BBC Sherlock: The Case of The Colonel Carruthers' Connection
Chapter 4: The Honorable Thing
The truce between flat-mates about the letters did not mean the matter had been forgot, even when an explosion across the street blew out the windows of 221B, suddenly involving Sherlock and John in the "five pips"case.
In contrast to their exciting days, however, John's nightime bouts with PSTD progressively diminished. It seemed that Sherlock had backed off—too involved in an intriguing great game to focus on John's past. It was also quite clear that Sherlock had no intention of sending him off packing. They were a team. Strangely, working together on the case reduced John's agitation. in addition, Sherlock's new penchant for playing soothing melodies on the violin when John retired to bed was having an effect. Certainly, the occurrences of heart-pumping nightmares and exploding-head syndrome that had plagued John mercilessly the past three weeks had abated. As a consequence, John felt no urgency to divulge the contents of Carruthers' letters.
However, Sherlock had not let it go as John might have believed. In between the bomber-countdown challenges, notwithstanding, and although the Andrew West investigation was still unresolved, Sherlock spent his nights clandestinely digging into John's past. Some information was easy to find and some he already knew.
John Watson had earned his Bachelor of Medicine at King's College. This was followed by three years of residency and a fellowship in his surgical specialty, completed in 2004, also at King's College. After, Dr. Watson worked at the Broomfield Hospital Chelmsford and the University College Hospital London whilst training at St. Bartholomew's to become a British Army doctor.
Captain John H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers had an admirable service record. While deployed in Afghanistan for his three-year tour, he participated in numerous skirmishes and rescue missions, treating the wounded on the battlefields in Operation Herrick in Kandahar and Helmand province. As Assistant Surgeon, he repeatedly distinguished himself in the OR tents and camp hospitals as one of their finest surgeons. In addition to the honors for his service to Queen and country, Captain Watson was awarded the Operational Service Medal for Afghanistan—with clasp. Other honors for victorious service were denied him, however, when fate put him in harm's way and his military career ended.
Next, Sherlock delved into the army's medical databanks for details about John's recovery. The few times John had referred to that long spell, he had remained cryptic about his difficulties. The more Sherlock discovered that this convalescence was fraught with ups and downs, the greater his admiration for his modest flat-mate. It had taken courage to prevail in wartime, determination to survive his injuries and an indomitable spirit to surmount their extensive complications during that harrowing, post-war period.
"…in your very last few seconds what would you say? " Sherlock had asked John, in his attempt to prove that Jennifer Wilson was clever and had been trying to scratch a message right before she died.
"Please God, let me live," John had replied without hesitation.
At first, Sherlock had not registered the look on John's face and snapped in exasperation, "Oh, use your imagination!"
John had responded with the understated pride of a survivor, "I don't have to."
Sherlock shrugged off the prickly memory and concentrated on his investigation.
The Carruthers connection proved more elusive than Sherlock had anticipated it would be, despite Mycroft's cooperation. After some sophisticated digging through confidential army archives, Sherlock found a single report in terse military jargon about a summary hearing involving Captain John H. Watson. The transcript lacked essential details as the record had been officially expunged, which was why it had been so difficult to locate.
The dates on the documents put this summary hearing several months after John's crippling war injury and subsequent fevers from sepsis. The hearing convened to consider the charges that Captain John H. Watson was culpable for an explosion while still in active service, causing the death of thirty-seven people. The charge of culpability had been initiated by Colonel Walter Carruthers, RAMC.
The Royal Army Medical Corps functioned to provide medical services to British Army personnel and was the medical specialist corps in which John had served. But who was this Colonel Carruthers, a commander stationed in a London headquarters, and why should he single out one military doctor for legal action, accusing him of misconduct on operations, specifically, causing the explosion in Afghanistan?
Those questions chased Sherlock as he continued his researches. The timing of the one-day summary hearing ignored the army surgeon's precarious health. The official transcript reflected that Captain John Watson, though present, was frail, on oxygen, and needed assistance to stand and move. Perhaps there was some consideration shown, because the matter was dropped. According to the file, the charge against Captain Watson was summarily dismissed and no further legal action was pending.
It was unclear to Sherlock why this needed an official proceeding. It would have seemed a judge advocate or a research team could have presented the facts to a court without requiring the presence of the injured soldier, whereby it could have been dismissed at that point. It was curious.
Why hold the proceedings and put the accused through hell before he had sufficiently recovered? Sherlock speculated that Carruthers wanted to have Captain Watson's good name and honors besmirched before the wounded man died of his injuries. This was a greater curiosity.
But John didn't die. Sherlock smiled to himself. John had the stubborn will to live.
The summary hearing confirmed Captain Watson's innocence and motioned to expunge his record. That was where the connection broke. Sherlock leant back from his laptop to consider the motive behind Carruthers' actions, then and now. Had Carruthers felt deprived of justice? If so, what was he seeking justice for? Was it purely due to Carruthers' responsibility, as the RAMC colonel headquartered in London, for the general oversight of the medical team that perished? Or was there a personal connection, someone closed to him, perhaps, killed in this explosion? Sherlock had perused the list of the deceased; nothing had leapt out to link Carruthers with any of them. It would take extra time to check the backgrounds of each victim; it was a nuisance that these facts had been omitted from the archives. Still, it felt like revenge, but Sherlock was averse to rely on feelings. Were these letters a form of harassment? Had they been following John from address to address? John had only taken up residence in Baker Street approximately three months ago.
Whilst it would have been simple for someone as highly placed as Carruthers to learn through official channels every time John's address changed, clout wasn't necessary to locate blogger Dr. John H. Watson's current residence. John had begun blogging about his encounter with Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and his decision to flat share since late January. Only yesterday, he had posted his latest about the international smuggling ring. Anyone doing a search could find his 221B Baker Street address. That thought sent a shiver of disquiet up Sherlock's spine. More determined than ever, Sherlock switched his investigation from John to Colonel Walter Carruthers, RAMC, in search of a motive.
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Carruthers' letters had been unnecessary to remind John of the private pain he bore daily during his waking moments and the sorrows that assailed him during sleep. But sharing this personal concern with Sherlock was another matter. He wasn't ready for it.
It was not a letter the next time but a shoe-box sized package wrapped in brown paper.
"John, dear," Mrs. Hudson called from her flat when he opened the front door. "A parcel came for you this afternoon. I brought it upstairs with the other post."
"A parcel? For me?" John frowned at the unlikelihood of such a thing. Sherlock was the one to receive parcels, specimens he regularly ordered from medical supply companies. "You mean, for Sherlock, right?" he clarified.
"No dear," she popped out her flat door while drying a dinner plate and gave him a bright smile. "For a change, it's addressed to you—Dr. Watson. Sweets from the sweetie, I hope," she winked. "Perhaps, someone is sending you homemade biscuits… We used to do that all the time. Wrapped them just like that. They were always a welcome sight. Enjoy them, John," She waved with her dish linen and ducked back inside. "Hope they're tasty," he heard her say as he bounded up the stairs, two at a time.
John was still pondering the parcel waiting for him on the kitchen table, his heart pounding, when Sherlock returned moments later.
"John?" Sherlock warily eyed the packaged and his flat-mate standing stock still in the kitchen with the lights off. It was dusk and ambient daylight from the windows gave the scene an eerie glow. "What's that?"
John answered straight-faced, without looking up. "No idea. Homemade biscuits?"
"What?" Sherlock scowled his disbelief.
John shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson brought it up. Thought someone was sending me baked goods."
Sherlock considered the idea, "Your sister, then?"
John snorted a laugh, "Ha! Harry! That'll be the day. Never has before. Don't think she's gonna start now."
"Your doctor colleague, friend…um…Sarah, as a romantic gesture, perhaps?"
John shook his head. "Not likely. She's too busy to spend time in a kitchen. And why send them to me when she sees me almost regularly at the surgery?" John glanced at Sherlock. "No one I can think of from my short list of friends would send me treats…. Anyway, most of my friends are still in the service…. I should be sending them boxes of biscuits."
"Other family?" Sherlock proposed, attempting to eliminate all the possibilities.
"A few distant cousins used to send me an annual Christmas card. Don't believe they would suddenly send me baked goods in March. Besides, I haven't heard from them in years…." John's voice trailed and he shook his head. There was no need to mention that when he was convalescing, he had been moved from hospital to hospital. Back then, it was hard to keep track of him and once invalided, John made no attempt to be found. "Do you think it's the pips-bomber who's been challenging you...?"
"Not his MO. No pips about this."
"Oh."
Both men stared at the parcel.
Sherlock shifted his focus and locked eyes with John. "We're agreed, then?"
John nodded and looked away, biting his lower lip with worry before replying, "Yeah. I'm sure it's a special delivery from Colonel Carruthers."
"Well," Sherlock circled the table. "I suggest we be guarded about unwrapping it." His advice was more a command than a suggestion. With his hands clasped behind his back, he stooped and examined the box. "Dimensions suggest it's a shoe box, by the size of it, a man's shoe. The ordinary brown wrapping can be purchased at any stationery store so it's less helpful, but the discoloration of the paper and the creases here and here are deep. They suggest it has been kept folded for quite some time. The handwriting is slanting every which way, you see that, John? While I've not seen Carruthers letters close up, I recognized the formation of the scripted letters; they're disproportionate and the flourishes are inconsistent. It suggests the person who wrote it is troubled with erratic tendencies."
Sherlock pulled a stethoscope from a kitchen drawer. He applied both the diaphragm and then the bell gently to the box and listened. "The good news, there's no ticking," he concluded with a smile.
"Yeah?" John huffed a wry laugh, "So, no need to call in bomb disposal for biscuits, then?"
Still leaning over the package, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "There's no return address and, more importantly, no post stamp on it. This parcel was hand delivered, John, with today's post. This is personal. He's made the extra effort. He must be close, perhaps staying at accommodations in London…"
"Carried it himself to my door, you think?" John cast a worried glance at the wrapped box. "How thoughtful. Less jostling…fewer crumbs."
"Are you aware, John, you use humor to compensate for anxiety?" Sherlock said without looking away from the package.
"Never mind that, Sherlock." The pitch of John's voice rose with frustration. "We should be focusing on the package and not critiquing my coping mechanisms, yes?"
"I am focused. And I assert that this delivery was intended to induce fear and that it's not a bomb. If I believed otherwise, I would insist we take Mrs. Hudson outside and wait until bomb disposal arrived." Sherlock spoke with confidence when he added; "This is a ruse, a hoax…."
"Seriously?" John asked, his tone deliberately low and measured.
"Seriously!" Sherlock nodded, noting another of John's over-compensation tactics for his quite legitimate disquiet.
A beat later, John's eyebrows arched, "How can you be so sure, then?"
Sherlock was sure, based upon his thorough investigation of the Colonel.
Carruthers' lifelong career, first as a soldier and later as a commander, had been distinguished by his unswerving adherence to the British Army Values and Standards. He prided himself on his unblemished military record and his reputation as an exceptional role model. A long list of honors, decorations and distinguished-conduct medals furthered his acclaim. As expected, upon his retirement, barely a year ago, he had been awarded full honors.
The Colonel's medical records and psychological profile cast a different light on the career soldier's sterling reputation. His retirement was attributed to the onset of a nervous condition, described as a form of rigid personality disorder, affecting his decision-making skills. Carruthers had begun to manifest an "obstinate inability to yield to or a refusal to appreciate another person's viewpoint" to the degree that his staff could neither ameliorate nor ignore his behavior. Despite being ordered to desist, his relentless pursuit of "justice" for the entire team of medical personnel killed in the explosion was ultimately deemed reason for a dishonorable dismissal, unless he filed for his retirement papers.
Early in Sherlock's career, the detective had dealt with this personality disorder in two different criminal cases. In both cases, the perpetrators were so rigid in obedience to rules that the idea of breaking the law to commit a crime was abhorrent to them. However, it did not stop the vengeful individuals from guilting their victims to death with forms of subtle persuasion or psychological tactics that would incline the "victim" to self-harm. Sherlock was certain this was Carruthers' strategy. He would not willingly violate his ethics by perpetrating an actual criminal act, i.e., make a live bomb and detonate it to kill John, but his message was still clear. For reasons Sherlock had not yet learnt, the Colonel wanted John dead and was using guilt as a tool.
Sherlock could tell John none of this.
Had it been anyone else, Sherlock would have divulged the lengths he had gone to get his information. The repercussions, however, for going behind John's back made him loath to disclose this fact. John would consider it a breach of privacy, but Sherlock blamed John's reticence for necessitating his information-gathering action. Given his options, Sherlock firmly believed that retrieving archived files was less about "crossing the line" than digging into John's sock drawer to read Carruthers' letters—as sorely tempted as he had been. He just wasn't sure if John would agree with this distinction between sleuthing and prying. Lest it cause an explosion of another kind from John, something Sherlock had wanted to avoid at all costs, he answered with deliberate misdirection, "There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
"What's that supposed to mean?" John frowned, sensing subterfuge in Sherlock's reply.
"Would've thought it was self-explanatory," Sherlock replied dismissively, amused that John saw through his ploy. "You see, it need not be an actual bomb to achieve its objective. By your reaction, I should say it has 'hit its mark.' Your trepidation is evident in your sweaty palms, your dilated pupils, your rapid breathing, creased brow, the worried set of your mouth—your reaction is more intense than your response had been thus far to the Colonel's letters. This is the desired effect; to escalate the anxiety with an elevated threat." Sherlock shifted his scrutiny back to the parcel. "Still, for someone with the level of PTSD from which you suffer, your composure—humor—in the face of danger is actually quite commendable and indicative of a man who has braved the battlefield with extraordinary courage."
Whilst Sherlock's overt compliment flattered John, he wasn't quite sure if there weren't some ulterior motive. He muttered softly, "I'm beginning to think we are in danger. You're being pleasant."
Ignoring John, Sherlock sized up the package on the table in silence. With a decisive nod of his head, he flipped on the kitchen light and reached for the parcel.
John gasped, "No, Sherlock! Wait! Don't do it!" and lunged protectively toward Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock in a powerful embrace and maneuvered himself between Sherlock and the parcel. "Call bomb disposal. I can't be responsible…for more deaths…"
John's anguish was as disturbing as his self-recrimination. Faces inches apart, their eyes held. Neither spoke until John relaxed his hold.
"Sorry, sorry," John backed away and raised both palms apologetically. "Didn't mean to…," he shrugged, uncertain if he had affronted Sherlock's personal space, "…but I don't think it's worth the risk. Hadn't expected I'd be putting you and Mrs. Hudson in danger just by moving in here."
"You've not put us in danger, John. If you could trust me on this I can prove it to you." Sherlock realized he was asking a great deal from someone who "had trust issues" and from whom he frequently withheld the full truth, but he waited until John nodded his assent.
Carefully, Sherlock peeled back the wrapping, uncovering a shoebox for men's boots. He removed the lid and peered inside, "Hmmmm."
Lying on its back, with sole exposed, was one old boot, coated in dried mud. Impressed into its sole was a white, flattened clay-like substance.
John's face drained of color when he saw it and pulled back in apprehension. "Careful, Sherlock! It could still be a trick."
John's alarm was palpable. The significance of the boot, while initially unclear to Sherlock, was understood by John all too well. Sherlock gleaned this had been the delivery mechanism—a boot and plastic explosives—that had killed the hospital team.
"There's no trigger mechanism, John," Sherlock sniffed at the off-white material. "And this 'plastic' is child's modeling clay."
The relief on John's face did not dispel his pallor. He had to lean on the tabletop to keep his legs from buckling. Sherlock observed John's reaction and pretended not to notice. It saved him from displaying sympathy—which was altogether perplexing—and spared John the indignity of losing face. Is this how people handle uncomfortable moments?
Sherlock feigned interest in the shoebox until John had recovered.
"Well, that's settled," John gave him a sheepish grin, "except now I'm wishing for homemade biscuits."
"Settled?" Sherlock glared in surprised at John. He had not expected such nonchalance with so obvious a threat, especially in light of how distraught John had been moments before. By rights, John should have been furious. "No!" Sherlock shook his head, "The matter's not settled. Why are you allowing him to get away with emotional terrorism? Surely that is what this is."
"It's a long story…."
"Try me. We appear to have time."
John hesitated, then turned and headed upstairs.
Sherlock listened and heard the sound of John's sock drawer opening and closing.
John returned with the three envelopes, including the most crumpled one he had not opened.
Sherlock noted the Carlisle postcode—one of the most northern English cities—and date stamps on each. His trained eye assessed the erratic handwriting similar to the script on the parcel. He noted the rag content of the paper and that the same brand of ink had been used to inscribe each. Removing the two previously opened letters, Sherlock frowned as he read their identical and succinct messages. He held up the third envelope to the light, Sherlock threw John a questioning look; John nodded, granting Sherlock permission to open the third. Sherlock carefully slit the crease. With great care he slid the last letter out, using tweezers. It bore the same baffling message in capital letters across the entire page. It read: DO THE HONORABLE THING!
A stoic John showed no surprise at the newest message in Sherlock's hand. He managed a wry smile. "I…ah…expect you to know what that means…."
"The honorable thing," Sherlock nodded at the proof in his hand of Carruthers' malice. "The interpretation varies greatly, but…"
John licked his lips nervously. "Yeah, so you know—" He swallowed hard. "He wants me do the honorable thing," he whispered hoarsely, "The ancient warrior code thing to die on one's sword…to kill myself—"
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