This can be read alone, but would make more sense if you've read Doctors and Their Uses first.
He had to force himself to not count the days. He had spent two years fulfilling his own duty; he could hardly begrudge the doctor's willingness to follow.
It was difficult, though. Through the two years he had been gone, his image, the thread he had used to keep himself sane as he did his job, was the hope of finally convincing Watson to move to Sussex. He knew his old friend was growing tired of treating patients, and he had planned another point in the as-yet imagined argument convincing Watson to move nearly every day.
Then the work was done. It was in someone else's hands, and he could return to Sussex, his bees, and nearly decade-old argument of why Watson should move.
Finally, finally, the stubborn doctor had given in, and he had secretly celebrated, doing everything he could to aid in the packing, the moving, the selling of the practice to a younger doctor. His friend was back under the same roof. There would be no more late-night phone calls where the only sounds were the rustling papers of two old friends simply being in the other's presence. There would be no more too-short weekends when the doctor could get away, or the all-too-frequent cancelled plans when an emergency patient had shown up just before the doctor had to leave to catch his train.
Watson was home, and that meant he was, too.
And then Watson had enlisted.
He had tried to talk the doctor out of it, using every argument he could think of, to no use. Watson had made up his mind. The fortnight's notice he had been given had flown far too quickly.
He resorted to counting. Days of sun in a row. Number of bees on the flowers. Number of constellations he could remember from the astronomy lessons long ago. It occupied him, yes, but it didn't fulfill him.
He never admitted it aloud, or even fully to himself, but he knew exactly how many days it had been since Watson had enlisted, had finished packing, had shipped out; he spent more time wondering how many it would be before he came home.
He didn't know whether to hope for an early return—that had its own ramifications—or a long enlistment—he would surely go mad if the war lasted the years Mycroft predicted.
His one consolation was Mycroft's promise: should the worst happen, he would not hear by telegram.
He clung to that. He would not hear the worst news by telegram. If something happened, he would find out from his brother, not from a telegram. Mycroft had access to the casualty lists, and he would call. Mycroft would call.
He soon began to hate the sound of a ringing telephone, but Mycroft was never on the other end. The summer passed slowly, days feeling like weeks as they stretched into months. Some nights, he could hear the sounds of battle drifting on the wind from across the channel, and he wondered where Watson was. Was he there, separated only by the distance of a few miles, though it felt he was half a world away?
He returned to counting, anything to keep his vivid imagination from running away with him. Trees changing early within sight of his bee meadow. Flashes of lighting in one of the season's last few thunderstorms. Birds visiting the feeder Watson had established behind the cottage. He convinced himself Watson would be fine, would return after the war was done, safe and whole.
And then the boy from the village came running down the lane, telegram in hand.
He barely remembered seeing the boy off, and never shut the door in his haste to open the yellow envelope, wondering what it was. So few communicated by telegram anymore, and never with him. Anyone who needed to reach him had access to their own telephone. He never expected its contents.
Stackhurst happened by an hour later. With the door standing open and his knock on the doorframe passing unanswered, he walked in and found the detective sitting at the table, staring almost blankly at the tersely worded note held in a trembling hand.
REGRET TO INFORM YOU STOP JOHN WATSON REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SEPT 7TH 1915 STOP DEEPEST CONDOLENCES FINAL STOP
He knew Stackhurst stayed with him until Lestrade showed up, and he was vaguely aware that Lestrade had placed something in front of him a time or two, begging him to eat the food that turned to ashes in his mouth, but all he could think through the fog in which he found himself was that he was alone, and Mycroft had broken his promise.
Mycroft had broken his promise. And he was alone.
Alone.
Time passed in a haze. He had no idea when he ate or slept, or even if he did at all. The words of the telegram played over and over in his mind. He was unable to escape this waking nightmare.
Gone. Dead. Injured. Broken.
He hated his wide vocabulary in that moment, as his vivid imagination took to supplying every synonym of dead intermixed with speculations of how. Had it been quick? Had his friend been alone?
He tried his old trick, tried to count things, but he had seen too many gruesome murder scenes and heard too many of the doctor's nightmares to not be able to piece together a vivid picture of how it might have happened. Victims of previous cases began flickering through his memory, all with Watson's face. He put his head in his hands, never noticing the plate of sandwiches he nearly knocked off the table.
Irritated voices slowly broke into his thoughts, but they had no meaning. Did any other words even exist, except those from the telegram? Dead. Gone. Killed in action. The voices rose, infiltrating his awareness one word at a time, and he found himself growing irritated. Could they not leave him be? Just go away! Couldn't they see he was lost, alone? But they continued, insisting, refusing, requesting, demanding he pay attention. After what seemed like several minutes, he finally focused on them, if only to make them go away and leave him be.
"Mr. Holmes isn't seeing anyone right now. I can give him a message." That sounded something like Stackhurst, and a question of why the other man was still there filtered through his thoughts. How long had it been? He had a vague memory of telling Lestrade to go…somewhere, but where? Had he really said that? What was real? His every moment was a waking nightmare, anyway.
"No! I have to give it to Mr. Holmes. He said so." That was a young voice, a lad on the cusp of manhood, his voice breaking every few words.
"What is it?" He forced himself upright when he realized the boy had requested him by name. He knew his voice was off. It was empty in all the wrong ways, but he couldn't bring himself to care about the loss of the emotional front he usually displayed. How could he? Watson was gone, with no hope of return. He nearly stumbled as his imagination provided another image; he covered it by leaning against the doorframe as Stackhurst stepped back into the cottage.
"Mr. Holmes?" He forced himself to nod, and the boy continued. "I was told to tell you there was a mistake with the telegrams."
"What do you mean a mistake? What kind of a mistake?!" How could the boy know of Mycroft's mistake? He had no idea if Mycroft was aware of his mistake yet.
"That's all I know, sir. Told me to run and tell you there had been a mistake with the telegrams."
"Who told you?" His voice was harder than he meant it to be. Or maybe it was emptier? He felt like he was asleep. He was still caught in the nightmare where Watson was dead, and now children were delivering vague messages.
"Man from the station," was the short answer, and he forced himself to focus, at least for a moment. Maybe if he focused on this reticent boy, the boy would go away quicker, and he could return to finding a way out of this waking horror.
"What man from the station? The telegraph operator?"
The boy made no reply, but a voice sounded none-the-less.
"What have I told you about shooting the messenger, Holmes?"
He froze, not daring to move at first as he processed why that voice sounded so familiar. But that was impossible! Wasn't it?
He had no memory of moving, but suddenly he was outside the door, standing on the porch and staring at a Watson look-alike walking on the path from the road.
He felt himself lifting, as if out of a deep well, and he was aware of gripping the other man's arms and trying to speak, but his words refused to come in any sort of coherency. Words had lacked meaning for so long, he could no longer find the ones he wanted. The man was real, was solid. And the voice was his. The bag that dropped to the ground was the one he had taken when he left.
Could it be?
The man pushed him inside and towards his old chair, saying something about telegrams getting crossed in transit. The words passed through without completely registering, focused as he was on the sight of his friend, whom he had thought gone forever, standing in front of him. He could hardly believe it, yet he desperately wanted to believe it. He was no longer alone. The nightmare dissipated in the light of his friend's presence, and he woke to the familiar grip of the hand resting on his shoulder, pushing him down into his chair before himself sinking into the one opposite and pouring a drink. Watson was back where he belonged. He was home.
Days, weeks, bees, or stars, he no longer had to count.
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