I do apologise for the lateness of this chapter. If you know anything about current British politics, you'll probably know that they are, if not more entertaining, at least rather more absorbing than fanfiction, and I've only just managed to disentangle myself.
This chapter has been pretty much finished for a while; the themes of war within it seem even more poignant now with the anniversaries of events in WWI of late.
The first bombs fell during the summer holidays, as the enemy started to target RAF bases and important communications points up and down the country. From the little village where the Holmeses lived, it felt as if nothing had happened, indeed that nothing had changed for months now; the newspapers told them otherwise, and the children all shuddered to read the terrible accounts of war: this war that was suddenly now on their doorstep.
Otherwise, the summer holidays were fairly ordinary. Boring, even, as Sherlock put it. Mr Watson was invited over for a couple of weeks, and this drew Harry and John's attention away from Sherlock, which pleased him; the weeks seemed to fly by, and it was a perfect surprise to be going back to school again that September, a year after war had broken out, a year since the young Watsons had become part of the Holmes household.
'Sherlock dear,' said Mrs Holmes on the school drive, leaning close so she would be heard over the rabble of schoolboys, 'you must try to be friends with John this year.'
'He's got friends,' Sherlock shrugged. 'And I did try, but it didn't work.'
'You didn't try hard enough,' Mrs Holmes informed him. 'He wants to be friends with you. You need to understand that.'
'I don't want friends,' Sherlock muttered, and dragged his suitcase off to his dormitory.
Mrs Holmes said a much warmer farewell to John, who hugged her; then she watched the two boys head up towards the school building, the one with a quick, uneven pace, the other at a slower speed, stopping to chat with various boys who hailed him. She wished Sherlock would be – well, normal, like John. She supposed she ought to be proud of having unusual children, but she found that she wasn't much. It was too hard work sometimes.
They had scarcely returned to school and settled into the regime when, one fateful night, John, Sherlock and William, along with the rest of the school, were rudely awoken by the loud wail of the air-raid siren. It cut through the night, and Sherlock sat up straight away; the others sprang out of bed once they had cleared their eyes of sleep.
'This isn't a drill, is it?' William Farrell said at length. He had been overtaken by a deep sense of foreboding.
'No,' murmured Sherlock, squinting into the darkness.
'We should get to the shelter,' John said briskly, kicking a pile of clothes that he knew was at the end of his bed so they wouldn't trip over it – he greatly wanted to shine a torch, but the blackout prohibited that. The three boys scrambled to the door and went out into the corridor, where they met a shadowy mass of silent schoolboys, all filing down the corridor in their dressing-gowns.
It was only when they were outside that they were conscious of the sound of aeroplanes in the distance; such noises quickened their paces, because they could not tell whether or not these planes were coming closer, or even which side they belonged to. The air-raid siren was still wailing into the night.
The journey down the lawn was immensely surreal. Nobody dared to speak – they had been told to be silent in the practices, but many had disobeyed that: yet now, when there was a very real threat, even the most talkative boys had lost their tongues. Most were scared speechless.
Boys, teachers, other staff all piled into the shelter, which was dimly lit by a succession of electric lamps. There was a provision of blankets, but these would not be used for sleeping that night, only for keeping warm whilst they listened and waited.
William went off then with one of his friends; John and Sherlock stood together, not really knowing what to do, before sitting down opposite each other in one corner and losing themselves in their own thoughts.
It would have been safe to chatter down here, and indeed some of the teachers quietly discussed important matters, but still few of the boys were inclined to speak. Therefore there reigned an uneasy quiet, of the sort that causes great tension to build up.
The school was some distance away from that great conurbation that is the capital of the UK, but though they did not hear the first explosion, they certainly felt the ground tremble. A great cry went up, and some people stood, as if they feared the earth in which they hid; everyone exchanged uneasy glances, no longer doubting, if they had, that this was a real air-raid.
'London,' murmured John suddenly. 'They're bombing London.'
Sherlock did not reply. He was listening, and had, unusually for him, registered and understood the anxiously terrified expression on John's face. There were however no words to be said. At the first trembling, all of the boys had begun to mutter, and a silent accord had passed between the teachers; they then all fell silent, awaiting the next with a morbid fascination.
The next, it seemed, was a quick succession of explosions, creating irregular trembling that had scarcely faded before the next lot. The contrast between that and the silent stillness of the shelter was striking. It was deeply surreal. Nobody knew how to react. All of them had understood that London was being bombarded by the enemy. None of them had ever known such a thing happen.
It is a curious thing, when one is terrified and wants nothing more than for the night to be over, that time seems to go by painfully slowly, like sand in an egg-timer: and yet when morning arrives, it is as if the night has not happened. The last bomb fell, and all of England fell silent, and the boys seemed to awaken from some strange slumber. Some had closed their eyes, and now opened them, but they had not been in the least asleep.
Sherlock, who had been deep in troubled thought, at last looked up, and, feeling something leaning against him, looked to his side. He was surprised to find John huddled up to him, his eyes downturned. He wondered whether he was supposed to have comforted the boy. He wondered what John could possibly be thinking. He was shaking lightly, Sherlock realised.
A breathless half hour passed before the all-clear rang out. John lifted his head uncertainly. Sherlock looked down at him, his face expressing as much pity as he was capable of.
'It's over,' Sherlock said quietly.
The teachers were beginning to get up, and to instruct the boys to go back to their dormitories and get some sleep. Ha! None of them would be able to sleep that morning. But the boys obediently stood and began to file out of the shelter, the stuffy dark shelter that would be the subject of so many nightmares. Sherlock clambered to his feet; seeing that John did not make to follow, he hesitated, and then thrust out his hand.
John clutched it and staggered upright. His legs did not feel as if they would support him. It was only once the teachers had lit a few lamps that Sherlock saw that his friend's face was white as a sheet.
Much to John's surprise, he found at that moment Sherlock's arm around his shoulders.
'Thank you,' he whispered.
Sherlock did not quite understand what he was being thanked for, but acknowledged it nonetheless.
When at last they were free of the air-raid shelter, their attention was immediately drawn by what they at first took to be a particularly spectacular sunrise, but which they then realised was flickering. On the horizon there was a band of orange light, and those with the best eyesight could make out smoke above it.
'It's London,' said Sherlock. 'London's burning...'
'My father!' burst out John.
He writhed free of Sherlock's grasp, and ran to get a better view. 'Sherlock, my father's there! In London!'
His voice must have carried more than he intended it to, because he attracted the attention of a good number of the boys, who all turned to him and looked immensely sorry for him. John felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see William Farrell.
'Ask Mrs H if you can use the telephone,' the boy suggested, his heart clenching as he saw the panic on John's face.
'We don't have a telephone at home,' John said in a very small voice. His eyes did not leave the burning city.
'There's a post-office in the village. You could wire home.'
'I can't afford it,' John stammered.
'I can.'
Both John and William turned in astonishment. They had not known that Sherlock had caught any of the conversation: and now the boy looked almost defiant, as if he meant no less than to defend England. Before they could reply, however, he ran off. A minute later he returned, and said:
'Mrs H says we can go into the village. The post-office will surely be open today. Come on!'
John and William stared at him as if they hadn't understood a word of what he had said. Sherlock looked exasperated, took another breath, and explained:
'The post-office will be open now. It isn't usually open on Sundays, but they'll have opened it today, I'm sure. You can send a telegram from there. I'll pay for it. We can wait for a reply. Come on!'
He had already pulled on his coat and scarf, which he had brought down to the shelter in case he got cold; John put his on, looking a little dazed. Then Sherlock, not much wanting to wait for the other boy, put his arm in John's and practically dragged him down the drive, and down the road towards the little village that fitted cosily into the shadow of the school, and which the boys visited occasionally, usually to send a letter or buy sweets.
The air-raid of the night had evidently kept everyone else awake too, for though few people were out in the village, it was rather noisier than a normal Sunday morning. The post-office was not yet busy, however, and Sherlock went quickly to ask about sending a telegram to London.
'We can't guarantee that it will get there,' said the woman at the desk uncertainly.
'It's our only hope,' said Sherlock.
Therefore John wrote his telegram, and it was taken to a back room to be transmitted to London; the time spent waiting for a reply – which Sherlock had paid for, incidentally – was quite the worst half-hour of John's life. Every time the woman moved, he started, as if she was about to impart upon him the terrible news that he so dreaded. Sherlock became a little uneasy himself, both because of John's plight, and because he didn't really know how to comfort the other boy.
At last the woman disappeared into the back room, and returned with the response; John almost snatched it from her, and read it quickly with frightened eyes.
Then, without warning, he dissolved into tears: for a moment Sherlock feared the worst, but then he saw that John was smiling. The boy thrust the paper into Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock read this: Safe. Glad you are too. Daddy.
'Thank God,' said Sherlock simply.
'But what about Harry?' said John suddenly.
'She'll be safe,' Sherlock assured him.
'No, not that – she won't know about Dad!'
'We can wire her as well.'
'I –' John swallowed. 'I don't want you to pay for all these telegrams.'
Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't mind. I say, miss – might we send another wire?'
When the second telegram was sent, Sherlock, who had been absent-mindedly examining the newspapers, found himself almost suffocated by a tight embrace. John had thrown his arms around him and sounded as if he was sobbing into his coat. Sherlock panicked inwardly. He didn't much like hugs.
'Sherlock,' said John at last, emerging. 'Sherlock, you're such a good friend.'
'I am?' Sherlock, far from being modest, was entirely baffled.
'Yes! Yes, you are.' John slipped his arm into Sherlock's. 'C'mon, let's go back up to school. I want to tell Mrs H my father's safe.'
And he practically dragged a very bewildered Sherlock out of the shop.
'John,' said Sherlock suddenly.
'Mm?'
'I don't think anyone's ever called me a good friend before.'
'Really?'
'Really... Though to be honest, I've never had a friend before.'
'Sherlock!' John evidently thought the other boy was joking.
'No, really. John –' and Sherlock abandoned whatever he was going to say in favour of merely smiling at John, tightening his grip on his arm, and saying, quite unexpectedly, 'Thank you.'
