A/N: Hello all! Sorry I've been so absent lately. School is getting ever nearer to finals, meaning less and less time to spend in lovely Victorian England. *pouts* BUT, tonight, I had a lot of free time, and no internet connection to deistract me, so I spent alot of time writing. It was great, especially cause the muses were cooperating. :) This story is based off of yet another of KCS's sentences. This idea is one I have been toying with for ages, but I only just got it up to my satisfaction. I'm still a trifle nervous about it being IC, especially Holmes, since I'm more of a Watson personality. Let me know what you think?
Rated T for slightly graphic images concerning war, and medicine thereof. No other warnings, not slash.
Disclaimer: I never have, nor will ever own Holmes, or Watson. I tell myself this everyday, and it's something I'm coming to terms with, and accepting it the only way I know how....writing ff! :)
Enjoy!
#42 – Talk
When Netley asked him just before the Boer War to deliver a lecture on field surgery, he was touched by Holmes's attendance – but when, during a description of bone-sawing, the detective turned the colour of congealing porridge and stumbled hurriedly from the lecture hall, Watson realised that now he was not the one in need of the moral support.
I heard his footsteps slowly approaching where I sat slumped, knees drawn up, against an open window, the cool spring air feeling soothing against my flushed face. He sat beside me, and I blushed anew to think of how I had rushed from the hall, his speech forgotten, to purge my stomach like a fainting schoolgirl. Even now my innards rolled.
Watson looked worriedly at my face, and I ducked my head to peer out the window.
"How did the rest of the lecture go?" I asked calmly. He leant back, and pulled his knees up as well.
"Well enough. I was glad to help." He said, "Though I confess I was a bit concerned when a certain friend of mine staggered out halfway through." His tone rose, inviting me to explain. But how could I? How could I tell my courageous friend, that though I had heard the stories of the wars, I had not imagined it was like….that. Hearing men crying out for water, their limbs all but falling from them in the heat and infection. Blood coating the floor, the men, your own clothes, and hands. Dying under your hands, and there was nothing, nothing you could do, save perhaps ease their pain, but only if some other agonized soul did not need the medicine first.
The thoughts and images that had assaulted me in the lecture hall had been enough to make my belly turn over, and the bile rise in the back of my throat. I left, I ran from my blasted vivid imagination, to my shame, barely making it to the washroom in time before vomiting into the basin. I was still shaky a half hour later, waiting for Watson to come comfort me. Me! As if it were I who had lived through that nightmare.
I looked with new eyes at Watson, seeing the steel core within him to withstand that. To have survived, not only physically, but spiritually. A lesser man would have succumbed to madness with such memories. I would have, I was sure. I no longer wondered at the nightmares that occasionally broke poor Watson's sleep. I swallowed my thoughts and nausea and smiled at him, pulling on all my skills at thespianism.
"Come Watson," I said in what passed, I hoped, for my normal voice. "We look like a couple of school boys huddled in the windows, instead of the old men that we are." I stood and stretched.
Watson joined me, and I prided myself that my knees did not shake as we walked outside of that stuffy building together.
The cab ride found me silent, and Watson sneaking concerned glances at me from over the top of his paper. I had hoped, however that any expression of concern would vanish with my pretending all was well. I found, however, that my skills as an actor we not as good as I supposed. As we stepped out of the cab at the train station, Watson put his hand upon my arm and leaned to my ear.
"Tell me what happened? What's unsettled you so?"
"I hadn't pictured it." I murmured. His brow furrowed.
"Hadn't pictured what?"
"What you were speaking on, the death, the battle. I suddenly could see you there….going though that pain, heartache….I could not bear it." I whispered
I turned to face him.
"To have survived that with your mind, and more impressive your heart, intact is amazing to me."
His face showed astonishment, and we boarded the train in silence, each mulling in our own thoughts. We found a private compartment, and I sat gratefully. I eagerly pulled out a cigarette. I needed something to settle my nerves. I was in the act of lighting it when Watson suddenly gripped my arm.
"It was worth the battle, and blood, to have come to London and meet you." He turned his face to me, his jaw determined. "Do you think I could have survived the memories without your friendship, dear boy? I'm not as strong as all that. "
I protested, but he held up a hand.
"I was falling. That day in the chemical laboratory, I said yes because I had no other hope. My days were dark. My nights worse. My money was running out, slipping away with the drink and the gambling." He leaned closer.
"You saved me, my dear Holmes." I stared at him, wondering how he could not see that it was just the opposite. I cleared my throat, then I glanced around, out at the rolling countryside.
This is why I avoid emotional discussions. They're so duecedly awkward! I finally mumbled what I hoped was a suitable response.
"It was quite mutual, my friend." There! I half-smiled at him.
He smiled back at me. Then, having done my duty, I began to critique Watson on his public speaking, and we passed the rest of the train ride home in a (thankfully!)lighter mood.
A/N: I hope I got Holmes' voice right! This is the first thing I've published with his POV, and it was nervewracking! Please let me know what you think of it? Thanks! Ari