Chapter 3

While waiting for him to finish his experiment, something to do with the blood test of yesterday, I leaned against a table and went back in time. I remembered when I had spent time in here, for the science part of my classes for becoming a practicing doctor. I had enjoyed it; my partner had been Stamford, who made everything fun. He was just so happy and easy-going, and any mistakes we made, we sometimes fell to laughing even before the class was dismissed. Those had been some of the best years of my life, those spent here at college.

Soon enough, though, the army invaded my thoughts, and I remembered the worst part of the fighting. The battle at Maiwand, where so many had died that the doctors and orderlies were the majority of the ones standing. I had just watched the boys die from the other side that I could have saved, had we not been on a battlefield where amputation was the lifesaver; when a burst of red-hot pain in my shoulder had ended the war for me.

Murray, my orderly, had saved me. He had seen I was down, and had ridden out, where the horse makes a bigger target. I was keeping myself from blacking out from the pain with difficulty, so I wasn't much help getting myself up on the horse. He realized that we were over enemy lines, and he spurred the horse into a gallop, the Ghazis chasing us for what seems like hours.

Finally, I was sent, along with a great train of other wounded men, to the base camp of Peshawar. There I recovered until I got the fever. Those were months of pain and sweat and hovering so close to deaths door that afterwards, I had a new respect for the dying.

Suddenly, I was jerked back to the present by the sensation of eyes on me. Holmes was staring at me, ready to leave. I started, flustered, and looked away from his piercing eyes.

When we reached Number 221B Baker Street, I was relieved that it would rather be like in college, where we would share a living room and there were two bedrooms as well as a sitting room off to the side to the living room. I decided to bring my things tonight, while Holmes was planning on bring his things tomorrow morning.

We parted cheerily enough and I spent some hours organizing my things, finally falling on to bed exhausted. I spent a peaceful night, for once, a long sleep with no former comrades visiting me.

In the morning, I woke a little past dawn, hearing rustles and footsteps in the living room. I didn't think, I grabbed my army pistol and crept to the doorway, opening the door silently, ready to shoot.

"Holmes!" I said explosively, relief and anger in my voice. He whipped around to find himself staring down the barrel of my gun.

As I lowered it, he said conversationally, "Are you a good shot?"

I raised my eyebrows, but said, civilly enough, "Yes. I was in a war. You have to be." I walked past him, my gun at my side, to close the door of our flat.

"Hmmm . . ." Holmes' eyes were back on the book he was holding, and I sank down on the chair beside the dark fireplace with a groan. My shoulder was throbbing in pain, and I imagined I could still feel where the bullet had been lodged in a flight of fancy. My eyes closed and immediately, I was transported back to the heat and sun of India. The brightly colored natives, tanned brown by the sun, the Englishmen on break standing out like albino crows, the fellow doctors, eyes dull with blood and death, and the soldiers, going out to die, but so brave at the end, where the regrets of their short lives come up and meet them. The wives left behind, the mothers who cried when they left, the fathers, so distant but proud of their son defending their country against the rebelling natives of India.

I wrenched open my eyes before the scenes of the battlefield hospital could enter my mind. Again. So I watched Holmes unpack his things, slowly and methodical. He sat cross-legged in front of an old box with what looked like rusty metal objects, papers, and spent ages going through it. I let my eyes rest on his black-clad figure while my mind wandered.

"I'm going out." I said abruptly, getting up after a while, my muscles protesting. I made it to my room without limping, but sat heavily on the side of the bed for a moment. I finally grabbed my cane and walked through the living room, which now looked like a windstorm had hit. I looked back at my new roommate at the door; he hadn't even looked up. I smiled slightly and left, shutting the door quietly.

I went to the address where Stamford had said I could find him, a small apartment building, not unlike the ones I had just divided, but his landlady said he had gone out very early that morning and hadn't come back. I tipped my hat to her in thanks and decided not to leave a message for him.

So I strolled down streets, not really paying attention to where I was going.

By the time I made it back to my new home, I was limping pretty badly, but I managed the steps better than I thought. Holmes was nowhere to be seen, but the living room looked better now than before I had left. I fell asleep in front of the fire almost immediately.

The next thing I knew was a voice in my ear, saying, "Watson! Wake up!" My eyes opened, the men on the battlefield fading to mist, and the screams into nothing. I cursed quietly, wishing my comrades of India would leave me alone so I could have one night of good sleep. I saw an unfamiliar face in front of me, gray eyes and black hair, hawk-like nose and square chin. I sat up straight and felt for my cane. The man, crouching next to the chair, handed me my cane. At the sight of his ink- and chemical-stained hands, I remembered who he was, my new roommate.

"I'm fine." I said quickly, standing up, Holmes backed away and nodded. I nodded back and turned to go to my room. There I sat on the edge of the bed, sighing. Finally I gathered enough strength to lay back and pull the covers over my head.