GRATEFUL FOR YOUR SERVICE
Ian learns of John's return from Afghanistan and wonders how he can help.
Ian initialed the memo for his secretary and turned to the next piece of correspondence.
His heart lurched as he looked at the envelope with its "return to sender" stamp across the address. "That's odd," he said lightly, trying not to show how terrified he was.
It was a routine letter, sent from his "scholarship fund"—the fund that had ever only supported one student, John Watson. It had been his way of paying for the boy's university education, including medical school. Despite his agreement with John's parents that he would not interfere, he had wanted to do something for the boy when he headed off to school and this scholarship had been how. He knew the Watsons had wanted John to earn his way, but a university education was expensive, and Ian had felt guilty having the money to pay for it, so … this scholarship fund. It hadn't covered everything, so John had still had to work, just … not quite so hard.
It had given Ian the rare pleasure of meeting the boy, too. He'd attended his graduation "on behalf of" the scholarship committee and had finally been able to see his son face to face, to shake his hand. He still remembered the look on his mother's face, too—resigned amusement, as if she had known all along and had been humoring him. Then again, maybe she had. John's mother had never been stupid, and it's not like his wealth was a secret. Or maybe it had just been the blessings of the day—sunshine and bright promise—that had made her forgive that one, sole meeting.
Sadly, much of the day's promise had failed. John's mother had died within the year of a particularly brutal form of cancer. His sister had turned to alcohol and was now having trouble holding down a job, and John had joined the army to get away from all the grief.
It had nearly broken Ian's heart. He had never realized how hard it would be to worry about a son he could not acknowledge who was risking his life in a war zone every day.
He had always wanted to claim the boy, but the Watsons had been determined to keep him, and Ian was not the type to break up a family. He had agreed to stay away, but insisted on helping with mortgage payments, to keep a roof overhead. He had tried to keep an eye on John from afar, but it had been hard—especially once Ian had a wife and children of his own. If he hadn't been keeping track of the years, he could have missed John heading off to university altogether.
After John's mother died, Ian had thought about contacting him and telling him the truth, but decided the emotional turmoil would be too hard, too much, coming on top of losing his mother. Instead, he had stood back and watched as his (oldest and unacknowledged) son joined the army and tried not to burst with pride.
He had initiated a means of keeping tabs, though—an annual letter from the "scholarship fund," asking for alumni news. John Watson had been raised to be grateful and polite, and so he had always responded, which is how Ian had learned of his promotion to Captain—though John modestly never reported any of the medals he won.
But now … this.
The army had returned his letter.
That couldn't possibly be good news. If John's address had changed, they would normally just forward it, wouldn't they? Or report the new address back to the sender? But they hadn't done that. They just sent it back, no explanation.
His brain tried to whisper that surely it would be stamped "Deceased" if John were dead, but his heart wouldn't listen, already clenched with fear. Would the army let a loved one learn about a death in such a callous fashion?
He looked up at his assistant. "Get me General Admunson on the phone, would you? It's not urgent, but I'd like to talk to him."
He pivoted toward the window as she left the room, and tried to fight down the fear clawing up his throat. John couldn't be dead, could he? No, he couldn't. This was just a bureaucratic mix-up, somehow. John had a new address, perhaps. Or maybe his tour was over and he was home? There was no reason to jump to the wrong conclusion.
His phone buzzed and he swung back to grab it. "Mitch?" he said in greeting. "How're you doing?"
"I'm good, Ian, can't complain … much. What can I do for you today?"
Ian smiled a tight, dry smile. His old school mate never beat around the bush, and years in the military had just reinforced that. "It's a little irregular, but I was hoping you could get me some information about a soldier. A letter I sent him came back in the mail and … I'd just like to …"
"Know if something happened to him?" Mitch's voice was calm. He probably got calls like this every week.
"If it's not too much trouble." Ian had to clear his throat to get past a whisper. He gave John's information and agreed to hold while Mitch ran it through the computers.
After a few (endless, agonizing, eternal) minutes, Mitch was back. "Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he said, clearly reading from a file. "39 years old, on his third tour. Well, Ian, you'll be glad to know that he is not dead, but he's been invalided home. Came under fire while helping a patient—shot in the shoulder, it says here. Saved two, possibly three, lives before passing out from loss of blood. Near full recovery expected, according to the doc on scene. Possibly some loss of function from nerve damage, but that should be minimal—though seeing that he's a surgeon, that's bad luck. Could be worse. I guess the army postal service lost track of where he was when you sent your letter."
The air in Ian's lungs felt like it had doubled in weight, he could barely manage to breathe. John had been shot? "But … he's back home, you say?"
"I've got a London address for him, one of those temporary housing bedsits for while he's in therapy. I can give you that, if you like."
"Please." Ian wrote down the information with a shaking hand, trying hard to sound normal on the phone. "I can't thank you enough, Mitch."
"S'no problem. How do you know him, anyway?"
"We funded his schooling through medical school, and like to keep tabs. Nothing special."
The skepticism practically roiled through the phone. "Right. And the Chairman of the company himself is the one to make this call?"
"I like to stay involved, Mitch."
"Sure you do." A few keyboard taps, and then, "You know, there's a photo attached to his file. He looks remarkably like an old schoolmate of mine."
Ian froze. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, really. According to the record, he's a good soldier, too. Resourceful, brave, and incredibly caring as a doctor. That's a rare combination—most men are good at one or the other, but to be both a soldier and a doctor? And good at both? Unique. No real complaints in the entire file, either. Lots of commendations. You can be proud of the … education … you funded. We'll be sorry to lose him."
Ian gave a deep breath. "Thanks for your help, Mitch."
"My pleasure, Ian. Get together sometime soon? It's been too long."
"I'd like that," Ian told him, and then said good-bye and hung up the phone, thinking hard.
Thank God he's not dead, was his first thought, but … shot? His son had been shot? Nerve damage in his shoulder? For a surgeon? That would be career-ending.
What could he do to help?
#
Captain Watson,The scholarship alumni committee recently learned of your injuries in Afghanistan, and wish to extend our sympathies. We are grateful for your years of service to Queen and Country and make it our policy to aid any of our alumni who have served.
To that end, please find enclosed a check for £5,000. Consider it gratitude from a grateful scholarship committee on behalf of a grateful nation.
In addition, if you need help finding a new position, please don't forget that our career guidance is available to alumni as well as to current students.
Please do keep us informed of your current address in case of further announcements.
Sincerely, etc…
#
"They just sent you a check? No messy paperwork? No forms to fill out in triplicate? That's odd, isn't it?" Sherlock had actually sat up on the couch, arrested by John's news.
John was sitting in his chair, staring at the check. "Very odd, but I'm not exactly in a position to complain, am I? This will cover my part of the security deposit and give me a start on the rent while I look for a job. Its timing couldn't be better."
Sherlock dropped the letter on the coffee table and sniffed as he lay back down. "I'd cash that check in a hurry if I were you, just in case it's a trick of some kind. Getting money is never that easy. And hang on to the letter in case somebody tries to con you about this later on."
"Well, if they do, at least I have a detective to help track down the crooks," John said with a grin at his new flatmate. "Meanwhile, I'll just send them my new address, shall I? In case they want to send any more?"
#
221B Baker Street? Ian stared at the change of address card John had thoughtfully sent back with a thank you note. It was a remarkably good location for an unemployed doctor on an army pension. It sounded familiar, too. Hadn't he heard something …?
He reached for his laptop and googled the address and came across The Science of Deduction. Of course. Sherlock Holmes. He snorted, looking at the website. How pretentious, really. So stuffy, taking itself so seriously. Just like the Holmes family.
He paused as another thought occurred, and he did another quick search. Ah, yes.
Moments later, he was reading the blog of John Watson. There was very little there, but there was a new post about … well, a new flatmate, and a chase through London that ended with catching that cabbie serial killer Ian had read about.
He leaned back in his chair as he pondered that. He'd never met Sherlock, but he knew his parents and occasionally saw Mycroft at charity events and such. They were one of those families that were reserved, that you didn't hear much about, yet that you knew were quietly powerful in the background. And fiercely loyal. If John had moved in with Sherlock and was solving crimes with him, chances were he'd be just fine.
Having a flatmate who was a soldier and a doctor could only be beneficial to Sherlock, too, if he was going to go chasing criminals. And for a soldier and a doctor who had just lost not just one but both professions at one blow? This could be just what he needed.
Yes, suddenly he wasn't worried at all.
#
