Title: A Warrior Marked

Author name: Doc Jorgensen
Category: Angst
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson

Ships: None.

Rating: K
Spoilers: None
Summary: Holmes is surprised by what he sees when he accompanies Watson to the Turkish baths the first time.

DISCLAIMER: I own naught, alas. Sir Arthur, forgive my sacrilege in playing with your beloved characters.
Author Notes: Exam week draws upon me and my muse is spinning plot bunnies out of control. Oh well…

Dedication: To A.M., for him all is over.

Outposts

…Only days of monotone,

Sand and fever, flies and fret,

All unheeded and unknown,

Little thanks they're like to get.

Yet mayhap in after-days

Distant eye the clearer sees

Gods apportioning the praise

Shall be kindly unto these.

…A. L. JENKINS; ADEN, 1916.

I must admit, I was surprised when Watson asked me to accompany him to the Baths. After all we had only been lodging together for a few scant months, but I was agreeable enough, for the sake of his company, not despite it. He was a most pleasant companion to my own surprise, I had thought him simple but I was enlightened.

It was then that I discovered how wrong, terribly wrong that I had been about my companion.

It happened when we were undressing, that first I saw a scant glance of pink scars. Watson turned, ashamed, I should think. I turned my gaze aside but my curiosity was piqued.

Whilst we were in the baths, I turned my gaze towards him. Even in the dense white strings of smoke that drifted upwards from the water, I could still see clearly.

See so very clearly the cost of defeat.

And surely, I mused bitterly, the cost of victory.

Some of his scars were silvery-grey with age, the skin smooth with healing. A curving line along his ribs and downwards, no doubt ending over his hip. On his arms and abdomen. Others, like the scars on his shoulder were still pink and raw-looking, the edges of skin puckered and rippled.

I could see well enough with my own eyes to see that Watson could never be the man he once was, no matter the length of time. He was a warrior marked, transfigured by war, and disfigured by hell. I said nothing, for I could say nothing, nothing that could change the past or assuage my sense of guilt.

But afterward, ensconced in Baker Street, when I had played violin and Watson dozed on the settee, I rested my hand gently and tenderly on his shoulder for several instants before withdrawing silently.

He was a warrior marked, that is to be certain. But in the Latin;

Pro Patria Pugnaverat Interfecerat et Laesus Erat, sed erat tamen herus.

For the fatherland he had fought, had killed and had been wounded, but he was yet a hero. Unblemished.