Part Eleven: The Lines of War

Warning: Creeping dread and a taste of things to come. If you're the type who likes emotional letters, break out the tissues.

-

Scotland Yard, Lestrade's Office

"I received your letter." Colonel Moriarty announced as he pulled his large hat off his head. Bradstreet, Gregson and MacDonald lounged in the back of the small office with small cups of coffee and biscuits, grabbing a quick meal before returning to work. "I trust your investigations were fruitful?"

"Oh, one might say that." Lestrade decided not to stand. "We came across some interesting evidence when we searched Dr. Watson's house the other day." He did not mistake the sudden leap of something eager and vampiric in the other's eyes.

"Did you?" Moriarty's voice hushed.

"You said Dr. Watson was in an incident involving a saber." Lestrade reached under his desk and pulled out a sword in a scabbard. "Would this be the kind of military saber being referred to in the trial?"

Moriarty's face flushed. "Yes." He said stonily, and his hands twitched. JHW was inscribed on the plate of the scabbard, along with the single star of a Major. "I am certain that is Watson's scabbard."

"Really?" Lestrade looked puzzled. "It seems very ordinary to me."

"It has a Major's star. The JHW is obviously for John H. Watson."

"Hmn." Lestrade made a thoughtful noise. "I see. Well, if you are absolutely positive this is Dr. Watson's dress saber…"

"I would swear to it." Moriarty said excitedly.

"Oh…" Lestrade paused. "Well, if you are certain…"

"Of course I am certain!" The Colonel snapped.

Lestrade twisted his head back to look at Gregson. "Well, that settles that. I'm very sorry, Gregson. I suppose you'll have to look harder to pin something down on our dear doctor."

"Hang it." Gregson made a face of disappointment that would have been believable only to those who didn't know him.

Moriarty caught on in increments. "What do you mean by that?" He half rose out of his chair, broad muscles seeming to expand under his coat. "What tricks are you trying to pull?"

"Oh." Lestrade blinked. "I'm sorry, Colonel. The investigation has hit a dead end, I'm afraid we'll have to drop our pursuit of Dr. Watson for now." He held the Colonel's corpse-coloured eyes and did not quite smile. "Now that you positively identified the saber as belonging to Dr. Watson."

"Explain yourself, Inspector." Moriarty's face looked anything but assuring. A cold calm had descended like a slow frost upon his face.

Inspector MacDonald took a half step forward. "Allow me to introduce myself, Colonel Moriarty. My name is Inspector MacDonald, and I and Inspector Bradstreet here, are the first persons Scotland Yard consults in the matter of bladed weapons." His big, bearded head bobbed like a large Yule Goat, and he took the saber out of Lestrade's grip, holding it aloft.

"A very nice saber." Bradstreet admired. "I regret I've seen my fair share of them inside men, but it has led me to become something of an expert on the subject... Inspector Lestrade came to us for our professional opinion as soon as Dr. Watson's saber was discovered in his house. Something strange about it struck us almost instantly…"

MacDonald drew the saber out of its scabbard, and held it horizontally so the lights would reflect off the smooth metal. "This saber," he said calmly, "was never in any kind of conflict. There're no scratches, dents, or flaws in this metal that would be the result of any kind of skirmish with another saber, nor is there any sign of the polishing required that would blur or hide such marks." He shrugged, but a smirk crept out.

"We're very sorry." Inspector MacDonald commented. "Not that we'll drop the case, sir, but for now events seem to be at an impasse, and it really is impossible for us to continue without any further information. It's counter-productive to go any further without delving into military records, and you know how difficult that can be."

"Yes, of course." Lestrade blinked, struck by the pleasant thought. "Colonel, would you have anything to add to this case? We would assuredly welcome it."

Colonel Moriarty's face had become as readable as a mountain of blue shale. "You think to mock me." He accused without tone, without lifting his voice, without any real display of anger or disappointment. "I halfway expected something of this nature, and I confess you have not failed me." His large head slipped to one side, branding the Inspectors with his fungoid eyes. "You have not won." He said simply. "You are men of the law, and you have passed your own little tests. I, however, am a man of war, and a man of the Queen's Army. We are two very different forces."

"I would regret the thought that we would be opposing each other, Colonel." Lestrade felt easier for addressing the vicious man by his title rather than 'sir'. "It is clear you are trying to accomplish a subtle means, and we see such things on a weekly basis here at the Yard. But as men of the law, we can only be men of the facts. It is true we make our share of mistakes and then some…but we are defined by our limitations as much as you are."

"It would be strange indeed to think that my army would be in disagreement with your army, Inspector Lestrade." Moriarty said gently.

"Not at all." Lestrade's voice slipped into a deep mode. "Scotland Yard takes its duties most seriously, sir, and we stand behind our reputations. I vow, none of us would imagine that someone would come to us with…a fictitious or frivolous case…" He smiled to take the venom out of his words. "Do stay in touch with us, Colonel. We welcome the opportunity to assist active members of Her Majesty's armed forces."

For the first time, Moriarty's lips softened above his granite chin. "You have gained my respect at last." He surprised the little man before him as he stood, and even doffed his hat. "On that I bid you a good-day."

The Colonel walked out of Scotland Yard imperiously, as if he was above or unable to notice something so petty as the fact that every man present, from plainclothed to uniformed, had stopped dead in their tracks and was watching him in thoughtful, cold silence as he descended the steps to his private cab.

-

Lestrade's Office:

Gregson gnawed on his thumbnail before quietly shutting the door to Lestrade's office. "I believe," he said softly, "The lines have just been drawn."

"I'm afraid it is a bit more personal than that." Lestrade had risen to his feet, trembling from an hour of restrained tension. He circled around his desk as Bradstreet and MacDonald peered to see what had taken his attention. He bent and picked up the object the Colonel had dropped on his way out.

The Colonel's glove.

"Surprisingly subtle," Bradstreet murmured. "Lestrade, you do carry your gun with you at all times, do you not?"

-

Kensington Practice:

of course, Mrs. Laurister sends her regards. I have often wondered if she makes a point of her weekly constitutionals because she so enjoys your company. In your absence, my dear, she has moved from a nervous hypochondriac to a focused, charity-driven woman. I rather wonder who the real woman is under the façade she must wear for London. Mr. Laurister seems not the worse for wear…

Evening was settling over Kensington in stages; Watson fancied the worst edge of the heat was beginning to ease away. 85 degrees would feel cool in comparison.

His pen hesitated over the paper, and he looked up to the slanting golden sun as it splashed against the struggling roses Mary had so determinedly cultivated against the bricks. The ink threatened to pull under the tip and into the soft fibers of the paper. The doctor stirred himself and continued:

"…but you ask me not of these things. I promised I would explain to you, and I am. It is simply difficult for me to speak of, and while writing is an easier channel for my feelings, my dearest, I still must work up my nerve. This then, is my attempt.

In response to your question, yes, I believe England would have waged war with Afghanistan no matter what. I know you have seen the chromolithographs of that land, read the various writings on the rare flora, seen her peculiar fauna. I don't know how much you have read, but I do know that I have often come across a book with your silk thread used as a mark between the pages, and naturally I look to see where you are in case the thread falls out. India gave us a common bond long before we ever met, and I am grateful that it gave you some small frame of reference in your remarkable ability to understand me.

Mary, the Crimea and India conflicts only led to Afghanistan. So many of us went from the tropical jungle to the high desert because generals who had forgotten war thought one blistering clime was the same as the other, and they thought that because Afghanistan was between Russia and India we would adapt as well. But you have seen the emptiness of the Afghani deserts, the small clusters of palm trees and the withered cypress-trees that must have borne leaves when the Romans were complaining of the Israelites. The land has shaped its people for certain; they have been forced by hardship to fight in the only way they know how, and that is to win at any cost. They have precious little to lose, for it has never been a wealthy land.

And England never openly wished for its sparse resources. It said it only wanted the land itself; control of Afghanistan meant control of two of the three trade routes for the Silk Road. One of the roads was Kabul itself, connecting India with China. I honestly cannot tell you why they call it the 'Silk Road' for silk was the least part of the reason. Anything that can be bought has passed through those invisible gates. In my short years as a soldier, I witnessed the trade of spices, tea, gold, silver, waterfalls of precious gemstones, dye, salt, and yes, even slaves. Being called a barbarian by slave-masters is a unique experience that I do not care to dwell on.

You have asked, but forgive me in this. I cannot tell you of Maiwand itself. Allow me to talk of the differences between the two sides…We had the Martini rifles, and they had the poorer Sniders. They could simply ride down the slopes, hit us hard and run back to the safety of their ledges while we moved the slower, had baggage and supplies to protect, and of course, many of us wore bright red. I will not say more. It is enough to be a veteran of the Crown's greatest humiliation.

Maiwand taught us that force of will cannot win a battle. It can come very close, and it can spur a dear victory…but it cannot win by itself…

The doctor watched the tremor begin in his hands and he put his pen away in silent defeat. He sat, face in his hands by the window with his eyes closed. London was so quiet in the Kensington district. Without the sounds of the train or the cabbies, Afghanistan was no further from him than the touch of the sun burning into his hair and clothing.

And no more surmountable than the chasm it had left inside him.

Men died every day, and without any reason at all—not even with the benefit of a poor reason. He was at a loss to explain it, but that was how it was. Perhaps Holmes would have been able to untangle the Gordian problem, for he had been the philosopher for the two of them—an oft-cynical, disparaging philosopher to be sure, but he had only dismissed the softer emotions—he had not denied them. And for all his scorn for emotions, he had not blindly insisted on a cold "blood for blood" justice. Watson could not think of a single person that had been forced into murder that Holmes had not felt some sympathy or pity for.

Still waters ran deep.

He lifted his head, eyes still closed as he thought. By now Lestrade would have drawn his do-not-cross line before Moriarty. As to what would result…he did not know. He trusted the Inspector, knew that Lestrade was aware that this Moriarty was playing a game no less vicious than placing two animals in a pit together. Between Lestrade's inflexible sense of duty and Watson's equally inflexible honour, there would be few good outcomes.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and held it for nearly a minute.

They always marveled at his ability to ignore the blistering heat of summer. They wouldn't if they knew he felt the coldest inside himself, the warmer the sun burned his skin.

I have to trust Lestrade, he reminded himself. He deserves that.

He picked up his pen again.

"My dearest Mary, Afghanistan is a jealous land. I said in the top of this letter than the Empire desired the land of Afghanistan…I could speak to you for hours of the treasures it hides under its stony soils. I honestly believe pearls and coral are the only gems not native to the miner's tools. There were sapphires, quartz, aquamarines, emeralds, rubies, lapis lazuli, tourmaline, garnets, topaz, and gems of colours and tints I have never seen before or since.

Those gemstones, I believe, are a trap to the unwary, for this apparent wealth gives its own people no profit. It is a sad fact that the Afghani make no more than the poorest pittance for all their labours. Only the poorer stones reach their markets; the finer grades go on to the markets of the world. When I was in India, the officers spoke of their personal treasures of tea and spices. When I was in the desert, it was the hushed talk of gems that hovered around the men of power.

Yet if you pore over the newspapers, the war records, and the fantastic books written about the Second Afghan War—or even the first—would you come across mention of these gems? Precious few words exist of those precious gems. Were the gems part of the reason why we marched to our deaths? I ask myself that question in the days when I can think about the war at all. Over and over we were told the land was needed. That can mean more than one thing, can it not? The land includes what is in the land.

In the end, my answers exist without proof, for there is no point in speaking of my feelings. The only ones who would know would be my own comrades, and so many of them ended their lives in the sands.

There you have it. Your husband is a romantic, but not where jewelry is concerned, I fear. I share the wonder of a stone's beauty, but when it comes to its true value, I fear Holmes echoed my feelings perfectly in that wretched carbuncle affair. Regard for the inanimate can only lead to idolatry. I cannot see a gemstone without thinking of the price in life, and the price that continues to be paid throughout the world.

Your Mrs. Laurister once said you deserved gems for your birthday, and you laughed when I responded you deserved far more than that. I was not joking. You deserve more of your roses, the climbing vines that throw the heat off the building in the summer, and the small violets that thrive in the cool windows of winter. You are so much a creature of life and light, you would never be properly suited with the cold and superficial value of a stone.

I remain as always,

Your loving husband

John

Quoting from the Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle:

When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just
see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In
the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the
banks of the Amoy River in southem China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue
in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing,
a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallized charcoal. Who would think that
so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison?