Short little thing that I couldn't resist posting. It will continue. Reviews appreciated.
The situation is eerily familiar, much like a half-forgotten, recurring nightmare.
I sit quietly in the solitude of my tent, writing by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. In the distance—perhaps closer—I hear the roar of shells and gunshots.
Distinctions between my past and present seem to blur together. The only factor that reminds me of their separation is the cold, so unlike the heat and stench of Afghanistan.
I never am certain if my most recent journal entry will be my last. Soon there will be a mass of torn, bleeding bodies outside, all requiring my attention. As I rush out into the shellfire, I could, quite simply and matter of fact, be killed.
I have grown to despise myself these past few weeks because of this. In sad admiration I have watched them deliberately crawl out of their trenches and advance towards the enemy, never ceasing even at the sight of their comrades' bodies all around them. I look into their eyes as they press my hands, asking me to bid a mother, father, wife, or sweetheart goodbye for them. I do my best to save them; often it is not enough.
Yet, still, when I walk out from my quarters, I always tremble in mortal fear for my own safety.
Vividly I remember the day I decided to join. My ever stern colleague spoke with me. "Dr. Watson, you have already served your country well once. No one will think the worse of you if you choose to stay; after all many are going already. Civilian doctors are still needed as well."
I could not logically argue with him. I could only think of my young nephew and his bright, eager face after signing up, unaware of the horrors that awaited him on the battlefield, and of the thousands of men like him. And then, of myself, comfortably and conveniently safe in Kensington, nursing my old wounds as "the Hun's" airplanes swarmed over London.
Death would not be such a formidable prospect as it once was, I reassured myself. Mary was gone, my money and property could easily be divested of. There was Holmes, of course, but, as he too was in harm's way, there was no guarantee, even of his survival.
Yet here I was, flinching, ducking, and shaking with horror at the explosion of every bomb.
As my eyes wander around my sparse quarters, they fall for the umpteenth time on the two photographs I have clumsily attached to the wall. One is of my Mary alone, the other of us, taken on our wedding day, with family and friends.
I cannot help glancing and smiling again at my wife's radiantly beautiful smile. Dear, dear Mary.
My eyes then shift to the second photograph; to the tall figure standing behind me. His solemn face stared into the camera, the keen vivacity of his eyes relieving the severity of his composed expression.
He wouldn't be afraid, I knew. For I was always brave when I was with him. Death, mystery, the grotesque ... all these elements we braved together. There was a reassuring strength about him that he never lost, even in the most fearful situations.
It had been months since I had heard from him. It was likely that this was due to confidentiality. It was also just as likely that he was dead. Or perhaps captured by the enemy, as valuable as he is to the Allies...
Just now a grenade comes too close for comfort, bringing dust down from the ceiling of my makeshift quarters. Rapidly I duck. After some minutes I rise to my feet and heave a deep sigh that expresses only a fraction of what I feel this evening. Again I stare at Holmes' solemn face.
"God be with you, my dear fellow."