For California's Veteran's Day and for the United Kingdom's Remembrance Sunday.
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Remembered
Dr. John Watson sat in one chair surround by hundreds.
He was dressed in uniform, the outfit he had worn as a doctor in the Afghanistan war. The hole where the bullet had torn through the fabric to bite his flesh had been tailored and sewn closed. The blood had been meticulously scrubbed but even then a dull rust-colored stain still persisted.
In front, beside, and behind him were dozens of other men dressed in similar attire. They were all adorned in the fabric that they had served war in. Those with more decorations sat in front, closer to the open space reserved as the stage for the event that was taking place. But they were all decorated with an artificial poppy pinned to their breast.
John lifted his eyes to allow his gaze to drift over the blur of faces around him. Faces that looked just like his: older.
Many faces were adorned with wrinkles, medals of war. White hair peeked out from under hats. Heads were bowed with sadness; eyes glistening with unshed tears. Some men were without limbs. Some owned canes similar to the one John possessed. Some had much of their faces missing, burned away until only a seared scar remained.
And they all had a single red poppy.
John looked down at his poppy, his eyes taking in the iconic red color that so well represented bloodshed and the loss of human life. Human life that had taken away life before it too had been taken. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth green stalk, clean and neat.
There was nothing clean and neat about war. His gaze rose to lock onto the object that occupied most of the stage where a speaker now spoke.
A coffin, meant to represent all those that had been lost and died in the heat of battle. The coffin that was to be filled with the red poppies and lowered into the ground to honor the lives lost.
John bowed his head and closed his eyes. He gripped the stalk of his poppy with both hands as the tears he had held throughout the battle, his injury, and his recover still refused to fall.
Then he slowly opened his eyes and extended one finger over the red poppy. He quietly touched his finger to each petal, silently naming each one with the name of a life he had known that had ended: patients and brothers in arms alike.
By the time each petal had been marked with a name, he still had a list of names to go and looked to the poppy of the man who sat beside him and wordlessly continued his list until he had said every name he could remember.
Guns reported loudly as they were fired into the air. John stood with the many other veterans as each row marched up to the coffin to lay their poppies into it.
John followed suit and approached the coffin with quiet reverence. He touched his lips to the velvety petals and then placed his blood-red poppy into the coffin amid the others. Then, he marched away from the coffin and stood under a tree until all the other soldiers had laid their poppies in the coffin. More shots were fired and then the coffin was lowered into the ground.
Still, John waited under the tree, even as the soldiers dispersed to return to the lives they had created after their part played in the war; their hands clutching wooden crosses that were destined to be placed at the grave of someone who hadn't had the opportunity to create. Only when the crowds had thinned and the last few soldiers had turned away from the now buried coffin, did John emerge to stand at the foot of the upturned soil.
A single figure dressed in a black coat stood at a distance behind him, black hair waving in the evening breeze. The figure regarded John with calculating eyes that slowly softened with a foreign sympathy the figure wasn't used to experiencing towards another human being.
Slowly, he stepped forward to stand beside John, his own eyes looking down at the new grave. He glanced at John and took only a moment to register that silent tears spilling down the doctor's cheeks before respectfully looking away again.
Then he raised a hesitant arm and placed a reassuring hand on John's shoulder, giving it a quick squeeze.
"Didn't think you'd come," John said, voice thick with tears.
"This is important to you," Sherlock Holmes answered solemnly. "For that, I came."
John nodded, his watery gaze still locked on the grave. He released a shuddering breath but made no attempt to clear the tears from his face. Sherlock remained at his side, hand still gripping John's shoulder.
Nothing needed to be said. Sherlock knew what John was going to say about the men that fought alongside him; the men that had died around him. John knew that Sherlock would remain silent as he spoke, unable to offer any sympathy that John hadn't already heard and resented.
So they stood in silence, the wind growing colder as night approached and the stars emerged out of hiding.
Night had fallen by the time John's tears had dried and he started to shiver. Sherlock's coat was around his shoulders before he could even pull up the collar of his uniform.
John finally lifted his gaze to meet Sherlock's and offered his partner a smile.
"Thank you" he said in a wavering voice.
Sherlock returned the gesture with a nod and the two turned away from the grave, Sherlock keeping his hand on John's shoulder.
They both knew that the thank you was meant for more than just the coat.
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I know it's late and that Veteran's Day has passed but I thought of this idea after Veteran's Day and after watching the BBC series, "Sherlock." Just had to write and post. (Since it was a rushed work, please relay any notice of typos to me. Thanks)
This story was fixed to represent the UK's Remembrance Sunday in which the poppy symbolizes remembrance. Thank you to those that corrected me.
May you honor those that have been lost.
Hobey-Ho