A/N: Prompt at the end of this one. :-)
Reminiscence
Watson stands obediently in his uniform, buttons polished to a high shine, and he bends in a graceful bow as he pledges his duty to Queen and country.
Four months later, he is nearly killed in Afghanistan.
He remembers everything in explicit detail, remembers the hot sear of pain as the bullet struck home. He remembers Murray hauling him up as though he weighed no more than a babe in arms, the man blinking rapidly as dirt and blood streaked into his eyes, his expression a bizarre mixture of crazed and concerned.
He remembers lying on the hard cot at Peshawar, observing bedfellows between translucent swishing veils like they were ethereal beings. He watched and listened until one was unable to decipher the sobs from the screams.
He remembers the voyage back, a black and endless ocean that swayed like ink in a bottle. He remembers Marcus Jenson, one arm severed and his skin covered in rust-stained bandages. They shared cigars and tales between them, a cold kind of comfort. Jenson had not made it to London, bound for a journey of a different kind.
He remembers limping off the gangway to the rushing noise of civilisation. He remembers stumbling into a labourer and being shoved for his troubles, his leg lancing with agony to remind him that the souvenir he returned with was not to be forgotten. He remembers thinking he would never be quite whole again, felt he'd been hollowed out and filled with muscle and flesh that was not his own. He remembers thinking he was not the man whom had vowed to serve his country, not the man in the shiny buttons who had played cards with fellow soldiers as the sun had set over golden sand.
Doctor Watson remembers everything, and the memories haunt him like they exist physically, which he supposes they do.
They are here in his leg and his scars; here in the sickening feeling that weighs him beneath a blazing sun, reducing him to ash and bone. They are here as his comrades wave from the distance with torn limbs and twisted features, marching toward him in the shimmering heat; one determined, ghostly army.
/-/-/
Watson wakes to the moon spilling through the gap in the curtains, a neat white incision running across his stomach. His skin runs hot and cold, fingers shaking as they ghost across his forehead, attempting to smooth the furrows that permanently reside there. As always he listens for the voices, but they have not come tonight, for which he is grateful.
From downstairs, he can hear Holmes scraping away on his violin, the tune violent and haunting. Familiar as he is with Holmes's habits, he suspects something disturbs the detective's mind also.
He does not move for several minutes. Then he stands, puts on his dressing gown. He descends the stairs, choosing to dispel the ghosts of his past in familiar company of the living.
End
Prompt 03: From goodpenmanship – ghosts.
A/N II: Okay ... so I'm thinking I should put this cup of angst tea down ...