Not Going Back
Sherlock and his brother sat across from each other in the armchairs, both sitting with their legs crossed and fingers tapping away at the armrests, apparently in the middle of an intense staring contest.
John decided to put the groceries away first. Mycroft didn't look like he was going to leave anytime soon.
"Hello Mycroft. Thanks for the press statement, much appreciated! All of Britain knows me now and believe it or not, I still don't want to talk about that day, let alone with complete strangers!" John huffed as he entered the lounge.
"Ah yes, John. We had to release a statement, you know that. After all, my lovely assistant spoke to you yesterday to get quotes from you for it. We received the information that The Daily Mail had managed to identify you from the pixellated photographs and we made the decision to issue an official confirmation before the rumours could spread."
"Yeah well… I wasn't exactly thinking straight when I spoke to Anthea last night. A little heads up that this was going to appear today would have been nice. I couldn't even tell my sister or Mrs. Hudson in person. Next to getting shot, this is the biggest thing to ever happen to me and I couldn't even tell the ones closest to me myself! I'd like to think that I've known you Holmes brothers long enough to expect that sort of courtesy, at least. I don't think that's too much to ask for, do you?"
Mycroft tried his best to look suitably chastised for a second, but John held up his hand and continued. He had to get a few things off his chest, after all.
"It's all a bit much, don't you think? Yesterday, I had to watch and relive the worst day of my life. Then you dropped a bombshell by telling me that I'll not only get the Military Cross, but also the Victoria Cross for the actions I had to watch myself take. Do you have any idea what it's like to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder? I know you believe I never had it to start with, but let me tell you, as a doctor, that it's real and it's debilitating! I'd got better over the last few years. Yesterday tore all my effort and hard worked-for progress to shreds; it was like I was there again, experiencing it all again. That day, that afternoon, is playing on repeat in my mind, Mycroft, and now I have strangers come up to me asking for all the gory details!"
"John, while I understand your view, you know we didn't leak the story. We had to release an official statement and it was best to identify you and get quotes from you as well, rather than have the nation speculate, eventually work it out and have half the press in this country camp on your doorstep to get a comment. Please believe me that I am not in the habit of divulging information about top secret operations freely, nor do I have any interest in making your long term medical condition worse."
"It's a bit late for that, don't you think, Mycroft?"
John sat down on the sofa with his back ramrod straight and his hands between his knees.
"John, I know you have been through more than that video showed." Mycroft held up a thick manila file with John's name and rank in bold lettering written across the cover.
"Mycroft! Bloody hell, are those my service records? What are you doing with my file?" The former soldier wasn't just agitated anymore, he was downright furious.
"I came by to give it to you. You can choose how much you feel comfortable sharing, of course, it is your own information after all, but if the recurrence of your PTSD-induced night terrors is anything to go by, I suggest that you either tell my brother about the rest or you let him read your file. I guarantee he has the necessary security clearance."
"Mycroft Holmes, who I share my entire life story with and when is none of your bloody business! How would you like having to share your entire career with me in detail, hm? All the bad decisions, everything you have seen, done, had to endure?" John looked at Mycroft expectantly, but the government official chose to remain silent.
"Yeah, didn't think so! And as for PTSD – there are many things that can trigger panic attacks. Reliving and watching my worst nightmare just happens to be one of those things for me as I found out last night, but it could just as well be a car backfiring or the kettle whistling!"
John was desperately trying to keep his voice calm and steady, and he clenched his hands into fists to keep the tremour away. Of course, both Holmes brothers noticed.
"John, I didn't come here with the intention of upsetting you. You need to understand that."
"Then what did you come here for, Mycroft?"
"Yes, Mycroft, to what do we owe the disputable pleasure of your company, on a Sunday no less?" Sherlock had been quiet until then, watching John intently.
"I came here to congratulate John on the Victoria Cross. I knew they'd make the right decision. It was a toss-up between this and the George Cross for a while, but in the end, John's actions were the very definition of what the Victoria Cross stands for – daring valour, self-sacrifice and extreme devotion to duty in the presence of the enemy – and the final decision was unanimous."
Mycroft smiled tight-lipped at John. "While checking your military records though, I have come across a matter that I'd like to discuss with you."
John looked up at Mycroft, intrigue and worry equally visible on his face.
"I know you left the Royal Army Medical Corps in 2002, became an officer and you were invalided home in 2009 when you received an honourable medical discharge. However, just like you are a registered GP with the General Medical Council, you also retained your membership of the Medical Corps Register."
John took that statement in and thought about it for a few seconds. His brows knitted together in confusion.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Mycroft?"
"I'm afraid so. For some reason, it appears you were kept on the reserve register as an army GP."
John gasped, a million emotions playing across his face within seconds. But shock and disbelief were the ones that remained when he found his voice again.
"What? Come again?" he asked, incredulous and with wide eyes.
"That's got to be illegal! Mycroft, take me off the bloody register! I left the RAMC years ago and I was invalided home… I received a medical discharge because I'm not fit to command troops in battle anymore, thanks to the seizures I suffered. And I would have to join the RAMC again. Even if I felt fit to go, my superior would have to take responsibility for me. But who would do that? Who would take me on, given my medical history, hm? The army has a very strict policy on this, so why are they breaking their own rules? If I'm kept on the register, they could call me up again at any time and I would have to go! The army made it abundantly clear that they had no use for me anymore. I served my country for fifteen years; I will not risk being redeployed, no matter how small the chance might be! I had no say in this, wasn't even informed! Take me off the register today, Mycroft, or I swear if I get called up I'm taking you with me to see how you like life in a war zone!" John's face had gone red in anger, he was furious.
"I thought so, John. That's why I felt it best to bring it to your attention! Consider yourself discharged once and for all. I will put the paperwork through personally." Mycroft was quick to placate him, keeping cool and collected despite the fact that John looked about ready to throttle him.
"I can't believe you'd do that to me… Or rather your predecessor," John was quick to add.
"It's hard enough adjusting to civilian life after such a long time in the military. The last time I was a civilian, I was finishing med school, and even then I already had ties to the army due to the cadetship. It's even harder to adjust when you can't physically move and have to come to terms with the fact that two careers you worked your arse off for are over. Why was I kept on the register? I have a tremour in my hand, as you pointed out the very day we met, and I never regained full mobility in my shoulder. It's good, but it's not perfect and it never will be because the damage was too extensive. I'm a GP, not a surgeon. My skills as a doctor are not that rare or special that they would make me invaluable to the army. They don't need me to diagnose heat stroke or dehydration. Due to the tremor in my hand, my dominant hand I might add, I would not be able to assist in surgery if someone was severely wounded... The slightest slip of the scalpel and I could kill my patient and I would be responsible. And I wouldn't go back out there just to be a triage nurse or to clean bedpans… I'm too qualified for that!"
"John, it really wasn't my decision and I assumed you'd know, as it was in your file."
Sherlock's lips twisted up at the corners into a smirk as he shook his head, slightly amused.
"You of all people should know never to assume, Mycroft," he teased his brother.
"Well, I didn't know. What would have happened, had a letter arrived one day with my new orders, telling me that I'd ship out in three weeks' time even though I had been medically discharged? I would have to go. If I didn't, I'd be court-martialled for insubordination and would most likely still have to serve a minimum tour."
Mycroft nodded.
"How many more are there? Retired, invalided or discharged personnel kept as reserves without their knowledge even though they deserve their hard-earned civilian life? Did whoever made the decision even look at medical files? Sending soldiers with severe injuries and post-traumatic stress disorder back to the front line… That's ridiculous! After the way they treat invalided soldiers, telling us we're no good to them anymore. And the audacity to assume we'd just up and leave again on a surprise deployment we shouldn't even be drafted for in the first place!"
John had got up and paced back and forth in front of the sofa, desperately needing an outlet for his anger. Suddenly, he stood still and turned towards Mycroft.
"Mycroft, have you ever seen the sort of flats the Ministry of Defence provides to returning personnel who don't have anywhere else to go?"
"No, John, I can't say that I have…"
"They are bedsits, Mycroft." John interrupted before the older Holmes could say more.
"It's just the one room, maybe half the size of this living room," John pointed around the room they currently occupied at Baker Street.
"There's a tiny stove, a bed, a wardrobe and a desk. The one I was in was horrible. I had to share a toilet and bathroom with everyone else on my floor. I'm used to cramped quarters and shared facilities, but that flat was taking the piss! My Captain's quarters in Kandahar were more spacious than that! And the flats are on the outskirts of major cities. Mine was right next to the railway line; you could hear the trains go past at all hours of the night. There were no proper shops, not even an express shop anywhere within easy walking distance and it was a long walk to the nearest tube station. We got dumped in those flats with a pension that's borderline minimum wage and an extra £500 a month for healthcare and maintenance. I was one of the lucky ones, I could still walk, but others had lost their legs or needed wheelchairs. They couldn't really get out and into London proper by themselves."
John had to take a breath to slow down a bit. He got quieter again, and sounded subdued.
"No wonder then, that many returning soldiers decide to top themselves. Two from my building did in the two months I lived there, one of them right in front of me. Just took his gun out and shot himself, and I could do nothing but look on. And believe me, there were days when I first got back when I thought about it myself…"
Both Sherlock and Mycroft gasped at John's whispered confession that he had contemplated suicide before he'd moved to Baker Street.
"John… I didn't know…" Sherlock started, but the soldier cut him off.
"I never went through with it, never did anything. I just thought about it from time to time. But I simply couldn't go through with it. It would have been a coward's way out and I didn't survive the war and going into cardiac arrest just to kill myself in London. Getting killed in action would have been honourable, and we're all prepared for it. It's not a safe occupation, after all. I had just lost my purpose, everything I had worked for had been taken away and I was dumped back in London by myself with nothing to do and nobody to talk to. But now I have a purpose again, mainly thanks to Sherlock. And I'm happy now with the way my life is going, I truly am. And I'm not at risk," he assured the brothers.
"But if the Ministry of Defence thinks that they can treat us like crap, put us away in dingy little flats and expects us to jump in joy at surprise re-deployments, then your bosses are mistaken, Mycroft!"
Mycroft cleared his throat. "Once again, John, I had no idea. I do thank you though, for bringing this to my attention. Rest assured, this will get sorted immediately!"
John only nodded at him, still pacing through the living room, alternating between clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to release some of the built-up tension and adrenaline.
"What I came here to tell you, John, is that there will be a review regarding the amount of maintenance pay invalided soldiers such as yourself will receive. There will be an increase, but a sum hasn't been decided on yet. In addition, the Victoria Cross comes with an annuity of £ 1,500. As for the housing situation, we will have to look whether anything can be done."
"Ok. Great. Thank you." John glanced at Mycroft and nodded.
"Well, now that that's sorted, there is the matter of your Victoria Cross Investiture to discuss."
Sherlock's brother changed the subject, swiftly moving on. "You'll be allowed to bring up to three guests..."
"Well, that's easy. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and my sister."
"I will put those names forward. Anthea will be in touch with Ms Watson and Mrs. Hudson regarding appropriate formal dresses they will be required to wear. I will also take care of the bill, so do not worry yourself about that. Now John, were you ever issued or did you ever order a No. 1 dress uniform?"
"No, you don't tend to wear them in Afghanistan. I have got a No. 2 dress uniform, which still fits," John explained. After all, No. 1 uniforms were expensive and he had not had cause to purchase one, nor did his regiment participate in any regular public parades that required they'd be issued a new uniform. The one time he had to wear one, he'd hired the uniform. After all, he couldn't spare nearly a thousand pounds. He did, however, buy the beret with red and white hackle, as a proud display and memento of the regiment he had called his family.
"In that case, I will have a tailor come by tomorrow to get your measurements, you will be required to wear full dress uniform. Sherlock, dig out your morning suit, you know the Palace drill."
The consulting detective scoffed at that and John had to wonder just how privileged the Holmes upbringing must have been if Sherlock was as familiar with the procedures and protocol at Buckingham Palace as Mycroft was implying. And realization hit him that their visit to Buckingham Palace during that Irene Adler case - the one with the sheet incident - might not have been Sherlock's first. Mycroft was definitely familiar with the Palace, if he was allowed to move around unescorted. A suspicion Mycroft confirmed.
"John, there are certain Palace protocols you should know about, but they will be taught to you closer to the time. During the Investiture, you and your fellow honourees will be called forward one by one and you will salute. Her Majesty The Queen will then give a short summary, outlining what you are receiving your award for. She will then attach the medal to your uniform; you will salute again and retreat with a quick turn. After the ceremony, there will be a banquet, attended by all honourees, their guests, the Prime Minister as well as several members of the Royal family. Cars will be provided by Buckingham Palace, although I do suggest that you have your sister meet you here so you can all travel together."
John hummed in agreement. So far, everything made sense, and his participation during the investiture didn't sound complicated, he would just have to keep his nerves under control.
"Any questions so far?"
"None at all."
"Good. As far as the Bar for your Military Cross is concerned, we will deviate slightly from normal procedure. As you should wear your full honours during the Victoria Cross investiture while you meet our monarch, you will receive the Bar beforehand. Unfortunately, this will not be a big affair. As you yourself are already the recipient of the Military Cross, you know the scale these ceremonies usually take. It is likely that only your commanding officers will be in attendance. However, there will be a celebration on the Saturday after your visit to Buckingham Palace. During this, your unit members will receive their Military Crosses, and you will be re-issued yours, if you wish. Once again, full dress uniform is required and although it will be an army affair, you are allowed to bring as many guests, military and civilian, as you may choose. This celebration will be held at Rickerby Hall."
Sherlock's head jerked up at that. John just looked at the brothers, he had never heard of the place but by the sound of it, he wouldn't be surprised if he found himself standing outside a Tudor mansion.
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on his older sibling, eyebrows slightly raised in that Holmesian fashion John knew too well. The doctor looked at Sherlock first, then at Mycroft and back at his flatmate trying to work out what they were communicating with glances alone. Eventually, he gave up.
"What is it? I've never heard of the place. Is it a hotel or something? It's not in London, is it?"
"Oh, it's in the countryside, just past Windsor. I'm sure you'll find it adequate. It'll be an afternoon and evening celebration with High Tea, dinner and drinks. Those who require to do so will be invited to spend the night. And as the guest of honour I'll have to insist that you stay, spend the night and enjoy the hospitality."
At that, Sherlock actually snorted, although he quickly schooled his features back into a mask of indifference when his brother shot him a murderous glance.
"Sherlock, you're staying too."
"Oh will I?"
"Yes, brother, you will."
John watched this exchange slightly puzzled, but then barely anything a Holmes did was comprehensible to mere mortals. But with a sinking feeling realisation hit John, that for the next two weeks at least, there'd be a lot of media attention on them, more so than usual.
"Oh, John? I know you are familiar with this, so it's just a reminder. Once you receive the Victoria Cross, you will receive salutes first, out of courtesy. As you know, to many the award in this case takes precedence over rank, so don't be startled by it."
John had turned back towards Mycroft.
"Yes, I know, thanks Mycroft. Fifteen years in the army, you pick up on these things," John chuckled.
"Quite right. Well, I really need to get back. Once again, John, I will handle the situation with the reserve register. I honestly thought it had been your informed decision."
"Actually, Mycroft, I'd like you to cross-check the names of all invalided personnel and those with medical discharges against the register and then write to them, make them aware that they are still on the register despite what they might think and give them the choice to either re-enlist if their condition allows for it, or to live a civilian life without the army interfering. Some might want to go back. I'd still be there had I not been shot and invalided - the army was all I knew. There' a difference between being medically discharged and going on sick leave, and I think it's time the army learned that."
"I agree, John." With that, Mycroft rose out of the armchair and swiftly left 221b with nods towards his younger brother and the doctor as his greeting.
As soon as his brother had left, Sherlock had got up and reclaimed his spot on the couch, in which he was now sprawled in his usual fashion.
"Hm, Mycroft must really feel guilty now that he has uncovered how his department treated people like you. He is trying to make it up to you. My brother has always had tremendous respect for titles and war heroes, so he will actually try and overhaul the way soldiers are treated. That might have been the most genuine thing Mycroft has said in he last several years."
The detective steepled his hands under his chin.
"I doubt they'd organise celebrations at Rickerby Hall for just anyone. In fact, I know they don't and the Hall isn't usually open to the public."
"What is Rickerby Hall? I've never heard of it before."
"There is no reason you would have. It's a place out in Berkshire, just past Windsor, further along the Thames," Sherlock explained and left it at that.
"Oh. Okay, then. I guess I'll find out soon anyway."
"Indeed."
John got up and moved to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Without even asking whether Sherlock would like a cup of tea as well, John automatically filled two mugs.
Only when he looked down at the mugs to stir in the milk did he notice that he'd grabbed his old RAMC mug for himself. Smiling at the cup, he stepped back out into the living room, handed Sherlock his tea who took it without even opening his eyes, and sat down at the desk. He decided to type up a blog post about the medals, Afghanistan and his involvement as a pre-emptive strike before the media felt the need to camp out at Baker Street for the next two weeks.
"You know, Sherlock, your brother and his people really have some nerves! Keeping discharged military personnel on the reserve register without their knowledge! Can you believe it? That's unacceptable! I could have been called up any day... after everything that happened to me. I left the war and the army behind... I left it behind... I did! Your brother has a real knack for dropping bombshells!"
"Well, you know my brother. He's never been one for doing things by halves."
"Yeah, that trait must run in the family..." John muttered under his breath.
"I heard that."
The doctor rolled his eyes. Of course Sherlock had heard him. As John sat at the desk, slowly typing out a blog post carefully explaining that: Yes, it really was him in the pictures and news stories; and no, he didn't miss Afghanistan or the war; yes, he was beyond flattered to receive such prestigious awards and he still couldn't quite believe it but no, it wouldn't change his life as part of the crime-solving duo from Baker Street.
Sherlock went back to playing the violin, composing some more. While listening to his flatmate play his instrument, John decided to write another post on his blog in light of his earlier conversation with Mycroft. He knew that some of his old army buddies were following his blog and that word of mouth would travel fast and far, especially if the information came from him. He was trusted and had a reputation for not indulging in gossip.
So John typed out how he'd found out that he'd been kept on the reserve register and urged each and every retired or invalided soldier to double-check their status if they didn't fancy getting re-deployed out of the blue.
Feeling rather smug and accomplished, John snapped the laptop shut and went to the kitchen to make something to eat. Rummaging through the cupboards, he finally decided to use up what they had left, which turned out to be a bag of frozen summer vegetables, some pasta and chicken breast pieces he'd bought two days before.
Sherlock usually didn't pay attention to John's cooking, but when he caught a glimpse of John rubbing what looked like sugar all over the chicken and then manhandling it into roasting bag before pouring something dark all over it, his interest had peaked.
"What on earth are you doing, John?"
"Cooking, what do you think? Believe it or not, Sherlock, but normal people actually have to eat regularly."
"Yes, thank you, doctor. What I meant is, what on earth are you doing to that poor chicken?"
"What? Oh! We're out of spice mixes so I'm making balsamic chicken1. All it takes is sugar and a liberal coating of balsamic vinegar. I used to make this a lot when I was still in med school. I always had sugar and used balsamic vinegar for salads, so whenever I forgot to buy spices, I'd make this in a pinch," John explained.
At the mention of sugar and balsamic vinegar in one recipe, Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disgust.
"Seriously, John, how you are still alive after eating that regularly is beyond me."
"Says the one who never eats to start with," John chuckled while placing the chicken in the oven.
"It tastes better than it sounds, I swear! You'll see."
John busied himself preparing the pasta and vegetables, mentally adding various items to the shopping list. When everything was cooking and simmering away, John returned to his laptop.
He'd previously seen some people commenting on his blog, some of them journalists out for an exclusive no doubt, and he wanted to read through the comments while he had the chance.
But when he opened his laptop up again, the last published post displayed on his blog was the one confirming his involvement in Afghanistan and not the post about having been kept on the reserve register.
He was startled for about two seconds before a knowing feeling settled in his gut and he let out a frustrated sigh. John double-checked his blog archive and found the post set to permanently disabled, as well as an email waiting in his inbox.
"Dr. Watson, you should know better than to divulge this information on your blog. The situation is being handled. –MH"
"Oh sod off, Mycroft," the doctor muttered under his breath.
"There's something called freedom of speech, you should check up on that some time." John licked his lips and was quietly fuming as he stabbed the keys on his phone. He proceeded to send the government official a text suggesting he'd look up 'freedom of speech' and 'censorship' in a dictionary, just in more colourful language and using a few choice expletives.
Sherlock couldn't hide his amused smirk.
1 Rub chicken pieces in balsamic vinegar and sugar, put into a roasting bag and leave in oven for about 40 mins at ca. 170°C.
