A sequel to Lost
He remembered stumbling over a blood soaked body, the noise of gunfire still ringing in his ears. Behind him he heard McPherson fall as well, and felt a sinking despair; He was the last doctor left alive then. But the thought was short lived as a sudden explosion sounded very near his ear and a sharp searing pain blossomed in his chest.
He remembered looking down and seeing the blood soak into his shirt from the wound on his chest. It was, he vaguely felt, a somewhat disturbing experience but then, what was not anymore? His knees hit the dirt, and soldiers leapt over him and disappeared into the mists ahead, soldiers he remembered being killed only moments before.
Or perhaps it was only a dark haunting dream and he would wake up with Holmes bending over him with a candle in hand, his face expressionless, his eyes haunted with worry? Holmes, who would lead him away when the game was afoot?
Holmes…
But this was no dream and he was not going to wake up. The searing pain was becoming too much and felt his body become lighter. It was almost a relief, to leave this cumbersome body behind, whose every joint ached, whose mind carried memories of a past he had wished to return to. The body which had been of no use to anyone but Holmes…
Holmes was waiting…
Get up, you old fool! Sherlock Holmes is waiting for you! Remember what you promised him.
Yes, a promise to return…
And you can't do that if you die! Remember what your promises amount to, John Watson! Remember what he means to you!
But he was so tired, and the voice was fading away. Peace at least….
A moment later strong hands were shaking him, and he opened his eyes to find Daniels looking down at him, Daniels who was shot down just minutes ago.
He was saying something…but it was hard to focus, even though the sounds of war had faded into the background, how odd…
Did he wish to see someone?
See someone? Yes, oh yes, he did very much. He remembered Daniels nodding and pointing.
But how could he leave during the war?
He remembered Daniels smiling sadly. He would understand very soon.
He looked down to see himself sprawled on the ground. Now that was strange…
He saw a soldier leap out of the bushes and grab hold of his arm and drag him into the cover, his face streaked with tears. He remembered him; of course it was Sanders, Harry Sanders. Good lad, he always knew that he would make it…
Time seemed to pass away from him, every step he took seemed to take up a hour, shouldn't it be the opposite, shouldn't spirit be able to fly, move faster then time itself, because Death was something else in itself? Because, he was dead.
He remembered at last settling near a church he vaguely remembered in his final march to the field. He looked around wondering what he was doing here, and spotted the tall thin figure heading up the stairs. His heart missed a beat. It was Holmes.
The mists clouding away his vision cleared, and he hurried up the stairs, following Holmes. He saw him enter the church and talk to the cleric and then disappear into a small room in the side.
He entered it. It was clouded over with the aura of death and candles stood out in either end. Holmes was leaning over the bed in the corner of the room, his hands trembling and smoothing back the hair from his forehead.
It was him, he knew. He recognized the uniform, and saw Holmes bowed over his body, his hand gripping his tightly, his lips moving almost as if murmuring to himself. So typical of Holmes, why the deuce couldn't he speak his thoughts out aloud?
You really are insufferable, Holmes.
He almost smiles, as Holmes thinks out an answer and the conversation bandies back and forth. Then at last, he is done. Holmes rises to his feet, the cleric has come. With slow but quickening steps, Holmes is out of the door and out of the room.
It is time, my son.
He can feel the pull but he doesn't want to go yet, doesn't want to leave Holmes yet…
He can see you once. I give allowance for that.
Can he really?
Yes.
At the very moment Holmes turns his head to look at him, and stops. He knows he can see him.
I will be watching you Holmes. Until we meet again I shall always be with you.
Holmes looks at him and the look in his eyes is enough.
Watson gives a last smile and disappears.