23 BBC Sherlock:The Case of the Colonel Carruthers Connection

by Wynsom

Had Sherlock not changed John's life would John have taken his own? War injury and PTSD aside, what mystery in John's past made him feel "so alone" and lost? This character study follows John's long journey on the road to redemption, from the invalided soldier suffering survivor's guilt and tempted with suicide to the grieving widower sitting in his old armchair in 221B.

8. Chapter 8

BBC Sherlock: The Case of the Colonel Carruthers' Connection

Chapter 8: Warning Signs

From The Reichenbach Fall:

"You're not exactly a private detective anymore!" John had worried after reading the newspaper about Boffin Sherlock Holmes and Bachelor John Watson. "You're this far…" he left a pinch of air between his index finger and thumb to demonstrate, "from famous."

"Oh, it'll pass," More bothered by Scotland Yard's gift—a deerstalker hat, which Sherlock was sure they had intended as an insult—he had slumped into his armchair, pouting.

"It'd better pass," John had warned. "The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you!"

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John could not have been more right. There had been no turning back Moriarty's lies once they took hold in the press. Public opinion and the Met also turned against the consulting detective, but most unfathomable to John, was that, in turn, Sherlock took his own life. Sherlock had never given a damn what anyone thought…

Tortuous visions haunted John's dreams. Flashbacks of war and explosions mingled with distressing memories of Sherlock's drop off St. Bart's. In the dark bedroom of his new flat, his own cries of loss and alarm woke him nightly; then sleep would refuse to come. Instead, unbidden, his mind usually found a memory to torment him.

Barely a month after Sherlock's death, John awoke startled and trembling. He tossed back the sweat-drenched sheets and waited until the room stopped spinning. He got up and went to the en suite to quench his parched throat. Ducking his head under the tap to drink, he let the cool water flow along his temple, his cheek, his tongue, and pool in his mouth, swishing it around until it diluted the dismay that had roused him. He toweled his hair and face dry and stumbled back to bed. As he lay on his back with his arms folded under his head and stared at the ceiling, John recalled the last disagreement in their flat:

"I don't care what people think."

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."

Why would the genius detective, who did not care what stupid or wrong people thought, suddenly despair about his ruined reputation, enough to commit suicide? This impossible contradiction baffled John. Over and over, he replayed their dispute in his mind.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're—"

John's unfinished statement had grabbed Sherlock's complete attention. He had looked up from his laptop, waiting for John to continue. The longer John had delayed replying, the greater grew Sherlock's frustration that John doubted him. Unsettled, Sherlock's expression had hardened like ice. After a scant nod of his head, he pushed for an answer. "That I am what?"

"A fraud."

"You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

"No, I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too. Can't you see—" Sherlock had whacked the table hard, erupting in fury "—what's going on?

Distraught, John sat up in bed and scrubbed down his face, remembering the tense moment that followed, wishing he had expressed himself more forcibly, more clearly. He suspected now, in hindsight, that Sherlock had misunderstood his reaction. Had something cued him—my frown, my swallow before I answered—to make him think I was lying? Had he interpreted my glance out the window as doubt? Bloody hell, I hadn't wanted to argue. I had just wanted to stop what was happening to him—to the both of us—when I said: "No, I know you're for real."

Eyes down, Sherlock had not so much as looked up but resumed typing on his laptop, his voice coldly neutral. "A hundred percent?"

"Well, nobody could fake being such an annoying DICK all the time."

Dammit! Self-recrimination propelled John from bed. He paced in tight circles around it, his head so filled with things not said, he began to speak them aloud. "I saw you…" his index finger stabbed the air, poking toward the mental apparition of Sherlock seated at the sitting-room table. The memory floated—a ghost in the room. "I saw it…It was there, at the corner of your mouth, that slight uptick… you smiled! You understood. You believed I was one hundred percent behind you, didn't you?"

Livid, John delivered a swift punch into his bed pillow. An instant later, he swept it up to cover his mouth and let loose a stream of profane curses and anguished sobs. Nothing allayed his unremitting dread: that he had failed to save the man to whom he owed so much—his best friend—who had saved him from so cowardly an act.

"So, what happened?" John groaned after he dropped the pillow, appealing to the ceiling he could not see in the dark room. He palmed the tears from his eyes. "What sent you over the edge, you... you... utter cock? Some spur-of-the-moment despondency, was it? It didn't matter to you what I thought, huh?"

Instantly recalling that he shouted "You machine!" chilled John. "Oh my God. Nonononono! Bloody hell! " He offered his excuses to the ceiling, muttering, "Couldn't budge you to help Mrs. Hudson. It was exasperating! No! You couldn't have thought... I…I… had turned on you? Can't believe that's why you did it!"

John sat on the edge of the bed, despondent, too spent to weep, too exhausted to think. He lay down on his back, clutched the pillow against his chest and waited for the grey light of morning. And as he waited, the swirl of unanswered questions formed a dense cocoon around his turbulent emotions. When he finally rose to greet the day, he felt numb.

88**88

Once again a survivor gutted with grief and guilt, John masked his misery and mustered his resolve to soldier on, to bear the torch of truth about Sherlock's innocence—Sherlock Holmes was not a fake—to shed light on the facts with all who would listen. He persevered, though he was thwarted at every turn by an unusually obstinate public opinion. It was as if the media had been persistently fed the scandalous lies. Even the mighty Mycroft—with whom John had had little contact since Sherlock's death and whom he despised beyond measure—had been silent about the truth and done nothing to persuade the prevailing sentiment to restore his brother's extraordinary legacy.

8*8

On his darkest days, numbness was John's constant state of mind. Other times the sharp pangs of memory would jab at him unexpectedly. A biting retort in the pub sounding like Sherlock—down to the snarky inflection—would compel John to turn around to see the stranger attached to the voice. Someone rushing to the Tube with a familiar purposeful stride would make John do a double take, but again, the resemblance vanished upon closer inspection. It crushed him each time. The more his senses, his wishful thinking resurrected Sherlock, the more he missed his friend. It was too painful. It was why he had avoided familiar haunts and had forgone visiting those people he and Sherlock had known in common.

But three months after Sherlock's death, he had found a purpose to help him deal with his grief. On his days off from the surgery he had made it a regular routine to head north.

Once during this time, he had made a brief stop at the high-security psychiatric hospital where Colonel Carruthers had been sentenced to reside by the criminal justice system. The slim thread of his allegiance to Mac tugged at him, even if Carruthers declined to see him. After verifying that her father was being properly treated, he felt his obligation to her fulfilled. However, several miles away from the psychiatric hospital was the main focus of his weekly trips—the Veterans Hospital in which John's former Commander Major James Sholto continued his recovery from severe war injuries.

"How's he this morning, Dr. Phelps?" John greeted the chief resident in the burn unit. John had become a familiar face to the staff.

Phelps swung around and inspected John over the tops of his reading glasses. "Hello, Dr. Watson," he replied, waving the clipboard he had been reading. His nasally voice made it sound as though he was perpetually whingeing but his warm smile dispatched that impression. "Coming along… Your Major is a stoic man, quite hard to read. But his aides report a change in his outlook whenever he's expecting you…."

John flashed a wry half-smile, comforted to know he was of some help. Like John, Major Sholto was a lone survivor whose life had been changed by misfortune, except the man was caught in the cross-fires of unrelenting media attacks at home and the punishing press which hounded him. It was enough to make one a recluse.

It had been two months since Sholto survived a surprise attack—an Afghan-infantry ambush—that had killed his new recruits and left him severely wounded from explosions and gunfire. Half his face had been badly burnt and his left arm paralyzed. Whilst his career-ending injuries had earned him the Victoria Cross medal for valor "in the presence of the enemy," his return to the UK had brought him no hero's welcome, merely blame and abuse, drawing the enmity of the crows' families whose loved ones had been killed in the attack.

"Major?" John stood at the threshold of the patient's room and saluted the man seated in the bedside chair. The gesture of respect was immediately followed by his warm grin. "Permission to enter, sir?"

"Watson!" Sholto mumbled through scar-tightened lips. His answering smile was a twisted grimace, distorted by the Transparent Facial Orthosis. He gave a slight nod, curtailed by the restrictive scars under the clear bandage on his neck.

John said nothing about the TFO that covered the left half of Sholto's face and neck. He made no attempt to aid the wounded man who pushed himself from the chair with his good arm and got to his feet. John pointedly did not look at the left arm dangling at the Major's side. He observed the physical and emotional pain in the slump posture of the once-towering figure of the high-ranking officer, but John was not there as a doctor. He was not there to embarrass his former commander by rushing to aid him and thereby deny him his dignity. John was there as a friend, because that was what James Sholto needed from him.

"You see, Capt'n Watson…" the Major struggled to speak clearly despite the taut skin around his mouth. He gestured toward his hospital bed. "Not quite busy…." The twinkle in Sholto's sky-blue eyes did more to convey his appreciation for his former officer's visit than his simple words. During the three years they served together on rescue missions and Taliban attacks, their friendship had been forged under fire, making it as durable as steel. "Come in, Watson," Sholto waved him forward, his hand extended. "Good to see you."

They clasped hands in greeting and exchanged more lopsided grins before Sholto continued to role-play. "What brings y' round, then, soldier?"

"The usual, sir," John responded, slightly relaxing his military posture. "How're you holding up?"

It was a fair question. No soldier came home unscathed from war. John's return to civilian life had not been easy. His struggles to emerge whole in the aftermath of service had made it clear that all too often post deployment was almost worse than war. Here lurked the dangers of isolation, the unraveling of purpose, protocols and the absence of bonding over life-and death-experiences. Here the returning soldier was adrift, unable to articulate the horrors of armed conflict. Here —at home—few could grasp the emotional and intellectual justifications for military actions that left scars deeper than burn-blasts and shoulder injuries. But Captain John Watson understood and would not let Major James Sholto suffer this torment alone.

"Holdin' up as expected." Sholto looked away from John's scrutiny, giving his face-saving words the lie.

"Your doctors assure me you're showing marked improvement," John pressed with gentle emphasis. It was obvious that the burnt flesh on Sholto's cheek and neck were healing well, although the damage to his left arm was too severe to expect full recovery. "Good news considering…," John trailed.

Initially, Sholto's survival had been uncertain. The army's optimal medical-evacuation system made quick work of bringing the Major and several of his similarly injured crows to the burn unit. Intubation maintained their oxygen supply to their lungs, gastric feeding tubes provided sustenance, and their burnt flesh and maimed limbs were cleaned and treated to prevent infection. But after all the medical interventions, recovery was never a given. Of seventeen returning men, only Major James Sholto had come through the ordeal.

"Yes. Can't argue. They're encouraged."

"How about your spirits, then? —"

"—Spirits!" the Major interrupted, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Now, you're talkin', Watson," he joked and smacked his lips. "You are indeed the clever Captain if you sneaked in spirits to lift mine…!"

"Sorry, sir," John broke into a sheepish grin, his eyes crinkled with amusement. "No jurisdiction here. No privileges either. Or I assure you, I'd have brought up some very hard medicinal tonics… When you're discharged, we might go out for a pint… something harder, perhaps?"

"Shall hold you to it, John," Sholto said, suddenly seeming weary from his exertions. His twisted smile faded. He sighed and sank back onto his chair.

"And I shall hold you to it, as well, Jim." John's eyes narrowed with concern. He was dead serious about extracting a commitment to ensure Sholto did not succumb to the "black dog." Depression, especially for burn patients, was not uncommon. Whilst most suffered acute stress symptoms from PTSD—irritability, restlessness, sleep disturbance, mood instability, fatigue, and intrusive imagery—these stressors faded or became more manageable with time. Some burn victims—the ones in greatest danger of self-harm—never stopped suffering with acute exacerbation of past trauma symptoms or unresolved grief.

Their dropped conversation left the hospital room momentarily quiet, quiet enough for the former comrades to hear the muffled but distinctly angry chanting from below Sholto's closed window. John crossed to the window and peered down at the small but vocal group of protestors holding up signs, signs denouncing the "Major Murderer."

"I saw them when we drove in," John eyed the mix of old and young men and women just beyond the hospital grounds. The same angry mob had clamored for justice every time John visited Sholto. Although he would only visit Sholto once a week, John assumed this was a daily event. "How long do they keep at it, then?"

"Till security sends them off. Used to be a larger group. Fewer hostiles than before. Except, there's a core group that won't give up." Sholto cleared his throat. "Can't blame them…."

"This group seems particularly threatening…." The taxi John had caught at the train station had had trouble maneuvering through the vocal throng as it entered the hospital drive. They shouted at the approaching vehicle; one man pounded the cab's bonnet and others peered into the car windows with scowling faces. "My cabbie today was afraid to cross the line…had to persuade him they wouldn't attack…."

"Still the courageous leader running toward danger, eh, Captain?" The Major darted a look toward the window, "even hordes of irate civilians."

John shrugged and dropped his gaze in discomfort at Sholto's praise.. "More like running into danger…lately…"

"Yeah. Heard what happened to your friend...right before...this." Sholto looked at his lifeless left arm. Emboldened by his own losses, the Major asked pointedly, "How's that going...?"

John grimaced. Sholto had strayed into territory John had been avoiding by not crossing paths with Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly Hooper. Molly, particularly, had been scarce since Sherlock had died. She's probably devastated, like me, poor girl.

John had moved out of the Baker Street flat a few weeks after Sherlock's death. He could not stay in that hollowed flat where memory continually wounded him. It had been similar to being caught in a hellish time loop of that moment in Afghanistan when the inescapable searing bullet took him down. Living in their flat had hurt too much, more than he had expected. Except "life goes on," and that was how John managed to get on with his life each day, one hour, one minute at a time.

John gathered his thoughts in silence instead of giving Sholto an immediate answer. He again looked out the hospital window upon an ugly scene: people were waving banners with messages that denigrated a genuine war hero, a decorated officer, a selfless, intelligent, brave, and honorable man. Perhaps it was why, this once, John felt more inclined to answer the Major than his therapist.. Lately, their sessions had seemed at a standstill.

"How's it going, you ask?" John snorted and shook his head. "Can't really say. Trying to do the...um, therapy bit, again...but you know. It's just talk... Sometimes it's good, there's a value in it, other times 'just talk' doesn't always cut it... Will stick with it...though, because it's better than—"

"—Than the alternative….." Sholto muttered in grim understanding.

"That's the thing," John frowned. "I've thought about...decided about the… 'alternative' before...this...this latest thing...with my friend. Those long stretches of being alone, when there seemed to be nothing after the service—yeah, they were tough and dangerous. But... then, things got better, got turned around…out of the blue. Sher…," John couldn't say Sherlock's name without his throat tightening. "He rescued me … from doing…. something… stupid… dishonorable…." John closed his eyes. "It …he was what I needed when I needed it…a friend—" John swallowed hard and looked out the window again, unseeing the crowd, the beautiful day. "It's what I hope for now... something to turn my life around still...for the better."

In the silence, the rancor of raised voices chanting, "Major Murderer Major Murderer Major…" infiltrated the room.

"You don't deserve this, Jim." John tilted his head toward the window and glanced back at Sholto.

"They can't conceive the hardship, the isolation and the danger. They only understand their losses. But I am to blame," Sholto confessed in a soft whisper, "for their losses."

"No, no, no, no. "John gave him a stern look. "You might think that, but you're not entirely to blame; your intelligence never alerted you to an ambush ….just like I hadn't known my patient was a suicide bomber. These were events outside our control—"

"It had been a series of events outside of your control—" The sound of Sherlock's voice from what now seemed ages ago startled John. For the briefest instant, despite what he knew was true, his eyes darted through the room in search of his dead friend—a reflex whenever he "heard" that voice. Recovering quickly from the mental interruption, he continued, "We'll all face death some day, but those who live carry the memory of those who died. That's our responsibility, to keep them alive …to be worthy of surviving what they didn't. Then, be happy we survived to live our lives. Make them proud. Anyway, I know you, Major! You'd rather have died than let any of your men perish."

Sholto managed a contrite smile. "But, not the way it turned out, was it?"

"You were with them on the mission. It was blind luck that only you survived."

"God damn it! They were under my command. Blind luck or not, I'm responsible for each life lost!" Sholto's bright blue eyes flashed in anger. He shook his head in disagreement. "I'm the unlucky one, John… dishonored because I survived. Death brings honor—"

"—With respect, sir," John interrupted, "that's not exactly true. Sacrifice brings honor. It's the life before death that earns one acclaim. And it's the ultimate sacrifice—not the death itself—that's revered."

"Self-sacrifice is an act of suicide, isn't it?"

John considered Sholto's question before answering. "Yes, but the motivation for this so-called 'suicide' is a noble one."

The murmur of the outside crowd intruded softly whenever they stopped speaking: Murderer Major Murderer Major Murderer Major.

"But taking one's own life," John continued, ignoring the cries of the disheartened, "is cowardly. It's the exact opposite of an honorable, noble sacrifice. That's my opinion." John paused. "Let me be clear. I'm not talking about those suffering from depression. Despondency, mental illness or acute anxiety are not rational states of mind…. No, I'm talking about the person who takes his own life when he knows, when he knew—" John's voice hitched. What Sherlock had done infuriated him. "When he knew it was wrong! When he had all his faculties to resist the act and…and did it anyway."

Now that his walled-up emotions had been breached, John could no longer keep silent. "This kind of suicide…well, it's a contradiction of an honorable act. And that's what I don't get. Sh…my friend… was an honorable man. He was the farthest thing from a coward!" John stomped his foot at the futility, then balled his fist. "He was the very definition of rational and cold logic. That's why it makes no sense that he would've just given up, no sense at all. It goes everything he is…was."

"If that's true... about your friend," Sholto offered, "then he must've had a rational reason. Sometimes it's a snap judgement or a reflex with no time to explain. An honorable man makes the ultimate sacrifice when there's no other way to save others—"

"—But, but…he was the one under attack! He was the one who needed saving! That's where I failed him—" John thumped his chest angrily and dropped his gaze to the floor. He pulled a slow, deep breath through his nose to dampen his rage, then continued in a strained voice. "If you're right, then who was he saving?" John exhaled an exasperated sigh, "Whatever the reasons, Bloody Christ, I'll never know!"

They remained quiet for a long spell, listening to the outside voices until other sounds intruded and the chanting ceased. Whirling blue lights of official vehicles flashed intermittently through the hospital-room window. Security personnel emerged from their cars to address the crowd that had been disturbing the peace on public property. One by one, individuals left the group and strode away. Only a solitary young man refused to leave. The hospital guards let him be.

"How did you resist the…alternative, John?' Sholto's question drew John's attention from the window to his former commander. Sholto met the question in John's eyes and confessed, "You should know…I learnt about Colonel Carruthers—what he'd been doing…"

Lips pursed, John nodded twice in acknowledgement. "I was tempted… but I wasn't irrational. That's the difference. I didn't see my death accomplishing anything but fulfilling Carruthers' revenge. I owed him nothing. I certainly didn't owe him my life. But I do owe Mac and my friends a life worth living."

Sholto considered John's answer without comment. He slowly nodded, although it seemed from politeness, not because he had been by persuaded John's answer.

"It's what I believe." John insisted "It keeps me going, even now." He needed to ensure another honorable man—this good friend—did not falter and succumb to despair. "Carruthers tried to force my hand, to do what his grief dictated was the 'honorable thing,' but I refused to dishonor those who died protecting our country's interests—and us—no matter how lost I had felt, no matter who told me my life was worthless. Suicide was …is not the answer. It's a self-destructive act. And it's worst motivation stems from vanity and self-pride—"

"What about saving face?" The Major pushed. "There's honor in that, yes?"

"Not in my book." John shook his head vigorously. "It takes more courage to live. Anyway, saving face is not the same as saving others. Saving others is our duty as soldiers. It's also the reason I went into medicine, to have a hand in saving lives. Funny thing. Carruthers' harassment made me realize that saving lives meant saving my own from the most cowardly act of defeat."

"All this wisdom, Watson." Sholto observed with quiet admiration. "Might be sessions with your trick cyclist are doing you some good, but you've always been insightful. It's what I valued the most during our tour together."

John smiled at the man's compliment, embarrassed by the unexpected openness of their conversation, and grateful for a candor that felt cleansing. "You see, Jim, this…" He gestured between them with a back-and-forth motion of his hand. "... this talk can be very helpful; that's what therapy—good therapy—offers."

"Humpf. Think so, do you?" Sholto closed his eyes, the right side of his face relaxed, his jaw slackened. His head rested against the chair back.

For a moment, John thought Sholto had fallen asleep, but the Major struggled to open his eyes. "Sorry, Capt'n. Can't always fight the fatigue...damn painkillers."

"Understood. Look… I'll ahh, I'll go. Besides, you need your rest. It'll help you heal faster. Remember, we're having a pint or two when you get out? Rest up. Will stop by again soon." John turned to go.

"Wait, Captain Watson!"

John obeyed the command, pivoted about face and stood at attention.

"A side benefit of...endless time...here... is thinking. So, before you go, I've got one bit of unsought-for advice for a loyal friend." The Major had regained his strong voice. He pinned John with his signature piercing stare as he made an effort to stand. "In light of all you've said, I think you deserve...this advice."

"Sir." John's curiosity was piqued by Sholto's unusual tone.

"I speak from experience. Sometimes we get lost in these … high principles of ours and forget we're human, as human and flawed as everyone else. On those rare occasions when we fail, we fall harder than others because we've let ourselves down. We're surprised by our shortcomings. Don't forget this. You've endured much and kept your ethics intact, Captain. However, if and when missteps happen—and they will—be as kind to yourself, as you've been to others. And most of all forgive yourself…" Sholto ended with a smile that managed to be kinder than twisted. He offered his good hand to shake John's. "That's all, soldier."

"Thank you, Major." John stepped back, saluted, spun on his heel and left, tucking his former commander's message away to ponder later. Painkillers often made people say strange things, although Sholto's advice sounded more like a warning.

John continued to visit his convalescing friend in the months that followed and Sholto never repeated his advice.

88**88

Eighteen difficult months after Sherlock's death, John Watson met Mary Morstan, the "best thing to happen" to him in a long while. The cocoon of numbness began to unravel as their relationship developed. During their first six months together, he began to feel capable of getting on with his life, when another miracle—his "not dead" friend—returned. With Mary's encouragement and with his friendship with Sherlock restored, John Watson took the moral high road James Sholto had most admired about him and forgave his flawed friend for the deception, never suspecting that other deceptions, including his own, lay ahead.

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More to come...