I force myself to relax, and my eyes to close as the train continues on its route.

I have asked Watson not to disturb me until we reach our destination, and know that he will honor that request.

There it was again.

That blasted word has haunted my thoughts ever since the beginning of this affair.

No doubt my friend is even now composing some overdramatic title to catch the eyes of all of his devoted readers; he would never miss the opportunity to write up such an intriguing case for the public's enjoyment.

I can picture my friend's excitement at sharing such a mysterious tale with his readers. His delight as he takes care to portray the facts in the most florid and romantic terms possible, and praises my methods which led to the discovery of the truth behind the late Colonel Barclay's death.

He will wax lyrical on the cool and logical attitude I maintained throughout this affair, emphasize my contempt for anything resembling an emotional reaction to any information revealed.

His readers will automatically accept his portrayal of my character; never seek to question what my friend has taken such care to present.

Many with the exception of Watson, my brother and a few close friends, know that I always seek to govern my emotions; otherwise they would often keep me from reaching the truth of the many problems set before me.

But that does not mean that I feel nothing. Instead I choose to keep such reactions from surfacing in posture, voice or expression.

And in this case it is fury which fills me as I consider all that Henry Wood endured during the years of his exile.

Were it not for the persuasive arguments of Watson I would have never consented to keep the facts secret. And the fact that for the sake of the blasted honor of the regiment I must not speak of the true characters of Barclay and Wood is to me a grave wrong.

I care not that the late James Barclay was known as a respected commander, nor for the rigid sense of honor which the military prizes so highly.

Yes, there is a place for honor and many of the other noble emotions which govern the chivalric attitudes of many of my countrymen and soldiers. Indeed such ideas are held sacred in many corners of the world. But what Barclay did poisoned the foundations of such beliefs, and there are many more like him for who words such as honor, faith or reputation mean nothing.

Were it not for such men I would have no profession.

Instead I want to lay the true facts of this despicable story before the world, to shatter the fine reputation of Barclay until he is known for what he is. A traitor to his country, a coward and a faithless human being.

Truly his widow called him David, condemned him in the most damning terms possible.

I should have known as soon as the servants had given me that significant clue, looked into every possible avenue that name presented.

Instead I spent endless hours and energy in fruitless suppositions and inquiries, when all along the key to the mystery lay in one simple name.

Even now after the case is over, I am not satisfied with its outcome.

Watson's comment that I should not sneer at the importance of honor does little to cool my anger.

I know my friend is as furious about the conduct of the late Colonel as I, and yet he is determined to make sure that the reputation of the regiment remains untarnished.

It makes no sense to me, for James Barclay's actions were as far from honorable as night is different from day.

Perhaps if the story were kept silent for the sake of Nancy, I might be able to reconcile myself to the outcome of this affair.

But because men cannot abide the idea that a soldier might not be all they believe, I must keep silent.

And then there is Henry Wood. He has also requested my silence, but at least I can understand his reasons for wishing the knowledge to be kept secret. I might not agree with his decision, but he like Watson has my deepest respect and so I will not break his confidence.

By all rights it is Henry Wood who should receive the honors of a hero, instead because men refuse to acknowledge the deplorable actions of a coward masquerading as a man of courage and integrity, the truth behind this case will never be revealed.

Wood might claim that he does not now desire vengeance, but I know what I saw in his eyes as he told his story. Not vengeance, but a burning desire for someone who could truly understand his pain and suffering, for just one of his countrymen who could share his need for his tale to be received with compassion.

Watson is far more capable than I of offering sympathy and understanding to Wood. He will know how to address a fellow comrade, speak to him in a way I never could, for they share a warrior's code and devotion to duty.

I glance over at Watson, absorbed in his book; his face is relaxed and content. How often will I choose to underestimate him, dismiss his ideas and insights when they have shown themselves to be of equal value to any of my triumphs of deductive reasoning and observation.

How many cases would have benefited from his unique skills if I had had the inclination to ask for his assistance?

At least one good thing has come of this affair, I will Endeavour to never underestimate my friend's talents again, try to ask for his opinions and theories whenever a problem is brought to my attention.

I know he thinks himself my inferior in logical deduction, and I have done nothing to discourage that belief.

It is because I love so passionately the challenges of my profession, and the thrill and triumph of my methods over the accepted tactics of the law, that I do not want to allow even the smallest portion of my victory to be credited to anything other than the logical deductions I so highly favor.

But beyond that is a deeper reason, one which I have struggled to lock away in the deepest recesses of my mind, for I cannot bear to entertain the idea that my worst fear may become reality.

I never want to lead Watson into danger. He will not if I can prevent it become gravely injured, or God forbid taste death because of me.

Yet time and time again he has stood by my side, with the steadfastness of a true warrior and the loyalty of the closest of friends.

I have always known that my efforts the keep him from danger will be futile, that this vow I have renewed seconds ago will be broken once again the moment a case becomes deadly.

And as on those other occasions I can do nothing to stop my dearest friend from accompanying me, though everything within me is urging me to ask him to remain out of the line of fire.

But Watson, as this case has proven to my stubborn mind once again, is a soldier, has learned well the lessons forced upon him by war, hardship and loss.

Would that I also possessed the wisdom my dearest friend learned during his time as a soldier.

But I know only the reports which have made their way back to England of each conflict, the strategies and speculations of those in government, and what little Watson has chosen to share.

I have watched him struggle with his demons through nightmares, longed to know how I might help him battle the specters of memory which continue to haunt him with relentless tenacity.

But in the end, I can only watch and offer what meager support that lies within my power to give, knowing that I can never truly identify with all he has suffered because I have never tasted the realities of war.

He has my deepest respect and gratitude for the sacrifices he has made, and it is for those reasons I often defer to him upon matters of a military nature.

And yet once again this case has shown that I do not truly value his knowledge of a soldier's mind, or consider his insightful comments concerning the various people we encounter worth investigation.

His perspective is so unlike mine, one based not upon logic alone, but a viewpoint where emotional, visual and intellectual impressions lead to intriguing conclusions.

The announcement that we have reached Waterloo Station interrupts my musings.

Watson places a gentle hand on my shoulder, informing me softly that we have reached our destination.

Together we exit the train in a pensive silence, and I cannot help but wonder what thoughts are passing through the mind of my closest friend.

Within a few minutes we find a cab and are on our way back to Bakers Street.

I am tempted to ask Watson about his conversation with Wood, but restrain my curiosity with an effort.

Not every aspect of a case need be known to me, and if I am right my friend helped to restore to a broken man something I suspect he has not known for thirty years.

The chance for friendship, hope and perhaps something deeper if Nancy is as strong and loyal as Ronald Murphy claims.

Such a treasure would help to recompense Henry Wood for all he has endured because of the twisted desires of the late Colonel.

Perhaps in time I might ask Watson for his thoughts on this affair, but for now I am content.

Note from the authoress: My thanks To KCS, whose excellent portrayal of Holmes was my inspiration for this chapter. I found it easier to write in the first person for this chapter, hopefully it didn't confuse my readers.

I've a few more ideas for this story, but would love everyone's thoughts on which direction to take this tale.

I'm definitely including Watson's thoughts, but would anyone like to see James Barclay's perspective?

Or perhaps Henry and Nancy's wedding?

Any and all ideas are welcome.

Thanks again for all the great reviews, I appreciate all of you taking the time to leave your thoughts.

As always feedback for this chapter is greatly appreciated.