14. From Winter Winks 221: Bedside Manner

Summer, 1916

My service in Her Late Majesty's army and my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes had conspired to sharpen my instincts; even now, many years after Holmes' supposed retirement, it was nearly impossible to take me unaware. Holmes himself, in one of his more gracious moods, had even commented upon this quality as one of my most useful virtues.

Yet this virtue did not come without a price. The same instincts that made it possible for me to avoid a criminal lurking in the London fog made it difficult to find my rest in the crowded field hospital in which I found myself. Worse, as a physician, I was acutely conscious of the burden it placed on my orderlies and fellow doctors that I was, albeit temporarily, unable to carry out my duties.

Therefore, it was a restless doze from which I awoke late one night to find a stranger beside my bed.

I let out a muffled cry of exclamation and began to sit up, but the stranger instantly reached out a soothing hand.

"There is nothing to fear, Watson." The voice, though not the silhouette, was as familiar to me as my own.

"H-holmes?" Instinctively mirroring his tone, I kept my voice low. Even in the dead of night, the moans of the wounded would prevent us from being overheard if we whispered, but I did not care to take chances with the safety of my friend. Clearly Holmes had reasons of his own for appearing as he did at this late hour and keeping us in darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed that Holmes' dark hair seemed far lighter than it had been the last time I'd seen him, and he had the beginnings of a very fine mustache in a similar style to my own. More surprisingly, he wore what appeared to be a soldier's uniform. I doubted anyone who did not know him intimately would recognize him. "What are you doing here? Have you enlisted?"

"Of course not," he said, and that familiar ironic tone did more to confirm his identify than any oath he could have made. "A man of fifty-seven has no business on a battlefield."

As I myself was sixty-four, I knew this to be a thinly concealed comment on my own suitability. Holmes had never agreed with my decision to reenlist. However, I had been unable to simply wait in London when my experience with bullet holes and broken bones — honed to a fine art over the years — could perhaps save the lives of our soldiers.

"It was my own decision, Holmes," I said calmly. "As well you know." Rather than be drawn further into our old argument, I peered at Holmes as best as I could in the low light. "Are you alright, old fellow?"

"Of course," he answered at once, though the note of exhaustion evident in his voice belied his assurance. "I am not the one lying in a hospital bed!"

"A touch of fever only," I assured him. "I am nearly recovered." Then, lest he pursue this line of inquiry, I prodded, "But what are you doing here? You would hardly have had time to hear of my convalescence and travel to the front, even if you could be admitted to the camp." And the alternative, I thought privately, that he was engaged on some private business of Mycroft's, surely left him little time to visit an old colleague whose illness was not severe.

"I informed my brother that I would not depart without saying farewell face-to-face," Holmes said softly. "I believe I made you such a promise after that sordid affair at Reichenbach…though in truth I did not think to find you ill."

An icy hand clenched tight around my heart. "Surely…" I started, blinked back helpless tears, and tried again. "I…Thank you, Holmes. Can…can you tell me anything about where you are going?"

Holmes shook his head, and there was more to just exhaustion in the gesture. "No. The nature of my mission must only be known to my brother and a select few. I hope to return within a year or two." He paused; no doubt he knew as well as I did that nothing was certain, that he would be walking into danger with the dulled reflexes of an old man, and that his carefully nurtured knowledge of London would do him little good on the Continent.

And though I had made the same choice for myself, I found it nearly unbearable to see my friend on the same road. I blinked back more tears, cursing the weakness brought on by my illness, and took a deep steadying breath before looking up into my friend's shadowy face.

"I will be waiting," I said, as steadfastly as I could. I reached out weakly; he took my hand. "I will expect a full accounting, however, once the war is done."

A ghost of a laugh left him. Once the war was done? A dream that became harder and harder to believe. Yet Holmes' voice, when he spoke, was likewise steadier. "I can only imagine what romantic drivel you might make of it," he said. "Very well, a bargain. A full accounting once the war is done."

I squeezed his hand once more and prayed it would be possible. "Good luck, dear fellow."

"Goodbye, old friend."

He did not stay long after that; there was no more to be said.

A/N: To be continued…