Medically unsuitable for service.
Unsuitable for service.
Unsuitable.
The words seemed to mock him, peeling off the paper sitting like a lead weight in his pocket to dance taunting circles around his mind. He stared blankly at the wall of the empty train compartment.
How could he have thought they would want him, a fifty-nine-year-old crippled doctor, out there with all those young men? They were children, really, or at least it seemed so to him. Most were probably no older than he himself had been during his service in Afghanistan. He had been a fool to even enlist, but he couldn't just sit at home and do nothing. Even Holmes' disappointment when he had finally spoken his decision aloud several months after the detective had come back from his stint in America hadn't been able to change his mind.
He wondered if the telegram announcing his return had made it to Sussex yet, if his friend would meet him at the train station. He had requested it sent when that no-nonsense commander had practically forced him to pack his bags.
He put his head in his hands, his thoughts returning to the battalion he had left behind. With such an influx of volunteers to process and the experience he carried, the enlistment center had been quite willing to overlook the slight disability he had been unable to hide; not so with the commander to which he had been assigned. The first time he had watched the company drill, several months after Watson's arrival, his keen eye had noticed as Watson's limp steadily worsened with the chill of the evening and the continued activity, no matter how hard Watson tried to hide it, and he had summoned the doctor to the medical tent the next morning.
Being ordered to submit to another medical exam from someone young enough to be his grandson rankled him, but being told he was unfit for service was even worse. How many lives would be lost because of the lack of experience? It had only been his experience with similar wounds that had given that young private enough time to say goodbye, but all his arguments had fallen on deaf ears. He had been medically discharged and just shy of berated for "allowing his personal preferences to put the company in danger."
He sighed. The hardheaded commander had been right, at least partially. His wounds would make him slower than everyone else, and few knew better than he that every second in battle was crucial. He forced himself to admit, however silently, that he had no business being on the front lines, but that made no difference to his feelings of uselessness the medical discharge inspired. He needed to help. It was his duty to help. His frustration was nearly audible as his thoughts returned to their mocking circles.
Unsuitable. Useless.
He was just as useless now as he had been on so many of Holmes' cases over the years.
The voice of the conductor announcing his stop finally broke him out of his thoughts, and he hauled himself to his feet to grab his bag, his leg protesting the sudden motion. It was a desperate hope that had him scanning faces at the train station. Even if the telegram had been sent, Holmes may not have received it in time to meet his train, but he was pleasantly surprised when he saw a face he recognized, though not the one for which he had been looking.
Judging by the surprise on his face, Lestrade hadn't expected to see him either.
"Doctor Watson!"
He gave the retired Inspector a weary smile in greeting, more than ready to collapse into his armchair and rest after the long journey. "Lestrade. What brings you to Sussex?"
The shorter man was looking at him with something more than the surprise of an unexpected return, and Watson began to worry that something had happened.
"Lestrade?" he asked again when his old friend seemed incapable of speech. "What's wrong?" A sudden thought struck him, and his words gained a hint of urgency. "Did something happen to Holmes?"
The worry building in his voice seemed to bring back the other man's words, though that didn't stop the continued stare, nor the hand suddenly gripping his shoulder. "No! No, Mr. Holmes is fine." Lestrade hesitated, then added, "At least, he will be in a few minutes."
"What is it, then?" he pressed, relaxing minutely. Something was wrong, but if Holmes was alright, or would be—wait. Would be?
"You, Doctor. Mr. Holmes received a telegram saying you—that you…" The words stuck in his throat, and he couldn't continue, the remembered grief showing through the relieved delight still painting his features, but Watson got the idea.
"Oh, that poor family," was the first thing that came out of his mouth. Lestrade looked at him strangely, and he explained, "Private Watson was wounded in combat three days before I was discharged. If Holmes got the telegram about his death, then that family must have gotten my discharge notice."
"They'll be devastated," Lestrade agreed, but his thoughts were clearly back at the cottage. "He kicked me out, Doctor" he said, referring to Holmes. "Said I needed to get back to Lizbeth and that he would be fine alone."
Watson's eyes widened. "What?! And you let him!"
"Of course, not!" Watson's heart rate dipped closer to normal, and Lestrade's tone softened as he realized what Watson had thought. "I would no more leave him alone after that kind of news than I would any other grieving brother." Watson started, and Lestrade grinned but didn't comment. "Stackhurst walked in as I left."
He nodded in relief. Stackhurst would allow Holmes his privacy without allowing him to do anything foolish.
"I need to get to him. Are you coming?"
Lestrade hesitated, but shook his head. "He was right that I do need to get back to London," he answered ruefully, wishing he could be there for the surprise. "I'll get one of the local lads to walk with you."
This was easily arranged, and Lestrade was soon pumping his hand in farewell. "I've never been more glad to hear of a telegram mistake!" he called from the train platform as the train slowly pulled out of the station. Before retirement, a telegram mistake had been the cause of more than one criminal's escape.
"I'll expect you back here in three weeks, Lestrade!" was Watson's reply, referring to the inspector's habit of visiting the first Saturday of each month.
"Count on it!" floated back, and then the train was out of the station and making its slow journey back to London.
With the train picking up speed behind him, Watson turned to the lad that had agreed to escort him.
"David, right?" he asked, thinking he recalled seeing the young man around the Sussex station before. The boy nodded, and Watson continued, "Do you think you can carry my valise?"
David hefted the valise easily and nodded, all without speaking, and a slight smile appeared on Watson's face. "You don't speak much, do you?"
David shook his head.
"Will you be willing to run ahead with a short message when we get close to the cottage?"
The boy nodded again, and Watson chuckled, somewhat unused to the concept of a boy so young who rarely spoke. The Irregulars over the years had always been a noisy group, and it was usually more of a problem to get them to stop talking.
Without a word, the two walked slowly down the lane toward the cottage, David primarily watching their surroundings as he occasionally passed the valise from hand to hand. The countryside was beautiful, and Watson had followed this path many times before his enlistment just to enjoy the view. This time, however, Watson's thoughts were elsewhere. The irritation of his discharge had been replaced with worry over his friend. If Lestrade had had enough time to travel down from London, then Holmes had thought him dead for at least a day by that point, and he hadn't asked how long Lestrade had stayed before returning to London. He had no idea what to expect from Holmes.
Watson stopped just out of sight of the cottage and took his bag from David. The lad looked up questioningly.
"It's time to take that message I mentioned," he answered the silent question. "I need you to run to the cottage. Arrive out of breath, as if you hurried all the way from the station. Tell Mr. Sherlock Holmes that there was a mistake with the telegrams, but nothing else. Don't mention me at all. Got that?"
"Mr. Holmes. Mistake with the telegram," the boy responded shortly, coloring when his voice broke on the last word and revealed why he rarely spoke.
Watson nodded, letting the crack pass without a reaction, and deposited a coin in the lad's palm. "You're free to head back to town once I arrive. But make sure it's Mr. Holmes!" he urged as David began to move away. With a wave of acknowledgement, David was sprinting toward the cottage, and Watson followed at a much slower pace.
Their small two-bedroom cottage sat with its back to town and its front towards the sea. Holmes had originally claimed he chose it for the view, only amending that claim to include the second bedroom when trying to convince Watson to follow him into retirement with the end of his American tour. They had roomed together for a scant few months before Watson had enlisted, and Holmes' disappointment at the abrupt change in his plans—that including a return to something very similar to how things had been so many years before at Baker Street—had been nearly palpable. Now, with the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows from the front of the cottage, Watson set aside his irritation with that confounded commander to focus on not giving his friend a heart attack.
The road from the station came around from behind the cottage, preventing someone standing in the front door from seeing someone coming down the path, and Watson made use of this, making it to within earshot of the door without being noticed.
"What do you mean, a mistake? What kind of a mistake?!"
The grief he could hear in those words gripped him, and he picked up his pace.
David's much quieter voice, commendably calm in the face of the retired detective's frustration, was barely audible. "That's all I know, sir. Told me to run and tell you there had been a mistake with the telegrams."
"Who told you?!"
"Man from the station," was the short answer, and Watson could have applauded the lad as he neared the door. Man from the station, indeed!
"What man from the station? The telegraph operator?"
"What have I told you about shooting the messenger, Holmes?"
There was a beat of silence, as if questioning what he had just heard, before Holmes nearly leaped out the door. David narrowly avoided being run over, waving a farewell as he turned back towards town.
"Watson! What—? How—? Are you—?" Holmes' mouth kept moving, but nothing came out as he covered the scant distance between them with two long strides. He clutched Watson's arms with the grip that had once bent an iron poker and scanned Watson as if looking for injury, his gaze no less keen for its lack of spark. Watson couldn't remember the last time he had seen the detective speechless, but his unexpected arrival after such news had clearly taken away his friend's ability to form a full sentence.
Stackhurst walked out the door to stand for a moment behind the detective, who was still gripping Watson's arms and searching for the words to demand an explanation.
"Doctor Watson," Stackhurst said with a delighted grin. With a glance at Holmes and a gesture to indicate he would come by the next day, Stackhurst walked off towards his own house as Watson turned back to the detective currently bruising his arms.
Leaving his bag on the doorstep for the moment, he pushed his friend inside. "Holmes, I'm fine. The telegrams got crossed in transit. You were supposed to receive my train schedule."
As Watson forced him to sit, the light returned to Holmes' eyes as he finally got himself under control, and the smile that split his face was easily the largest Watson had ever seen. "My dear Watson," he managed, "I have never been more..." he swallowed, still struggling to regain the composure Watson's death and sudden reappearance had shattered, "delighted to see you. You are—?" His question broke off, but his gaze never left where Watson stood pouring a steadying drink.
Watson pushed a brandy into his friend's trembling hand. "I'm fine, Holmes," he repeated, knowing what the broken question had been. "You received the wrong telegram."
Holmes remained silent for a moment, sipping his drink as he stared at the doctor, who had taken a seat across from Holmes.
"I did wonder that I never received a call from Mycroft," Holmes finally said.
Watson hadn't known Mycroft would be scouring the casualty lists, but he supposed it made sense. The older man refused to retire even though he was plenty old enough, and his position made him privy to such information as the casualty lists.
"I doubt he even noticed the name," was his reply. "Private Watson received a fatal wound in a skirmish three days before my discharge."
"Your…discharge?" Holmes scanned him again, and it took him a moment to realize his friend was searching for new injuries.
He scowled at the memory and turned away in an attempt to hide his thoughts, busying himself pouring another drink. "The company's new upstart of a commander decided my wounds would be a hindrance," he said shortly. He was useless. The weight in his pocket returned, and part of him wondered how something could be so heavy without dragging down his jacket.
He could feel Holmes studying him even with his back turned. Trying to regain his own composure, he grabbed his bag from the front porch, dropping it just inside the door, and stepped into the kitchen for a moment to hide his expression. He returned when he felt under control once again, carrying out a plate of sandwiches he found on the dining table just before Holmes would have gotten up.
"Good," Holmes replied, his voice now back to its customary, emotionless tone.
Nearly dropping the plate on a nearby table, Watson looked sharply to see Holmes looking at him without a trace of sarcasm, and he sighed. He was right, then. He was useless.
"Your time is much better spent here," Holmes continued. With me remained unsaid, but Watson heard it all the same, and his spirits lifted. "You might even help me with my next monograph. I'm thinking of titling it A Study of Boswells and Why They Refuse to Retire."
Watson couldn't hold back the bark of laughter, amazed at the power of a simple comment to lift the weight from his pocket—and his mind. Useful in the war effort or not, at least he was wanted somewhere. Maybe he wasn't completely useless, after all.
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