My name is Lieutenant John H. Watson, M.D., and coalition army in
Afghanistan. You know, it hasn't ended yet, the fighting. My troops are
over there, still, and that's where the real fighting is. But that's not
what my story is about, no.
You pay as you go, sometimes a little. Sometimes all you have. What you're paying for is beyond us to comprehend, but I found myself reflecting this theory when, ironically, I was laying on a cot in one of the buildings we seized. My subclavian artery had been nicked as the bullet of a .454 Casull Longslide Automatic went cleanly through my shoulder, not getting caught in my collarbone, which the bullet shattered, and exited through my back, narrowly missing my spine.
They didn't expect me to pull through, so my general sent me back to England, among some twenty other men. I don't remember any of what follows, and I'm telling you what I've been told by the nurses, doctors and my less wounded cohorts.
We were put into St. Jude's Hospital on the Isle of Wight. It's a beautiful little place, the beaches are lovely at all hours of day and night, and the villages are quaint. You would have never guessed the agony endured in that hospital. I slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes staying awake long enough to have small conversations with the nurses or other patients. When I finally came out of the forest, to coin a phrase, it was May 19, 2004, and I had been wounded March 24. I didn't ever really know the extent of my damage, but they told me I would be well soon enough. My bandages were changed from heavy to moderate, and I was well enough to walk about the hospital ward, if with the assistance of a crutch; my left femur had been broken in ten different places and my pelvis had been cracked from falling off the roof after being shot. I never thought I had been luckier than to come out alive.
Then the unthinkable happened. I caught the enteric fever, severely. My life was despaired of, and I was put into another ward, then into intensive care. When I came around from that, I was too weak to even lift my head, or even breathe deeply without the assistance of a respirator. Around July, I came about full circle and, seemingly through my force of will and the doctors' will, I was well enough to be released at July the first, 2004.
I found myself roaming the streets of the little island, and soon bedded myself down at a hotel, inexpensive and clean. And one day a telephone call and a visit changed my life forever. The phone call was made mid-day, telling me I had permanent leave, and I was really disheartened by the news, but also elated; it meant I wouldn't see my men again, but it also meant I was free from worrying about getting killed.
The visit came at dinnertime; I was eating at a restaurant nearby the hotel when I was confronted with a face from the past. He tapped my unwounded shoulder while on my other side and sat down in front of me with a pixyish grin on his face. I looked directly at him and grinned myself.
"Charlie Stapleton!" I exclaimed, rather overjoyed to see a familiar face. We both had gone to Oxford University together and had made fast friends, though we were separated when I was deployed to Afghanistan. "Is it really you? My God, I never thought I'd see you again! It's really good to see you." He reached across the table as we both stood and gave me a comrade's embrace. Charlie Stapleton took my unwounded shoulder and looked me in the eyes; or rather eye for one was bandaged up on account of my optic nerve being damaged in the fall.
"It's good to see you too, old friend. My God... your hair's going grey and you're as brown as a nut and thin as a rake. Tell me, what did they feed you over there? Gruel? Looks about the size of it. Jesus, you've been all over the shop. What happened?" As we sat back down I gave the short and long of it and he looked rather horrified by the time I was finished.
"And the worst thing of it is, my money's running low and my hotel calls for twenty pounds per three nights. I expect I'm going to be evicted and die penniless and alone on the street." Stapleton looked frankly alarmed.
"Here, now, it's not going to come to that. Just as you said 'alone', I remembered. A man named Sherlock Holmes is looking for someone to go halvsies with him in an apartment in London. Quite a quaint little suit, I understand, on Camden Street. He was rattling about it in the Lab today while making some heinous concoction. I think I may have his number around." Charlie Stapleton said, pulling his cell-phone from his breast pocket and flicking through the numbers. He paused and looked up. "Are you willing to go with him? He's not a bad sort of man. A bit cold, and from noble blood. Reminds you a bit of Dracula." He chuckled at the thought, not taking his eyes from me.
I regained my senses at having this good news so delivered. "Of course I'm willing! Are you mad, Charlie? I'm desperate!" He quirked his eyebrows at me and pushed the redial button and put the cell-phone to his ear. It must have been only one or two rings before the man Sherlock Holmes picked up, because the wait was short.
"Sherlock Amadeus Adelfroth Gaddes Holmes, I've found someone to live with you. He's just come back from the war and he keeps an M17 in his suitcase and he's just waiting to meet you... Well, mostly... about the M17 part." There was a violent exhortation on the other end of the phone and Charlie jerked the phone away from his ear and I caught some rather colourful language, mostly involving Charlie's hereditary and choice of women. Charlie laughed. "Aren't you in the least interested in the man ready to share your apartments? D'you want to talk to him? He's right here... Yeah, sure." He took the phone away from his ear and handed it to me.
"John Watson?" A man's tenor voice, almost treble, was on the other end. I replied the affirmative. After that is of no real consequence; I got my rooms at Camden House on Baker Street, and I learned a great deal from the man on the other side of the phone, though he obviously learned a great deal more from me. His parting statement left me wondering, however. "When we finally meet, proper, you'll have to tell me all about your childhood in Africa. I've heard it was an astounding place, though I never quite dared to venture there myself. Ta-ta."
You pay as you go, sometimes a little. Sometimes all you have. What you're paying for is beyond us to comprehend, but I found myself reflecting this theory when, ironically, I was laying on a cot in one of the buildings we seized. My subclavian artery had been nicked as the bullet of a .454 Casull Longslide Automatic went cleanly through my shoulder, not getting caught in my collarbone, which the bullet shattered, and exited through my back, narrowly missing my spine.
They didn't expect me to pull through, so my general sent me back to England, among some twenty other men. I don't remember any of what follows, and I'm telling you what I've been told by the nurses, doctors and my less wounded cohorts.
We were put into St. Jude's Hospital on the Isle of Wight. It's a beautiful little place, the beaches are lovely at all hours of day and night, and the villages are quaint. You would have never guessed the agony endured in that hospital. I slipped in and out of consciousness, sometimes staying awake long enough to have small conversations with the nurses or other patients. When I finally came out of the forest, to coin a phrase, it was May 19, 2004, and I had been wounded March 24. I didn't ever really know the extent of my damage, but they told me I would be well soon enough. My bandages were changed from heavy to moderate, and I was well enough to walk about the hospital ward, if with the assistance of a crutch; my left femur had been broken in ten different places and my pelvis had been cracked from falling off the roof after being shot. I never thought I had been luckier than to come out alive.
Then the unthinkable happened. I caught the enteric fever, severely. My life was despaired of, and I was put into another ward, then into intensive care. When I came around from that, I was too weak to even lift my head, or even breathe deeply without the assistance of a respirator. Around July, I came about full circle and, seemingly through my force of will and the doctors' will, I was well enough to be released at July the first, 2004.
I found myself roaming the streets of the little island, and soon bedded myself down at a hotel, inexpensive and clean. And one day a telephone call and a visit changed my life forever. The phone call was made mid-day, telling me I had permanent leave, and I was really disheartened by the news, but also elated; it meant I wouldn't see my men again, but it also meant I was free from worrying about getting killed.
The visit came at dinnertime; I was eating at a restaurant nearby the hotel when I was confronted with a face from the past. He tapped my unwounded shoulder while on my other side and sat down in front of me with a pixyish grin on his face. I looked directly at him and grinned myself.
"Charlie Stapleton!" I exclaimed, rather overjoyed to see a familiar face. We both had gone to Oxford University together and had made fast friends, though we were separated when I was deployed to Afghanistan. "Is it really you? My God, I never thought I'd see you again! It's really good to see you." He reached across the table as we both stood and gave me a comrade's embrace. Charlie Stapleton took my unwounded shoulder and looked me in the eyes; or rather eye for one was bandaged up on account of my optic nerve being damaged in the fall.
"It's good to see you too, old friend. My God... your hair's going grey and you're as brown as a nut and thin as a rake. Tell me, what did they feed you over there? Gruel? Looks about the size of it. Jesus, you've been all over the shop. What happened?" As we sat back down I gave the short and long of it and he looked rather horrified by the time I was finished.
"And the worst thing of it is, my money's running low and my hotel calls for twenty pounds per three nights. I expect I'm going to be evicted and die penniless and alone on the street." Stapleton looked frankly alarmed.
"Here, now, it's not going to come to that. Just as you said 'alone', I remembered. A man named Sherlock Holmes is looking for someone to go halvsies with him in an apartment in London. Quite a quaint little suit, I understand, on Camden Street. He was rattling about it in the Lab today while making some heinous concoction. I think I may have his number around." Charlie Stapleton said, pulling his cell-phone from his breast pocket and flicking through the numbers. He paused and looked up. "Are you willing to go with him? He's not a bad sort of man. A bit cold, and from noble blood. Reminds you a bit of Dracula." He chuckled at the thought, not taking his eyes from me.
I regained my senses at having this good news so delivered. "Of course I'm willing! Are you mad, Charlie? I'm desperate!" He quirked his eyebrows at me and pushed the redial button and put the cell-phone to his ear. It must have been only one or two rings before the man Sherlock Holmes picked up, because the wait was short.
"Sherlock Amadeus Adelfroth Gaddes Holmes, I've found someone to live with you. He's just come back from the war and he keeps an M17 in his suitcase and he's just waiting to meet you... Well, mostly... about the M17 part." There was a violent exhortation on the other end of the phone and Charlie jerked the phone away from his ear and I caught some rather colourful language, mostly involving Charlie's hereditary and choice of women. Charlie laughed. "Aren't you in the least interested in the man ready to share your apartments? D'you want to talk to him? He's right here... Yeah, sure." He took the phone away from his ear and handed it to me.
"John Watson?" A man's tenor voice, almost treble, was on the other end. I replied the affirmative. After that is of no real consequence; I got my rooms at Camden House on Baker Street, and I learned a great deal from the man on the other side of the phone, though he obviously learned a great deal more from me. His parting statement left me wondering, however. "When we finally meet, proper, you'll have to tell me all about your childhood in Africa. I've heard it was an astounding place, though I never quite dared to venture there myself. Ta-ta."