Prompt: the first snow of winter, from YoughaltheJust
A/N: Hello, it's me, back in WWI again
The inhabitants of Sussex Downs woke to a thin layer of snow across the rolling fields. It was bitterly cold outside, and while such an event might, in earlier years, have been greeted with excitement, this year, with half the men in the village gone, it merely reflected the dark, gloomy mood that had overtaken the entire country since September.
No one mentioned anymore that the war was supposed to end by Christmas. The constant horrible news from France, the sons and brothers who had already returned home to be buried, and the noise of the shells which carried across the Channel, had shattered that idea long ago.
Sherlock Holmes had always known it was a pretty dream and nothing more, though the only person he had told of this was Stackhurst. He talked little enough to the other villagers, and his brother had known that even earlier than he himself had. There was nothing to be gained by destroying what hope remained, even if time would do that itself before long.
It was not as if he could tell it to Watson, even if Watson was here. His letters to Watson, across the Channel in France, were as cheerful as he could make them, given that there was very little cheerful to talk about. He wrote mostly of his bees, news from their old friends at the Yard, and what criminal news he still kept up with.
Not that he needed to tell Watson anything about the war. His old friend knew better than anyone now how unlikely the war was to end soon, and reading between the lines of his letters, Holmes could tell how much of an effort it was for even Watson not to sound despairing.
The snow only marked the first winter of the war; the first in what would likely be many, with no guarantee that any of them would survive to see summer.
The snow covered the trenches and No Man's Land, which in Dr. Watson's opinion only served to make the barbed wire, abandoned equipment and blood on the ground stand out further. Soon enough, it would become a slush that would make it even more impossible than the mud to bring in the trains and carts carrying supplies. In earlier years, the first snow of winter had been a joyful event; now all he saw was the practicalities. Though part of him hoped that the soldiers might find some little joy in it; having snowball fights in the down time, of which there was much. One must try to retain hope, even in the face of utter hopelessness.
But he could not. He surveyed the medical supplies, which the field hospital was rapidly running out of. No one had been prepared for the sheer number of casualties, and they were constantly running short of bandages, medical thread, plaster, and even clean water. Even worse, no one had been prepared for the type of injuries the hospitals would be treating. The politicians at home were acting as if they were supplying a war from the pages of history, not taking into account the advances in technology that meant a single weapon could maim or kill dozens of men at once. Certainly not taking into account the deadly mustard gas which felled entire regiments at once.
It meant, too, that the postal trucks would have difficulty getting through, and the arrival of letters and packages from home were often the only pinprick of light in the otherwise dark days. Even more than the desperately needed supplies, the men looked forward to the arrival of the post. Watson had seen firsthand how a letter from home might bring joy to a soldier recovering in the field hospitals, which though bustling with constant activity, were among the loneliest places to be. He was not above confessing that his letters from Holmes were all he had to look forward to himself. Holmes had proven a remarkable correspondent (which ought not to have been surprising, for in their Baker Street days Holmes's letters had come from all corners of the world, and his correspondents included multiple police departments, notable chemists from various universities, several political figures, and more than one well-known musician). His letters were glimpses into a world away from the trenches, and while Watson knew how little normalcy remained even at home, it was a welcome respite.
He sighed and pulled on his army-issue boots. They did little enough against the snow and wet, but they were all he had, and he had work to do.
The war never stopped, snow or not.