We'll Be Alright Here

by Aliit Vodeson

The year is 1863. The Civil War has been raging for two years, and yet the Union has already been deeply shaken. John Watson, a bright young Doctor from Maine, enlists in the medical corps. When his assignment takes him to the Battle Of Gettysburg and into the path of a strange man named Sherlock Holmes, he finds himself doubting that he can keep his promise to return home.

My thanks to my good friend Julie, for putting up with my rants during fourth block about how stupid this whole story was turning out to be.

April 18, 1863

"Promise me, Johnny."

"Of course, Mother.."

He was always promising he'd come home. Promise you'll come home after school. Promise you'll come home for Christmas. Promise you'll come home for Harriet's wedding. Promise, Johnny, promise. And every time, he would promise her he would. Every time he answered of course, promising that yes he would come home. It was as if his whole life was wrapped up in promises after promise, a web of binding words that drew him from one place to another, never able to wander for too long because his promises called him back to the farm, and to her.

"I'm worried. You know Mrs. Powers, Carol's mother, she's lost her man and her boy. All in one year. What... What if I lose you?"

"I'll come home, Mother. I always do."

He'd almost thought about not coming home the last time. After graduation, when it would have been easier to simply disappear into the big cities or find someplace new, settle down and open his practice in some town that wasn't bogged down by old memories of the scrawny blonde boy who used to get lost in the fall corn maze. It had only been the arrival of the official wedding announcement that had brought him back to the farm. Any later, and he would have been on a train, heading west or east or south, any direction that didn't lead back north to home.

"And the Stamfords, they've had no word from their boy. No notice from the army either, but who knows if that's any good. Poor Elizabeth, she's taken it so hard."

"I'll be fine, Mother. I'll write every week and come home when the war is over. I'll be home before you know it."

And he'd kissed her cheek and hugged Harriet and made a general show of a son who wasn't quite so eager to be off from his family once more. He let Clark help him with his bags, returned to the porch for another hug from teary eyed Mother Watson. Finally, the conductor shouted the call for all aboard. John had to pry Mother's arms off him, passing her over to Clark who somehow managed to hold both his wife and mother-in-law in hugs and still shake John's hand.

"Look after he, will you?"

"Go save the Union, Watson. We'll be alright here."

May 7, 1863

"You're being assigned to the 16th Maine Volunteer Infantry."

"Sir?"

John looked down at the paper. Details of his assignment, the unit name, stamped with the symbol of the Union Medical corps. All in all, not a lot of detail. His new uniform felt hard against his skin starched and pressed to clean lines. Even in the short hours since he had arrived at the base and been given his new kit, he had begun to resent the itchy clothe. It reminded him of the suit he'd worn as a child to Father's funeral. Bad memories of course, but also a slight reminder of what lay before him in this outfit.

"We're trying something new. Assigning small teams to regiments, treat the boys right on the battlefield rather than bringing everyone back to the big hospitals. Cut the flow off at the source, if you will."

"I thought I would be working in a field hospital. There was no mention of combat in my earlier briefing."

It wasn't like he would have problem with carrying a gun, or using it for that matter. Father had taught him how to handle a musket, shoot small game, defend the farm. John had almost missed the buck of the wood against his shoulder. It wasn't what he had signed up for though, by no means. The recruiter had spoken of the big divisional hospitals set back from the action, maybe the occasional foray forward when the medic units became short staffed. Doctor John Watson, it said on his papers. Not soldier Watson.

"Oh no, no, no. Not combat at all. Just uh, positioning the medical services closer to the men who need it most. Some scheme of the upper brass. I have no doubt that it will be a temporary measure. Putting doctors on the front lines. What a strange notion."

"I doubt it will catch on, sir."

Already playing the part. Already picking up when to salute and when to salute back. Sir and Ma'am and right away. The efficiency that made up the Union army had spilled over to her sister. The young medical corps, already battle tested and hardly battle ready. John felt like he could be a metaphor for the unit as a whole. Proven as a doctor, but with no standing in the community. A gifted mind, his professors had declared, but he had yet to establish his mind in the fieldwork that mattered.

"You're from Maine yourself, aren't you, Watson? There's a rare treat. Maybe you'll know some of the men in your unit."

"I doubt it sir. Our town's small and well, we haven't had a lot of happy news about the war effort."

To call it a town would be an injustice. A collection of farms, bounded by the church, school and general store. John was glad to get away from it, just as glad as Harriet was to stay, looking after her mother and hopefully, he own family some day. The domestic life John was afraid laid in wait for him if he didn't make this work. Join the medical corps, save his pay, return what Mother had borrowed for his education, then pay her back for all the hardships he had put her through. Ensure that she lived out the rest of her life without worrying over accounts again. Perhaps set a little something for Harriet and Clark as well, in thanks for taking the duties he had shunned.

"Watson, are you listening to me?"

"Sorry sir. Dozed off."

"Best get yourself to the mess then. You'll be shipping off in the morning. The regiment's currently stationed in Virginia, hopefully you will reach them before they move camp. The Confederate army's closing in, and devil take it if we're going to let them."

John stood, though remained in the office because even he, green as he was, could sense that leaving without being properly dismissed would be frowned upon greatly. Mother had said he made a good soldier, when he'd told her about enlisting, though the smile that had graced her lips was not reflected in her brown eyes. Understandable, given the number of the boys who had already returned home injured. Or hadn't come home at all. Despite all John's assurances that he would be back soon, a doctor didn't see action like the rest of the army, she had remained unimpressed.

"Look after yourself out there. War is no place for a doctor, even a young sprig like yourself."

"Thank you sir. I'll be alright."

July 1, 1863

"Doc, over here, Doc, Doc!"

It was the never ending noise that would get to him first, John thought as he jogged along the ridge, ducking down as bullets crackled past and mortars exploded so close, so bloody close. It was everything John could do to run through the chaos, the white band on his uniform probably not doing him any good for all the smoke on the field. Besides that, it was now on the wrong arm for the direction he was running. Damn useless thing, the enemy soldiers won't have been able to see it even if it was a clear day out. He dropped to his knees, landing with a dull ploop in the mud.

"What is it?"

"Bullet to the leg, Doc."

He never bothers with names when he's in combat. The wound matters, and nothing else. Canon balls flashing above and encroaching rifle fire make you even more reluctant to spend time on pleasantries. He shows the soldier where he needs to put pressure, cutting with his knife as he does. The cloth peels back and then he can see the full wound. He keeps cutting, even when the man bucks and screams underneath him.

"Your knife please."

And one comes, because it's standard issue, and half the boys carry multiples anyways, there's always one or two or seven on hand. His thoughts fun together like a long jumble of derailed train cars. He's processing too many things at once; noise, bullets, spray of earth as a bullet cuts dangerously close to them. The cannonfire has subsided. No good, not good. Subsided cannonfire meant they were going to get caught in an infantry charge, and those never ended well for either side.

"What are you doing, Doc?"

"Getting the bullet out."

His voice is tense. Thank God the man he's operating on has passed out by the time John starts using the knives like tweezers. He worked, even as screams for help, his help, began to echo with increasing fervor from the rest of the unit. The work went slowly, bullet coming out not in inches or centimeters but in millimeters, widening the wound as it exited the body. John knew that if they got the soldier to a field hospital, the flesh would be so much less damaged. They'd told him to do his work here though, as the battle raged on above their heads, so he did it here. Cutting and pulling and digging and sewing and praying. A whole lot of praying. He thought God must have grown bored of his voice now. If God had ever even heard him. There never had been a great amount of answers.

"They're tearing up the colours, Doc."

"Go. Get... Get your piece."

He knows what this means. They've lost the position. He should go, retreat, get out while he can. No one would look down on a doctor pulling out from the battle. No one but himself. How could he leave the men? His hands don't waver as he sewed up the wound with plain black thread. A splash of liquor from the wounded man's own hip flask, and the destroyed trousers went to wrap the area.

"Come on, soldier. We're going to get you home."

It was when he moved to take the man up in his arms that he felt the pain in his shoulder. The sort of dull pain that went unnoticed when your mind was elsewhere; and then, once you thought of it, hurt like the dickens. He bit his lip as his moved his head slowly to look at the offending area.

"Impressive. A full two minutes between entry of bullet and registration of wound."

"Wha-?"

He spun on his knees, the voice strange and cold. The world kept spinning, even when he'd stopped trying to move. The face of the man who had spoken bluffed in and out of his vision as John dropped to the ground, his lips letting out a scream when he landed on his newly wounded shoulder. He barely sensed someone leaning over him, face obscured by a halo of black hair, Confederate uniform oddly in focus before the black relief of unconsciousness took John down. He did, however, hear a voice before he was completely gone.

"Relax, Doctor. I'll make sure you're alright."

July 4, 1863

He woke up screaming. He'd seen it before, of course, men who had passed out from the pain and then came to, agony still on their lips. His shoulder felt like it was on fire and someone was pressing on his chest, forcing him to lie back down. He didn't remember sitting up. Didn't even realize he had been sitting up until his back was hitting something. Mattress, his brain supplied. Hospital cot, if the hard lumps were anything to go by.

"Lie down, Doctor. You're in the hospital."

"Wh?"

He doesn't even know what question he is trying to ask. His brain doesn't seem capable of pulling a full question together. The pain in his shoulder, hell, it's not any less hurtful to be lying down, with weight on it, but he could probably say that he was getting used to the fire. Building up a tolerance to the pain. Letting it settle and burn and, since he couldn't run from it, allowing the burn to take up home in his shoulder. He doesn't know how long it takes him to come to grips with that pain. By the time he opens his eyes, whoever was holding him down has left his side. There's someone at the end of his bed, standing with a blank expression on his thin face.

"No doubt you have questions. I know which questions, the answers, and countless things you could dare dream of. I don't care about any of that. I don't know what you want to know."

"Who?"

He may not manage a full question, but at least the meaning of the word can stand for the rest of the inquiry. He tries to make his eyes focus on the figure. It's a losing battle, but he does see enough of the man's hair to know it's the same Confederate soldier who came up behind him during the battle. Still in uniform, too, if the hazy fuss that was making up John's sight at this time was anything to go by.

"Who am I? I am a number of things, and have been various people over the course of my overwhelmingly boring life. The only bit that matters to you in your present situation is that I think you might actually be interesting. Thus, I ensured you would be injured, captured, and brought back to our field hospital. That's going to come back to haunt me, I'm sure, but such is the pain of being much smarter than everyone else. I get bored easily."

John takes much longer than normal to process the words. His brain didn't seem to getting the right information, because he swears the man is smiling at him. And it's not a nice smile either. One of those smiles that makes John want to back away or get his gun up and shoot the man. It's a smile that's all teeth, lips pulled back so the man's thin cheekbones are wrinkled by the pushed up flesh.

"Don't bother trying to get up. You'll only end up hurting yourself, and that wound is already at risk of infection. Besides that obvious deterrent, you're far behind enemy lines. I doubt you would get very far before they shot, caught and executed you for trying to escape. Which means that all the work I did to get you here would have been wasted."

"What do you want with me?"

It takes everything he has to speak in an even tone and not shout at the strange soldier. John feels sweat beading up on his forehead just from the simple effort of speaking. If they really are in a field hospital, why hasn't anyone come to check on him. He can't hear a lot, just the occasional sound of someone yelling or a voice muttering. It's either a complete lie about their location, or Confederate hospitals are vastly different from their Union counterpart. Through the thin canvas that makes up the walls, John can see sunlight. His vision's getting better, even if everything still hurts and his mind doesn't want to think. He closes his eyes briefly, hoping that it's all just a bad dream. But no, he wouldn't dream up something like this. Dream of home or have a nightmare about being killed. Injured, captured, tormented by a stuck up soldier? Definitely passed the boundaries of his limited imagination. So he opens his eyes again, finding no change in his situation.

"You're a puzzle. I'm bored. You won't be paroled until you stop entertaining me. Since you are a doctor serving in the middle of a battle with no concern for your personal safety, I doubt that will be any time soon. So get used to your new status, Doctor, and do try to think of some more original questions."

It's later, long after the strange man has left and the light inside the tent has turned golden with the setting sun that John is able to relax. The hospital is oddly quiet the whole time, and he finds out from one of the nurses that it's an officer's hospital. His visitor was Captain Holmes and yes, John is a prisoner of war. He tries to process this as the nurse changes his bandages, hardly paying attention to what she's doing, trusting that it really can't be a bad job if he's in an officer's hospital. That Holmes must have more than usual power and John wonders for what seems like the hundredth time why the man has taken an interest in him.

"Do you want some water? Anything stronger?"

"No, I'm... I'm alright."

July 16, 1863

"Doctor!"

John's on his cot, a single piece of paper on the cover before him, his inkpot balanced carefully on his pillow, the beginnings of a letter scratched out on the plain parchment. At the call, he starts up, splashing ink across his sheets and paper alike.

"Dammit!"

"Doctor Watson!"

John felt his stomach sink. What he'd thought was simply someone yelling for medical attention wasn't. It was the commanding, stuck up tones of the man he was beginning to easily hate. Captain Holmes calling in that baritone voice of his. Like a master calling his errant dog. Or slave. John's expression twisted in a grimace. He'd met some of the Confederate army slaves. He'd thrown up twice, and then begged to be allowed to treat their wounds. Holmes had laughed and asked him why he cared so much about idiotic cattle. John nearly punched him, in front of half a dozen Confederate officers. He had learned a lot about the Captain in that afternoon. That he was a git John already knew, but he learned that the man came from a rich slave holding plantation in Florida, had received his post due to family connections, and considered nearly everyone to be an idiot.

"Doctor Watson, need I remind you that the only reason you receive treatment is because I have ordered it. so you would be well advised to answer when I send for you!"

"Yes, yes, coming."

John scrambled to get his boots on. He'd been hoping to get at least one day free from Holmes' schemes, from being ordered to follow the man around of assist him with experiments. It seemed the man wasn't a true Captain, but one assigned to the unit to find more effective fighting techniques. For the past two weeks, John had been playing chemist's assistant as Holmes tried to develop a better gunpowder.

"Now, Doctor."

"I said I'm coming. Hold on a minute."

John had barely cleared the tent flaps before Holmes was striding off, his unusual coat flapping behind him. Holmes seemed to flaunt uniform regulations just as easily as he ignored parole protocol. Dressed in the standard uniform but having neglected his haircut and added a bulky overcoat, Holmes made a distinct figure as he cut through the camp. Even if he had been dressed in accordance with regulation, John had no doubt he would have been able to follow the tall man through the crowd. Turning around and shouting for him to hurry up was completely unnecessary.

"Hurry up, Doctor! I need you to examine a body."

Body? Seemingly of their own accord, John's legs spend up. For a reason he didn't understand, as there was no injury to his leg, he'd been limping It just hurt, since he'd woken up in the hospital tent. Hurt to walk, hurt when he was sitting, hurt for no damn reason. Holmes had laughed at him, saying it was all in his mind. John had stopped trying to walk normally after that. It annoyed the man and that made John smile.

"In here. Give me your medical opinion."

"Why do you want mine? Surely you've got your own doctors."

The unmistakable stench of dead body filled the small tent Holmes has led him to. John wrinkled his nose with a sigh of disappointment. Another dead body. Probably some poor slave who'd given out and now Holmes wanted John to help him experiment on the body. They'd done it before. Recorded the bruises that formed after death, shoot corpses until they were little more than piles of flesh and bone, even launch a cannonball into corpses staked out to resemble an infantry line. Sherlock's research seemed as varied as his methods, from determining how long an enemy soldier that been dead to the optimal distance to begin an infantry charge at. And John had helped with them all.

"Tell me what you think."

And John kneels down despite his body protesting and mind objecting. Because, God help him, he's interested. He wants to see what Holmes says about the nurse lying face down in the dirt. Why he seems to actually be interested in what John has to say. The man doesn't object when John lifts the woman's arm, checks her pulse, calculates rigor mortis. Which is strange, given that Holmes normally objects to John working directly with the experiments. This time he's not though, just watching John with those cold eyes of his. John gets the feeling that he's being examined as much as the body is.

"Your opinion, Doctor. I don't have all day."

"What am I doing here? You don't even like me. Why do you want my opinion?"

Holmes' expression turns, if possible, even darker. While the man is always giving himself airs, acting above everyone, including his fellow officers he's now glaring at John with a sort of self-righteous hatred. His expression spoke of how much he looked down on John, how far beneath himself he views the Union doctor. You are an idiot, his eyes say to John. You are an idiot and far, far too low to deserve any respect from me. It was a dark look, the sort John had always associated with the rich Percy boys back home, and now with the slave holding families of the south. Holmes used it on all the slaves John had seen him interact with, and even some of the enlisted men. Seemingly he was the man the Percy boys would have been if they'd grown up as slave holders in the south. Better than the Negro and most of the white man. It was a look that sent shivers of fear down John's spine and made him worry for his safety should he press things anymore.

"You are here, Doctor, because I want you to be. Because I told you to. I need a medical expert and you are slightly less of an idiot than the other doctors. This is a murder investigation and I suggest you start answering my questions."

All this comes out in a flurry of words, nearly too fast for John to follow. Holmes' face hasn't changed it's expression but there's something different about the air he's giving off. John would call it liking, except this is Holmes he's listening to and Holmes never likes anyone. Indifference, maybe. A sort of grudging admittance that he tolerated John with less trouble than it took him to put up with other people. Or maybe he was simply growing tired of explaining things to John. John hoped it was the latter, because then Holmes might lose interested in him and let him be paroled.

"So tell me your medical opinion on the death of this woman."

"No sign of bruising or cuts. Dead for about two hours, going by the rigor mortis. Given the uh, state of her throat I'd say she choked on her own vomit."

"Excellent."

John's initial disgust at that word overrides his control of emotions. That Holmes can smile, grin even while he stands over the corpse of some poor nurse. Oh, he's known that Captain Holmes is no ordinary man. But to see him take joy in the death of an innocent puts him on a whole new level of depraved. Not just a twisted or misguided product of a slaveholding family, but not human, monstrous.

"There's a dead woman."

"I know! Murdered. Oh, it's Christmas."

There's a huge smile on his face as he runs out of the tent. He leaves John standing there, boiling inside with an anger he's never felt before. It's not the rational hatred he feels towards the slaveholders or the cold fury he's nursed for Holmes since being shot by the Confederate captain. This is the mind numbing, heart pounding anger of a soldier who's been through hell and finally found the devil who put him there.

"Christmas. Right, right. Murdered nurse for Christmas. Alright."

November 18, 1863

"Pleasure to meet you, Doctor Watson. I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Lestrade."

John looked this new Confederate officer up and down. Standard uniform, with insignia John was fairly certain denoted him as an artillery officer. He couldn't be sure, of course, no one had ever bothered to explain the Confederate insignia to him. He was a doctor; the higher ups had never expected him to end up as prisoner or held without parole. For the most part, Lestrade looked like any other man of the south. Short grey hair, fading tan, sharp eyes and a few missing teeth. He also had rough hands, callused, setting him apart from the rest of the landed officers John had interacted with. Men like Holmes, whose handshake had denoted him as someone who hadn't done an hour of hard work in his life. Lestrade, on the flip side, had the hand and grip of a man who spent several years doing physical labour.

"I'm here to talk about your parole situation."

"My parole?"

His expression is surely a study in typical confusion. Holmes had made it clear John wouldn't be paroled. Since none of the other soldiers had seen fit to address John other than telling him to move, he had figured that Holmes' word on the matter was law. He was hoping Holmes would get bored of him sometime before the end of the war, but that had seemed a long time in the future. John may not understand how the eccentric man's bain worked, or how anyone could stand his scathing tongue, he did comprehend that Holmes still got a kick out of John's company. Apparently, John helped him think.

"Yes. Your parole. Under usual circumstances, you would have been paroled right after your capture. We're not under the habit of keeping medical workers. I've been assigned to figure out why you've been kept here; if appropriate, you'll be released home soon."

"Is Captain Holmes involved in this?"

Lestrade didn't have the look of anyone involved in parole negotiations. Of course, this parole should have been ages ago. So maybe they were sending in the irregulars, or Holmes' own position as self-declared regulator of John's captivity meant they had to involve men not normally part of the whole process. Lestrade's face when John mentioned Holmes certainly lent credit to the latter. There was no mistaking the disgust that overrode the stoke expression of professional respect that had previously comprised Lestrade's face.

"Captain Holmes is being dealt with separately."

So John wasn't the only one put off by Holmes' nature. He couldn't mistake Lestrade's tone as anything less than contemptuous. The toe of a regulation driven army man being forced to deal with someone who flouted rules as easily as breathing. John, who had taken a liking to Lestrade right off, felt his esteem rise. Lestrade clearly wasn't allowing Holmes' position rule the day. John felt some hope springing up in chest. He might actually get to go home.

"Now why don't you tell me how you were captured."

"It's not a pretty story, but alright."

January 18, 1864

"No! No, he can't go."

Captain Holmes was shouting at someone. Lestrade probably. No doubt annoyed about losing his captive Union soldier. John listened to the fight with a smirk on his face, sitting on his bed with his meager belongings spread out beside him. The pack Lestrade had provided for him to use sat at his feet, still empty. He was supposed to be packing. Listening to Holmes' temper tantrum was far more fascinating though. It felt a more believable outcome to everything that actually being paroled.

"He's mine! You can't let him leave. I need him."

Even through the tent wall, the last bunch of words were high pitched and whiny. The analogy of a child losing his favourite toy was fitting better and better. Not that John liked the idea of being some madman's toy soldier. The thought fit with everything he knew of Holmes, thus it's reason coming into his mind in the first place. John wasn't some piece of wood carved and painted for a rich brat to play with. Holmes was behaving like that rich brat though. Yelling and kicking his heels up when told that John was being paroled.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, did you really just call him your's? He's not a slave!"

"He might as well be. I captured him, he's mine to let go."

That was Lestrade, not yelling like Holmes was, more speaking in the raised tones that carried just as well as a scream. The voice of a man used to projecting his voice over the cacophony of gunfire and mortar shells. A battlefield voice. John didn't feel any better for classifying just what it was about Lestrade's voice that made it carry. Holmes' retort, calling John a slave, made him sick to his stomach. He'd seen how Holmes regarded slaves. Less than human. Lives worth less than a dog's. If the whole parole deal fell through, if Lestrade wasn't able to keep the promises John has been clinging to, he didn't know what he would do. Knowing that the man who holding your well being in his hands thinks your life is worthless may be one thing; hearing those words from his lips is another altogether.

"In God's name. Do you really think of him like that? Thank the Almighty he's going home."

"He'd shouldn't have been paroled! I put in orders that he wasn't to be paroled until I said so."

John finally starts packing his stuff in the plain canvas bag. The spare set of clothing Holmes had provided him with. His medpack, somehow saved from the battlefield. Water canteen and small knife. It all fits easily into the bag, pathetically light when he tested the weight. Hopefully, if he was sent home, the army would give him the means to get there. If he was put back into the service, supplies wouldn't be an issue. John wasn't sure which outcome he would rather have. Either one was better than remaining stuck as prisoner to Holmes.

"The orders didn't come from me."

"Who then? Who let him be paroled and leave me!"

When John left the tent, he could see Holmes and Lestrade standing a short ways off, where the line of tents opened up to a clear area that was often used as a football pitch or social area. It was empty at the moment, beyond the two men arguing in loud voices. John headed towards them, limping and wincing at the pressure of the pack on his shoulder. While he is still several feet from them, a third man comes across the clearing and joins the two. He wears no uniform, rather a dapper suit trimmed in white, swinging an ornamental cane in one hand. He says something, John can't pick up the words, to the officers. John could see their reactions though. Lestrade's face started bearing relief, while Holmes's singular air of indignity seemed to get even more annoyed.

"You! You're the one behind this, aren't you. Don't deny it, this has your fingerprints all over it."

"Relax, oh brother mine. I simply spend up a process that would have happened with or without my ministrations."

John comes up on the little group and all three men turn to look at him. He goes through the unusual experience of having three intense emotions directed towards him at the same time. Lestrade is easy to place; pity and a little bit of envy. There'd detached disdain in the eyes of the newcomer, which is a feeling John can deal with. It's not personal, not anything he's done, just the dull eyed gaze of a man who's not interested in what he sees before him. Holmes though, there's an expression that's all personal. Greed, want, desire; wrapped up in wide eyes and flared nostrils, thin mouth and intense pupils. John shivers and turns his attention the stranger. Up close, he can see the man is pudgy, something even the well cut suit can't hide.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. It's good to finally meet the person who has so captivated my brother's attention. Hopefully, we will not meet again."

"If that's because I go home and don't get stuck here, then I agree with you."

Lestrade goufas. Even the stranger, Mr. Holmes John would suppose, has a slight upturn to his lips, despite looking like he'd never cracked a smile before in his life. It was the sort of dry, unassuming humour the army boys had introduced John to, the jokes that meant you didn't care what people thought about you and were past society's rules. Niceties don't matter when you're getting shot at and only the men around you can keep you safe.

"He can't leave. Doctor Watson, I forbid you to leave. You owe me."

"Little brother, should we talk about the slavery laws you fight to uphold? I do believe Doctor Watson only owes you if he wants to. You and I have been over this. He is going home, and you would be well advised to do likewise. You are wasted in the service. Doctor Watson, if you would come with me please."

The man walks away without even waiting for an answer from any of them. Lestrade pats John's shoulder, tilting his head for John to follow, his eyes conveying the sort of hardness that John should do whatever Mr. Holmes tells him to and mouth a quirky smile that says good luck. When John goes to follow, Captain Holmes catches his shoulder. The bad one, the one it hurts to put anything on. The pressure of Holmes' hand on the healing wound brings John to a halt. No words are said, Holmes just stares into his eyes with that deep passion his face had worn since John came up to the group. When he finally broke off the grip, it was with a vicious pinch of his nails that nearly sent John to his knees, and then he was gone. Storming off down the aisle between tents, coat swirling behind him and dark curls seeming as if they floated on the breeze created by his rapid step.

"Watson, you take care of yourself. Get home, back to that sister of yours. Stay away from the front lines if you have any say in it."

"Thanks Lestrade."

"Call me Greg if we happen to meet again. We've gotten to that point at least."

"Alright."

September 5th, 1869

He came to the house first, knocking on the door and greeting Harry with his hat in his hands and a stiff, polite smile. She pointed down around back, the path past the rabbit hutch and into the forest clear for even a city man like himself. There was no thank you, just a gruff turn of his heels and the click of the wooden porch beneath his boots. It wasn't long before his hasty walk had him passing trees and rocks, grass beneath the bounce of his legs. John looked up when he approached, mouth open in a friendly greeting. Then he sees who it is and his eyes darken.

"Hello. How long has it been? Six, seven years?"

"Six."

The reply is short, cut off, a curt reply to a decidedly unwelcome question. He puts the ax down on top of the wood pile, eyes flicking to the musket resting on the other side of the logs. Like a wolf, choosing between fight or flight. Tolerate, or get rid of now. It's clear in John's eyes that this is a difficult decision. His want is tempered by the morals he's drilled into himself. Lines in the sand drawn out many years ago, still unwelcome to breaking them. His hands form fists at his sides, teeth working against each other as he brings his temper to heel. As he takes in visitor's figure, John's legs unconsciously go to parade rest position. Stable, calm.

"You want to kill me."

"... Yes."

His delay in answering that question springs from the fact that it's not a question he's been asked. It was a statement. He'd forgotten how bloody good the man was good at reading people. John had never before given thought to what he would do if he ever found Captain Holmes in his eyesight again. Now that the man was there, John was thrown. The intervening years had been good to the black haired Confederate. He's no less thin than he was back then, cheekbones poking out from his face. His skin is paler, hair shorter than it was back when John knew him. He looks as he hasn't aged at all.

"I wouldn't begrudge you if you do."

"I won't."

"I know."

Silence descends. Well, as silent as it can be in a living forest. The silence of birds calling and wing whistling and humans not talking. John listens for a moment, attention distracted from Holmes, to the sway of the pine trees. Home. Like nothing in the south had been. And a prison. Caught up in the circle of farming and hunting he had avoided for the first thirty years of his life.

"You're not happy here. You still limp and your hand shakes. Your sister is worried about you and your brother in law has tried talking to you. You want to leave, and they tell you not to."

"No that it's any business of yours, but where else could I go? My days as an army doctor are over."

There it is. That gleam in Holmes' eyes as his mouth turns up in a small smile. In the camp it would have been enough to make Joh take a step backwards in worry. Here, in the forest, in his home, years between him and the horrors of the war, it feels different. Less like a threat and more conspiratorial. As if Holmes is sharing a joke with him.

"You could come with me."

"You're kidding."

"No. I'm planning on travelling west, to California and gold country. I could use a man like you at my side, Doctor Watson. You have talent, despite your injuries. Whatever you still hold against me from the war, I believe you'll agree to come with me, if only to get away from here. The farm's in order, your sister is overbearing, and your mother is dead. What reason do you have to stay here, unless you like being bored."

John considers it. He really does. Out west. Even if he's with Holmes, that's one hell of an adventure. Maybe more of an adventure. Given Holmes' strange nature, he's bound to find the biggest problems between east coast and west.

"I'll think about it."

Holmes smiled, and John smiles back. It's a little weird, but good none the less. He doesn't hate Holmes, can't hate him. It was war time and men do strange things when they're at war. Perhaps the years have mellowed his memories or he has simply forgotten why he dislike Holmes so much. Whatever the reason, John is serious about thinking about going out west with the man.

"Then you must call me Sherlock."

"John."

The 16th Maine Volunteer Regiment fought during the Battle of Gettysburg on the first day. After being pushed out of the fields north of Chambersburg Pike, the Regiment took a new position, with the orders to hold it at all costs. The remaining officers and men held the position and allowed nearly 16,000 Union forces to retreat and regroup. Shortly before losing their position to the Confederate forces, the men tore up the American flag and Regimental flag, dividing the pieces between the men nearby. Dividing up the colours, as this practice was called, was done to prevent the Confederate forces using the flags as battle trophies.

All told, 11 of the Regiment were killed, 62 had been wounded, and 159 had been taken prisoner, leaving 38 men to make their way to the 1st Corps headquarters at the end of the first day of battle.

The practice of deploying surgeons with Union forces was created in August of 1861, with formal orders for regiment must recruit one surgeon and one assistant surgeon to serve before they could be deployed for duty coming in May of the following year. While several Union hospitals were captured by Confederates during the course of the war, patients and doctors were almost always immediately paroled if they would swear to no longer bear arms in the conflict. Occasionally, they would be held in exchange for Confederate prisoners.

There may be a sequel to this sometime in the future, but I need to finish my other stories first.