"He might be dead." Muttered Hamish Watson to no one in particular.
He was alone at home and had opened up a bottle of whiskey. Now that he thought about it, it might not be the first bottle. He couldn't bring himself to care. He climbed up the stairs with difficulty, stumbling and swearing. The stairs opened into a corridor, Hamish's room was the second door.
But the door to the first room was open. Hamish couldn't ignore it. The room was calling him. He tumbled thought the door and instantly regretted it.
John's room. He hadn't entered since his departure, but it was all exactly the same. Everything was cleaned and dusted regularly by the maid. His single bed was tucked in the far-left corner as if sleep were unimportant. His desk was neat and clean facing a window on the right, his medical books sorted by topic on a rickety bookshelf along the far wall.
Hamish had just enough time to sit down before passing out.
The next morning, he awoke, still in his brother's bedroom. He was feeling alright, in till he looked over at John's bed. Then he remembered.
John had gone to war. He had stopped writing. Hamish had no way to know what had happened.
Hamish wanted to sob. Some big brother he was, letting his brother go to war.
His little Johnny.
