Author name: DocJorgensen
Category: Angst, Friendship
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson
Rating: K
Summary: Holmes and the Great War.
DISCLAIMER: I own naught, alas.
Author Notes: I originally wrote this for my Warrior series, but then realized it didn't fit quite right, so I made it a new story. God, I love playing in Sherlock Holmes' head!
"Alone"
In beginning days and weeks of 1914, I should admit that I would have scoffed at the idea of entering the little church. Indeed, I gave nary a glance to that little gray church with slate steeple, and continued on my way.
Silent, sat the village green. Composed, he would have called it – a face stalwart, not yet knowing the price owed.
In my deepest breast, I might admit to the smallest thread of anxiety, but the man, whom solely I might have confessed to, had deserted me, for the War.
He sent missives, some with scraps of poetry, tales of the men he commanded, and as much companionship they provided, I knew with bitter certainty, that I was alone.
In the long months that stretched from 1915 to 1916, I stood, sometimes, gazing upon the little Church. Oftentimes I would see a woman, gray and huddled against the wind, exiting, face full of fear and hope.
And I wondered what drove them to seek assurance. Prayers from my tongue would not come, would not come – for my soul, my heart, was in a bloody place, that they called France.
But then came silence. Letters arrived no more from the crippled surgeon, who took the place of younger men in that War.
I could only fear he was dead.
My clenched hands, shaking upon the dark oak of the pew, my eyes affixed heavenward.
Stubborn, my mouth issued no pleas, but in my mind I cried out, for hope, for some sign.
Anything to keep me from this agony.
This unknowing.
--And then it was, in the dark days and tumultuous nights of 1917, and in the sharp winds and desperate passions that arose in my breast in 1918, that my fears became most destitute.
I could see with certainty, some dreadful day in 1919, and the grey gravestone, that could become my dearest companion. Dr. John Watson, a man greatly beloved [1] it would read and I would have died a thousand times over in my heart, for letting him go at all.
But perhaps, that was better than to lie buried and worse still, forgotten, in a muddy trench grave surrounded by his foes, in far off France.
And yet, and yet, I was unknowing.
Still, I visited the old church, and prayers flew ever ready on the winds and breaths of my cognizance.
But I knew.
My soul was fled from me, far removed.
My mind divined the truth – I was alone.
[A/N]: Fresh cookies to anyone who can spot the poetry reference in the last two sentences.
[1] – This is the inscription on Dr. Joseph Belle's tombstone, that doctor-teacher of Sir Arthur's who inspired Sherlock Holmes.