and honorifics according to the man's place of origin. He bows and greets each in turn.

"How was your ride out Mr. Holmes?" he finally asks me as we continue towards the edge of the camp.

"Fairly uneventful," I reply, attempting in vain to hide my grimace at the remembrance of hours of boredom spent on camelback and the nights of soreness afterwards. The man easily reads my expression and chuckles before telling me that he can quite understand why I would hate the desert.

"Then why do you so enjoy it?" I ask. The only reply I am offered is that same small, almost dreamy smile. We continue up and down the brown and yellow sands of the desert, slipping down the steep sides of dunes with the sun beating down upon us and the wind as the only relief.

After a while he inquires after England, of the European front, of Germany's arrogance. I in turn ask about his progress in Arabia, his methods of warfare and his report with the natives. We continue our conversation as we wander further and further into the empty desert and I grow more incredulous as to how in the world this mild mannered man has harried the Turks into an uproar.

We have reached a lull in the conversation now, and he turns to me with a look of utmost seriousness, all pretense and coyness gone from his now solid expression.

"What exactly do you really wish to know of me and my operations here, Mr. Holmes?" he inquires plainly.

"I am to gather whether you are a threat to English interests in Arabia," I reply, just as simply. He smiles again at my statement.

"I know of the Skyes-Picot," he says after a moment. Then his face hardens once more. "I do not agree." And it is now that I suddenly see it. The mild manner is still there, but behind its thin veneer I can see a fire burning in his eyes, glowing hotter even than this damned desert.

It vanishes as quickly as it comes and before I know it he is glancing heavenward and sighing.

"We must be getting back now," he mumbles, more to himself than to me. "There is work to do this evening." He then glances at me with amusement.

"Care to join?"

"Arabia for Arabians!" he cries in victory as the Bedouins roar along with him in a grand war chorus. The fire of passion is etched onto his face as he stands apart from his warriors as they continue to ransack the derailed train. He is so small in stature, and his victory today so seemingly insignificant. But to himself, today has been a great victory and his perceptions infect his army with the same sense of grand accomplishment. The battle in Europe begins to wane. There is no sense of purpose other than to drive Germany back to her own shores. Yet here, in this miserable desert, a man is commanding an army with more sense and principle than that which goes on in more 'civilized' nations.

I believe I finally understand the amount of power this man holds. It is not simply his influence over others. It is the aura of strength and power and presence that he wraps around himself like the once white robes of his dishdasha. And there he stands, wielding influence like a bodhisattva and daring me to question him.

I realize that I am going to lie to Mycroft in my report, remarking perhaps the first instance of such an event occurring. There have been omissions in the past to be sure, but this will be an outright lie, and one that must be crafted extraordinarily well.

If I am truthful and inform my brother that this man is a threat to English interests in Arabia, then he will be unable to continue his work. 'Facts' about him may be unearthed that would compromise his character, and he will be reassigned to a desk job in Cairo or worse, London, in the interest of preserving himself and the crown. The Bedouins will have another general and Faisal's war will go on, yet without this unusual and remarkable man influencing its course.

Is it that I have become indulgent in my old age? Is a threat to the crown not a crime?

But the man does not threaten England directly. Only her interests, and I have seen enough of the state of England's overseas interests to last me a lifetime. This will not hurt her, nor Mycroft, nor the man who stands before me, an Englishman at home in the desert of Arabia.

He turns and notices my stare, and smiles that small smile again. I bow and make a full salaam toward him, the sight of which brings an actual smile to his tanned face.

I will ride with them back to camp, I will rest for some hours and then I will bid Major Lawrence farewell. The ride back to Cairo will take another several days through the abysmal desert, after which I must begin my report to my brother.

At least the ride back will hopefully give me time to craft a suitable lie that will slip past even his fingers.

Major Lawrence stands with his back to me again, silhouetted against the derailed train, his robes still a harsh contrast against the brown and black of the rail cars and yellows of the desert. He is twenty feet tall, and views the future of the land he seeks to lead out of tyranny. The master of all he sees.

There is only hope.

A/N: As stated before, this is not a crossover with the film, Lawrence of Arabia. I based T. E. Lawrence's mannerisms, knowledge and actions off his book, The Seven Pillars of Wisdom as well as the official autobiography written by Jeremy Wilson. Both are fascinating works that I suggest you check out if you are a history nerd like me, or if you enjoy profile studies.

I'm not sure if this is going to stay as a standalone, or if I'll continue to write of Holmes other antics during WWI. For now, its complete.