BBC Sherlock: The Case of The Colonel Carruthers' Connection

Chapter 5: Retribution

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Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally. Herein lay the motivation he had been seeking. "Tell me why."

"Because I didn't die with the others," John replied grimly.

"Explain."

John remained tightlipped. His reluctance formed a lump in his throat. His eyes darted sideways, then downward, then shifted sideways again—an evasive dance.

Sherlock showed uncommon patience by keeping silent and resisting the urge to demand full disclosure. If he pushed too hard, John would push back by refusing to cooperate. Sherlock used John's moment of indecision, instead, to slide the letters back in their envelopes and place them on the table near the shoebox.

"Yeah, okay," John conceded at last and waved his hand as if to dispel unwanted images. "A team of doctors, nurses and orderlies, friends from my surgical unit, along with recovering patients—thirty-seven people—were killed in an explosion." John halted abruptly.

This was proving difficult. Struggling with his private ghosts, John looked toward the large windows overlooking Baker Street. Twilight slowly dimmed the sitting room. Although he would have preferred the comfort of darkness to shield him from Sherlock's scrutiny, John remained in the kitchen where the lamp overhead illuminated the two men flanking the kitchen table.

He cleared his throat and continued, "We worked in a Tier-2 semi-permanent purpose-built structure that served all wounded—an efficient unit that saved many lives. We had a fine-tuned system that enabled critically injured patients to be brought straight into the operating theatre, rather than waiting for assessment in the emergency tent.

"Anyway, that day…the day of the explosion…. no one was prepared. Had an alarm sounded, we would've put on body armor. And if it required hand-to-hand, we were given regular drills in self-defense. But this was a surprise attack. Hit from right inside the hospital…"

"You hadn't died with the others because…?" Sherlock guided John's narrative back to the salient points he needed.

"Because I wasn't in the hospital when the bomb went off," John answered evasively.

"Where were you on the day of the explosion, then?" Sherlock asked gently, keeping his eagerness for answers out of his voice.

John paused, drew a breath through his nose and briefly closed his eyes. "I was out on the frontlines, at the center of the conflict, dodging enemy fire whilst training the frontline infantry to be medics. That day it was my turn for this battlefield training. We had a rotation system for this operation. When vital medical care was delivered in the first fifteen minutes after injury, it gave our casualties a fighting chance. That's where I was."

"You were nowhere near the base when the explosion happened," Sherlock puzzled. "So, why had Carruthers thought you should die with the others …?"

"Because it was…my patient—an enemy combatant I had operated on the day before—who detonated plastic explosives, presumably concealed in his boots."

"Your patient! An enemy combatant?"

"Look, Sherlock," John protested, "This rehashing of old history is— "

"—essential!" Sherlock interrupted, "in establishing the Colonel's motive behind these letters and now this parcel. I need your account to confirm my suspicions, John."

John chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Okay, so tell me; what are your suspicions, then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in frustration. "You're asking me to speculate based on arbitrary assumptions or offer a hypothesis based on certain a priori reasoning, but it's still unsubstantiated without the facts. No, John. To reason from insufficient facts is wasted effort and frequently dangerous."

"Knowing you, I'd wager, with the little you have, your hypothesis would be on the money," John sighed, a hint of awe in his voice. "There's no arguing you've made detection nearly an exact science."

Sherlock softened with John's backhanded compliment. He dropped his glance to hide his slight smile. "Facts, John. Facts! Start with why you operated on the enemy combatant."

Sherlock's tone was dispassionate but John still cringed. "That question! It's followed me ever since. It's an ethical thing. We're instructed to treat enemy soldiers equally. 'You're on my table, you're my responsibility.' For some it's a tough call, especially when we're on different sides of the same conflict, but this equal treatment of the injured was established by the Geneva Convention."

John's shoulders lifted in a shrug. "'Equal' is somewhat open to interpretation. Of course we first feel a profound moral obligation to our own soldiers. It's expected—but there is the ethical standard: surgeons 'should treat first whoever is before them.' I mean, as physicians we all took the Standard Medical Oath so most of us accept our medical obligations—our highest priority—whoever the patient was."

Sherlock nodded his head, although John was unsure if it was because he understood the ethics or if he wanted John to continue. "It wasn't the first time I'd performed surgery on the enemy, but it had been a particularly hellish day, with twenty-two casualties medivacked to our OR and more were incoming. The critical were brought directly into the operating theater. Because we got backed up, some patients had to be prepped in the pre-surgical holding area before they were brought to our tables…and this enemy soldier had been prepped there…."

John closed his eyes and grimaced, anguishing over the unforgettable incident and the moments that sealed the fates of his friends—the moments he wished he could change. "We were near the end of the worst cases; the remaining injured weren't as severe. The other surgeons kept opting for our own soldiers among the incoming, but this combatant should've been next in line. His injuries were life-threatening. I decided I wouldn't be jeopardizing the survival of our own troops if I treated him, especially because he had been skipped over by the others. I did the ethical thing."

His eyes snapped open, his voice tight with anger, "I was doing my best to save lives, not thinking who deserved to live. I accept the consequences of my ethical choices..." Feeling the tremor in his left hand, John thrust it behind his back.

Sherlock ignored John's trembling hand and asked, "Where were the soldier's boots when you operated on him?"

"In the prep area, probably. Normally, when the injured came directly into the OR, we'd cut off and discard clothing, gear, whatever needed to be removed so we could conduct emergency surgery. We really didn't spend time inspecting belongings..."

John sank into a kitchen chair and kept his hands under the table. "Who removed his uniform and boots before I got him wasn't my concern. I was focused on the patient, a young kid, really, with a bad abdominal wound. Even after my patch job, I wasn't sure he'd make it. Hours later, when he awoke in recovery, he kept asking for his boots. I remember hearing the nurses remarking to each other about his persistence. One of them joked, 'Must be special boots 'from his girlfriend or mama.' They had a good laugh at that."

A muscle twitched in John's cheek. "Yeah, the boots were special, all right… and the last laugh was the soldier's. I learnt later that a nurse showed sympathy for the man and reunited him with his precious boots." There was no mistaking the bitterness in his words.

Sherlock did not interrupt John with what he knew about PE-4. The plastic explosive had a texture similar to modelling clay and could be molded into any desired shape, like the soles of boots, or hidden in jacket linings or trouser pockets, without exploding. However, it needed a detonator or blasting cap, controlled remotely, to set it off. Was that why the soldier was clamoring for his boots? Was that where had he concealed the detonator?

"Not long after that," John continued, sunk in his memories, "he detonated them; blew up the Recovery Room, everyone around him. My colleagues, personal friends doing rounds with the patients were killed…including Mackenzie Mason…" John's voice caught and he shielded his eyes with his tremulous hand. "Mackenzie Carruthers Mason was Colonel Carruthers' daughter."

John's distress perplexed Sherlock. He turned away and focused on the kitchen window to collect his thoughts. He knew the name Captain Mackenzie Mason from the list of casualties, but as he had not yet checked their backgrounds, he had missed the connection. Never suspected I was looking for a married woman.

After a long silence, John got control of his voice and resumed, "Mac was ending her tour in just a few days and heading home. She also had just discovered she was pregnant. Nobody was surprised. She had planned it. The month before, she had been off for a brief leave with her husband…." He spoke in a tight whisper filled with regrets. "She was so excited when she announced it—'perfect timing,' she said. You can understand why her death devastated her father." John bowed his head and snorted cynically. "It's ironic, Sherlock! That day—the day of the explosion—I was saved by my rotation. Had I been back at the base hospital, I would've died with the others."

More silence followed until Sherlock prompted John, "Have others held you accountable for this explosion?"

"Huh? Dunno. Don't think so…" John snapped out of his dark thoughts and looked into the distance where his memories lingered. "The Major, my commanding officer—a friend actually—was sympathetic, but quite fair about assessing the situation. He questioned me about the patient, the events that lead up to the explosion, but no, I wasn't held accountable although I was… numb...I couldn't look people in the eyes... Have to admit, I was in shock. Tried to tamp it down. We were short-staffed. Bloody hell! We were at war! Our camp was near the front with the fiercest hostilities. People died. We had to press on, to do our job. There were always more casualties needing help. Time to grieve would've been a luxury," John's jaw clenched, his voice gruff. "About a week later, Karma struck…when I was shot. Bill…" John flicked a bitter half smile, "Bill Murray, army nurse—a great guy—saved my life. He dragged me to safety and medivacked…" John closed his eyes.

Sherlock cocked his head thoughtfully. "I see. So that's why Carruthers blamed you for causing the explosion…"

"Not at first," John's eyes flickered open again and he shook his head. "The Colonel wanted answers: how it happened, how we had let our guard down. Eventually his trail led to me because it was my patient who had …," John pulled back in surprise, "Wait, I said Carruthers was devastated…that he thought I should have died along with the others, but I never said anything about actually blaming me for the explosion." He squinted at his flat-mate with suspicion.

Sherlock blinked. To cover his slip, he answered dismissively, "Isn't it obvious? These letters," Sherlock waved at the stationery and gestured toward the shoebox, "this bomb hoax…suggest as much. He wants to avenge his personal loss, and in his disturbed state of mind, he thinks your death will do that. You were spared the same fate as his daughter. You could have been one of them. You should have been one of them, but for random happenstance of a frontline rotation!"

John averted his face, but not before Sherlock caught a glimpse of his torment.

Sherlock was taken aback by the pain in John's features and had to look away. The sight gave him a plunging feeling he did not recognize—empathy? It took a moment for Sherlock to grapple with his own reaction. He detached from the emotion, regained his composure, then cleared his throat and spoke in a neutral voice, "So, when did his accusations first begin?"

John heaved a soft sigh, "Well, after… weeks, he became vocal with his superiors. He wanted justice for my involvement, denouncing me for being a traitor, for consorting with the enemy. At first, he went only through official channels."

"What action did these official channels take?"

"A summary hearing before a tribunal to determine the ethical standing of my actions. Look, there was no denying the Colonel's grief, his anger…needed to be addressed, so I agreed to the preliminary. It was held in Camp Bastion hospital… where I was first taken after my injuries… The Colonel flew in from the UK to attend." John's mouth twisted. "I needed to face him, too. I hoped we could reach some reconciliation…But he would have none of it."

"What was the decision of the hearing?"

"In the end, I was acquitted of any wrongdoing. They determined I had no direct hand in the outcome. My record was cleared. The tribunal also concluded that my ethical standing was commendable. They upheld that 'all persons, when facing difficult ethical problems, should follow their own consciences as a last resort, with a willingness to accept adverse consequences, but preserving the ability to: look at oneself in a mirror.'"

John bit his lower lip to keep it from quivering and shook his head. "When Carruthers failed to get retribution through the legal course, he stayed at Camp Bastion, he pulled rank with the doctors to get visiting rights, and he hounded me. You've heard of survivor's guilt. Yes, well he laid it on thick. He'd stand at my bedside and tell me that I should have died. Justice would be served only if I offed myself."

"What happened when you reported this behavior to the authorities?"

"I didn't have to report him. After several weeks, the hospital personnel overheard his remarks and reported him to his superiors. He was ordered back to London. There was some disciplinary action…I was too sick at the time to know what went in his record. Months later, I heard that he had been deemed mentally unstable and unfit for service. He was forced to retire. His obsession with what happened to his daughter and... his belief I was responsible, unhinged him. I've heard he lives somewhere up north, now."

"So you hadn't filed a harassment report against him?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in surprise. Given John's heated outbursts when Sherlock tried his patience and his menacing grins when Sherlock pushed too hard, it seemed inexplicable that John would have tolerated such mistreatment quietly, at least not the John Watson Sherlock had frequently observed beneath the mild-mannered façade. "Why, John?

"Why what?" John met Sherlock's curious stare.

"Why hadn't you filed an official protest—?"

John looked away, crossed his ankles, and nervously wiggled one foot. "The Colonel was mentally ill, emotionally unstable. I empathized with his grief. I was the only survivor of that fated team... I was the culprit in his eyes. Other than harangue me, he never lifted a finger against me."

"Words are not without power! They can embed ideas in one's head," Sherlock tapped his own temple for emphasis, before shaking his head. "Besides, John, he was acting irrationally!" he scoffed. "To hold you responsible is illogical. You hadn't been present. You hadn't returned the soldier's boots to him. It had been a series of events outside of your control—"

"—of course it's not rational or logical!" John shot back. "Grief is emotional. It didn't help that I was to blame for saving a suicide bomber. Had I not performed life-saving surgery on the enemy," John drew in a breath to finish in a steady voice, "my friends—Carruthers' pregnant daughter—would still be alive. He'd have a grandchild."

Sherlock tented his fingers under his chin to think before replying. This was a new angle in understanding John, an epiphany about the highly principled man who was his flat-mate. "You hadn't objected to his persecution then because... you felt…still feel... guilt….?"

John sat back in his chair, looked up, his eyes flashing in anger. "Under military law, I was found blameless of his accusations. I acted ethically, yes, but it doesn't mean that for one minute I don't feel to blame!"

"And Caruthers knows it," Sherlock jumped in, "He's counting on it, do you see?"

"I'm quite aware of what Carruthers is doing," John said stiffly through gritted teeth..

Their eyes met and held. The defiance in John's expression alerted Sherlock to tread easy. Sherlock shifted gears, "What happened after Carruthers was ordered to stay away?"

"He did just that, although with all the reshuffling during my convalescence, I wasn't easy to find ...there were problems…and my condition was too precarious… When I was ready to withstand the complications of a short trip, they moved me to the next echelon. I went from one hospital to another wherever there was an opening for someone who couldn't travel far …" John shook away his memories. "Even my relatives were hard-pressed to keep track of me, not that any had. I don't believe my unusual 'itinerary' was ever shared with Carruthers. It wasn't until I was deemed transportable for long distances that I had been finally sent back here…to London. Except for these three letters, I hadn't heard from Carruthers since then."

"Except for now! It all fits! Wonderful!" Sherlock gave a small leap of pleasure and hooted, "There are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them, John!"

John's pulled back in surprise at Sherlock's callousness. "Lunatics?"

"Yes, but it's the subtle ones who are more challenging to catch," Sherlock beamed a gleeful smile, "which Colonel Carruthers is not. His motivation is quite clear. He wants you to do the honorable thing. He wants you to take your own life. He wants to drive you into despair, but he's not willing to compromise his ethics by having a direct hand in killing you himself." Sherlock was so focused that he failed to notice the effect his clinical distance had on the suffering man listening to every word. "Yes! This is indeed satisfactory... it proves that every detail, every interaction, no matter how seemingly banal, has potential—"

"Sherlock!" Stricken by Sherlock's smile and words, John gasped. He jumped up and slammed his palms hard on the table. "Jesus! For a genius you are utterly clueless—."

"Clueless?" Sherlock swung on John, his smile fading to a frown.

John nodded. "Yeah."

Sherlock's forehead furrowed. He scrutinized John's aggrieved grin and in the next moment his eyebrows raised. "Ah, I see, I've wronged you because I'm not displaying appropriate sympathy for…. your emotional discomfort."

John responded through gritted teeth, "Appropriate sympathy? How about...any sympathy?"

Sherlock sighed and turned away in frustration. "Detachment keeps my mind clear and gives me perspective which allows me to determine the problem at hand."

"You forget," John reminded harshly, "I do understand clinical detachment. Emotions get in the way of a clear-head and objective thinking, but when you go so far in suppressing feelings for others…with cold analysis, it's antagonistic…not good...it makes us…me… wonder if you have an ounce of… of human compassion…."

It annoyed Sherlock that there were so many ways to cause offense and he seemed unable to avoid them. He waved his hand as if in introduction. "Hello! High-functioning sociopath, remember?"

"Oh, don't fool me with that… that shite excuse," John countered but stopped himself from saying more. His gaze dropped to the table top as his mind completed the thought trajectory: Don't believe it. Granted, you're eccentric because your genius isolates you, but this high-functioning nonsense is a convenient disguise. It lets you get away with… far…too much!

Sherlock subdued his grin by also looking down at the table. Impressive, John! Your keen insights surprise me.

His façade of sociopath had fooled everyone—well, except Mycroft—up until now. Sherlock half-believed it himself; his antisocial behavior had come so easily to him and he had hidden behind it for so long. The label freed him to delve deeper into inconvenient truths of others without having to obey polite social protocols. He did not care his conduct was deemed offensive because usually he got the results he was seeking. He did not mind his reputation for being devoid of emotion because keeping personal emotions out of the equation kept his logic pure. Being a high-functioning sociopath fit Sherlock's purposes perfectly, and no one was ever the wiser…

No one…, except now John Watson…, an uncannily wise man.

"Anyway," John recovered from his irritation and continued in a calmer voice, "whatever your reasons, if you could appear less scientifically delighted in your investigation of my private life…well, that would be appreciated."

"Point taken," Sherlock conceded. Mindful of John's request, Sherlock switched to a less inflammatory demeanor. Surprisingly, it was not difficult to do with John.

"Clearly, your blogs about our cases put you back in the public eye," Sherlock mused. Another thought struck him. "What about her… Mac's..Captain Mason's husband?"

"Captain Stan Mason was killed by a roadside bomb, two months later. I know. All very tragic…" John's sad frown became wary a moment later. "Why do you ask?"

"Because that means he's not complicit with Colonel Carruthers. This is entirely Carruthers' operation." Sherlock seemed pleased again. "Carruthers' tactics are intended to impel you to do self-harm, but I know you, John Watson! You're too stubborn a man to let him push you to the brink." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and auto-dialed, missing John's dark look.

"Hold on!" John's eyebrows arched. "Who're you ringing?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock grinned with glee. "To report a crime."

"Huh? But you just said this is kid's modeling clay …on an old boot? What crime?"

"Colonel Carruthers has made a mistake. This is a bomb hoax. He has broken the law. This is a violation of The Offences Against the Person Act: 'A person who without lawful excuse makes to another a threat, intending that that other would fear it would be carried out, to kill that other or a third person shall be guilty of an offence and liable on conviction on indictment to imprisonment for a term not exceeding ten years.'"

"The man is unwell," John protested, "he's been diagnosed as mentally unstable, Sherlock. There may be reason for leniency. His actions may not be entirely excusable, but, but… this fixation of his has targeted only one person…and if I don't file a complaint—"

"—I disagree, John. Compassion has been your error. Carruthers is escalating his attack with this bomb threat. The more reason to put him away, then! Criminals suffering mental health problems should not escape justice. Now we have the evidence we need. Along with these letters and their implicit messages, he has provided us with proof of a threat to your life. This will put Colonel Carruthers behind bars for many years. This should also dispel your nightmares…Case closed!—Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted into the mobile, his gleaming eyes reflecting the phone's screen. He launched into his ebullient exchange with the DI, bounding into the darkened sitting room and jumping into his chair.

John watched from the threshold of the bright kitchen but made no further protest. There was no stopping Sherlock when his mind was set. It was futile to correct the emotionally detached genius from his oversimplification. For a man who prided himself on decoding the peculiarities of people's character, expressions, and even their clothing to deduce their interests or profession, Sherlock seemed clueless about survivor's grief and guilt and the need for forgiveness. His confidence that the Colonel's plan would not have worked—I know you, John Watson! You're too stubborn a man to let him push you to the brink—was somewhat misplaced.

Carruthers' accusations had been strategic in attacking John's best line of defense, his self-worth. Like many returning soldiers experiencing psychological withdrawal and a sense of isolation, John was vulnerable to the temptation of suicide, especially because, no matter how much time had passed since that fateful day and how ethically he had acted, Captain John Watson struggled to forgive the ex-army surgeon looking back at him from the mirror.

Doing the honorable thing had been getting more difficult to resist when John Watson had first met Sherlock Holmes.

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To be continued...