Part IV: Sherlock Holmes

I had never been sent a lackey before. When he arrived, saying he had a message for me, I was instantly suspicious. If you are going to be court-martialled, then either you get told by your higher-up (and Lestrade hadn't mentioned anything), or you just get dragged away to a prison cell.

So I stood and waited while he caught his breath, noting the white band with a black feather stamped on it. A C.O.; a conchie. Some people called them 'cows', short for 'cowards', but I never did.

"Message?" I said, when he had stopped hyperventilating.

"Commanders office, immediately." He said, and I was led there.

People never go to the Commander, unless it's to receive a medal, or it's for serious, serious misconduct. My stomach was misbehaving rather badly. I had to stop for a moment outside the Commander's office to catch a breath. That's when I noticed that there were four guards there, outside the office and suddenly I was on high alert. There were never four guards, only two. Why would there be four guards? Unless two of them planned to drag me away, and the other two remained, guarding the office as normal. But it didn't seem like that. One scanned my wristlet and let me in and when I turned around, the conchie was gone.

The Commander sat at his desk and opposite in a standard military issue painful-on-the-arse-and-back chair sat a man. Flanked by two guards. But it wasn't the guards that were extraordinary; it was the man.

He wore a pilot's Wingforce uniform, burnt and a little tattered looking with a rip in one sleeve. Of the other side. The purple edging and the fancy flourishes on it were clear. I gaped at him.

Moving on.

He had one arm in a sling. The angle it was at, and the slight tightness in his face suggested broken, but no meds given. There was a small gash above his eyebrow too, bleeding freely. His face was the most extraordinary, about on par with his uniform. Angular, narrow, aristocratic. Quicksilver eyes and black curls. His expression: bored.

He stared straight at me, then did a sweeping up and down gaze, then looked away again, still bored.

"Watson, isn't it? John Watson?"

I hastily turned back to the Commander. "Yes sir." I said and stood at parade rest, hands behind my back, facing him.

"I have a job for you, Watson."

"Yes sir."

"I need you to look after this man," he gestured at Bored. "Show him the ropes. He has low level clearance, don't take him anywhere he is not allowed." Translation: show him anything worth more than peanuts and you're dead. "You will be released from this duty when I say so." Fine, suit yourself. "He will be bunked on Level 12, Corridor B, Room 2. Pick him at nine hundred hours; drop him off at the room at twenty one hundred hours. Feed him, show him around. He will be delivered new clothes tomorrow. Why he is here is classified."

The complete translation was: you're still hung out on the line, so we're having you nurse-maid what seems to be a V.I.P. whistle-blower. Feed him, entertain him, and drop him off at the lock-up at the correct times, where he bunks between those sentenced to death for high treason, and those locked up for their own good.

"Clear Watson?"

"Perfectly sir."

"Here," the commander said, and handed me a Taser with a nod. "He'll have to get that arm checked out, and his name is Sherlock Holmes. I don't want him consorting with the others, so you will have to treat him."

"Yes sir. Thank you sir."

"Dismissed."

And Sherlock Holmes followed me out the door.

"A captain," he said, when we had left the Commander's office behind us, and were making out way towards the infirmary. His voice was a long slow aristocratic drawl.

"Yes," I said, walking fast. The corridor was empty at the moment, but soon we would encounter more people, and the staring and the silence would be painful.

"Standards must be slipping," he said.

"Be quiet please," I tried to say it calmly, but I think my voice faltered slightly.

"What did you do?" He demanded. "You must have done something wrong, or they wouldn't have you look after me."

"Be quiet." We had stopped now, in the middle of the corridor.

"Did you neglect your duties as captain? Dereliction of duty, was it?"

I bundled him up against the wall, and he just stared at me; the only sound was my own harsh breathing. "You need to be quiet," I told him.

His face was calm, impassive. "Did someone die on your watch, captain?"

So I socked him.

Author's Notes:

During periods of conscription (when there were wars), C.O. (conscientious objectors) were often mis-treated, scorned – in WWI some were imprisoned or sentenced to death. Traditionally, a white feather was a symbol of cowardice. I do not think that C.O.s are cowards, but my point is this – in this war, the conchies (and it's not a derogatory term, I'm pretty sure) were scorned and mis-treated, and having them wear a band with a white feather on it is an under-hand way of making fun of them.

If there was conscription, I would be a C.O.

Sherlock's face is bleeding because according to the many adventure books I read, scalp wounds bleed a lot. I also broke his arm too. Sorry.

Yes – for those who noticed it, Golf Echo Romeo Tango India (GERTI) is the call-sign for the only airplane of MJN Air, which is the main setting for Cabin Pressure, a radio drama with Benedict Cumberbatch in it. Congrats to those who spotted it.