Prompt: Winter Solstice, from Lucillia
A/N: Fair warning, this turned into a deathfic and a complete and unabashed angst fest.
21 December, 1914
My dear Watson,
It seems certain now that this war will not be over by Christmas as so many thought, although knowing the inner workings of government as I do, thanks to Mycroft, I was positive everyone was incorrect.
How I dislike being proven right sometimes.
It is dreadfully cold here; I have had to take extra care to ensure my bees survive the winter. I intend to keep my promise to send you more honey than your entire staff can eat. Please let me know if you require anything else – you cannot imagine how frustrating it is to be here, unable to take a more active role. It hardly seems fair, that just as I returned from my own role in this infernal war, you had to leave to begin yours. Not that I am suggesting you should not do so; I can see you bristling as I write this, Watson. But is it not time for the world to leave us alone?
That is not how life works, I know that. However, as I look at the night sky (it is far too early for it to be dark, it is barely four o'clock in the afternoon!), I look forward to the lengthening of days. Soon my bees will be awake and the weather will improve, such as it ever does on this rainy island. I cannot help feeling hopeful. This war has already proven itself pointless, perhaps everyone involved will realize that and it will end before too much damage is done.
Until then, I remain, very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
21 December, 1915
My dear Watson,
I can hardly believe yet another year has gone by; it feels like only yesterday when I wrote to you that I hoped the war would be over before long. Now it hardly seems as if there is an end in sight at all.
We have had our share of air raid drills this month; each time we are required to take refuge in the church basement. As a result, I have come to know my neighbors far better than I have in the eleven years I have lived here. I can see you laughing, Watson. I am glad the mental image of me trapped in a basement with the entire population of Sussex Downs is so amusing to you. You will be grateful before long; I have ingratiated myself with the women who knit socks and roll bandages and such to send to our soldiers and instructed them to add you to their list, and to take extra care. You may find yourself buried in socks and scarves from now on; they seemed to find the idea of the famous Doctor Watson serving at the front worthy of more attention than either of us have seen since Mrs. Hudson was our landlady.
I need hardly add that I was extremely angry with my brother, and let him know it in no uncertain terms; when I heard you were to be stationed at the front. This after he had expressly promised me that would never happen. And, no, Watson, I did not ask him to promise me that. I know how you would have disliked that interference. He offered; saying there was more of a need for you at the hospitals behind the lines. But, as he said to me, this war has far exceeded what anyone thought it would turn into, and things have changed.
How well I know that.
Do please take care of yourself as best you can; the reports from the front are horrifying, even more so now that I know you are there.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
21 December, 1916
My dear Watson,
Please, do not worry about being a better correspondent! I know what things must be like at the front, and it is a wonder you manage to write to me at all. Be assured I am glad for any word I can get, especially now that I am no longer asking Mycroft to show me the official reports (you were quite right, there was no need to give myself nightmares reading them; I have been sleeping much better since I stopped).
I did tell Mrs. Hurst that you appreciated the homemade candy she sent. She promises more will be on the way. She offered to send you a cake, but I told her there was nowhere it could be stored in the trenches. It is a travesty, the depths to which we lower our soldiers in the name of this pointless national pride! To hear you tell of the mud and disease ravaging the front lines, it is a wonder the war can be fought at all.
The days will again begin to grow longer after this, but I am no longer fooling myself into believing it will lead to anything better than the last two years. Indeed, at times I doubt that this war will end in my lifetime. Tonight, there is as usual, a service in honor of the Winter Solstice. I have never attended, but after these two years, I have come to know most of the residents, so I believe I will go this year. They have all been most kind in taking you, and by extension, me, under their collective wing. Which was really unnecessary, as they all have their own brothers and husbands and sons at away fighting, but I am grateful all the same. When you return, Watson, you shall find yourself with an entire village to welcome you.
Only do please make it soon, my dear Watson. I have not changed so much that I no longer require my Boswell.
Yours sincerely,
Sherlock Holmes
21 December 1917
My dear Watson,
I had only just sat down to write this when the telegram arrived. It has been a week before I was able to return to it, and I realize that it is uncertain whether you will ever read it. Mycroft assures me that prisoners of war must be allowed to send and receive mail, but did warn me that in practice, this might not always be the case.
The Battle of Cambrai has been the main topic of discussion in the village for the past month; I confess I even told Stackhurst that you were probably involved, but I did not ever imagine this. I suppose it was far too much to ask that this Great War pass us by completely. I do not know why it took them so long to determine your status – I told Mycroft that if one more week went by without word, I would go to France myself to determine what had happened. Upon seeing the telegram at the door, however, I wished fervently that I had paid more attention to that old adage, no news is good news. In the few seconds it took me to open the door, I had conjured up all sorts of images of you lying in some ditch in France.
I regret to say that upon reading the telegram and finding out that it was informing me of your capture, not your death, my first reaction was one of pure relief. I am sorry for that, Watson. I know the conditions in any prisoner of war camp must be even more dreadful than the front, but at the very least it meant you are alive. I told Mycroft to make whatever deal he must for your release, but after four long years of war, he doubted that the Germans would listen to him anymore. I can find nothing to contradict him (not for lack of trying, Watson).
I will do my best to send you whatever you need. I need hardly tell you that I am utterly furious they would dare to capture you, a doctor on the front lines of battle, never mind a veteran who is nearing seventy years of age!
This year's Winter Solstice service marked the first time your name will join the list of captured or missing soldiers, or so I was told. I am not there; everyone's sympathy would be far too much to bear.
I know they are praying for your safe return, and an end to this war. I am afraid I can only wish for the same. Prayer has done me little good thus far.
Yours,
Sherlock Holmes
21 December 1918
My dear Watson,
I hardly know what to write, and am trying to think of what you would want to know. The service (yet another Winter Solstice service, how fitting it should take place on the shortest and darkest day of the year) was beautiful. I spared no expense, my dear fellow, although I hope you will forgive me that I did not say any words. I couldn't. I could not distill almost forty years of friendship into a paragraph suitable for such a thing, and I had no wish to break down in front of everyone, as I surely would have.
My anger is less forgivable, but I cannot help it. I find myself railing against the situation we have been placed in. If only you not had been in a prisoner of war camp for a year, perhaps everything would be different. If only you had had not then agreed to stay to tend to the soldiers who had contracted Spanish flu – surely you knew you would be susceptible to it! But if you had not, then you would not have been Watson, and I could never imagine this world without you exactly as you were.
I still cannot. This world, without even the comfort of your letters – you were a faithful correspondent until the end, my dear fellow – is suddenly strange to me. I am adrift, much as I was when we first met, although now I know what I am missing and it is a thousand times worse.
Mycroft has been staying with me – the poor fellow needs a rest anyway, after these last dreadful years – and I see from the look on his face that he believes I should not be left alone. He is probably right. He sends away most of the neighbors; he knows I want to see no one. No one that is still on this earth, in any case.
We came so close, my dear Watson. The war had ended, it was only a matter of time before you were returning home when I received the word that you had contracted that awful disease. I cannot even say it is unfair; it is not. Your service likely saved so many who would otherwise have died, and I, after all, do not deserve the kindness your return would have shown me, after everything I put you through. Is it wrong to wish things had been unfair instead; that someone else had died in your place? Most likely it is. I do not care; I spent the war believing that when it was over, I would see you again. I do not know what to do now that I have nothing left to hope for.
I shall leave this letter here, although a stone is a poor substitute for you. I hope you do not mind if I do not come back. I cannot look at this as the only remainder of you on this world, Watson. I shall remember you as you were until the day when I join you, my dear friend. May it not be long in coming.
Rest in peace, my dear Watson.
Yours, as always,
Sherlock Holmes
A/N I hope this is in character enough, this actually goes against what I think happened at the end of WWI (I do usually think Watson survived, and have written that elsewhere), but for some reason this is what my brain came up with for this prompt.