Now truly frightened, I dragged him to the couch and forced him to sit, pushing his head towards his knees. Watson obeyed, unresisting. I fought down the urge to shake him out of whatever it was that had come over him. Instead, I knelt in front of the couch, gripped his hands in mine, and waited. Not long into it, Watson started trembling. I tightened my grip and continued to wait for what felt like an eternity. At last Watson gasped like a man saved from drowning, and brought his head up with a jerk. He looked straight at me but it was another moment before I saw recognition in his eyes. The trembling, I noted, had not ceased.

"I owe you a thousand apologies and more, Watson," I said, voice unsteady. "It was cruel of me to have done that and doubly so to a friend."

Then Watson looked away, color suffusing his own face. "It's quite all right, Holmes," he muttered and tried to draw his hands back.

I resisted. "It is not all right, Watson! I know about Maiwand," I added gently.

Watson ceased his fight and stared at me, perfectly still but with apprehension on his features.

He looked ready to bolt, despite my grip. It was dangerous territory I was venturing into. The painful, frightening memories were still vivid and his pride had been wounded by this show of "weakness" in my presence. Any help I could give had to be offered carefully.

The first thing I could do was to show that I trusted him to remain on the couch, and not to flee the sitting room yet again. Deliberately I released him and turned to fill my pipe, speaking all the while. "The Battle of Maiwand was fought July 27, 1880, fifteen years ago. It was a violent skirmish in which the British troops were quite over their heads and had to retreat ignobly." I struck a match and lit my pipe. "But I need not tell you that," I said, turning back to him.

I was relieved beyond measure to see the wry half-smile on his face when he murmured, "No, you need not."

"Yet if I, a civilian, am able to see the horror and waste of such a battle from only a dry and technical almanac description, I can only imagine how greatly affecting it must have been for you, an eyewitness. There is no shame in it."

His gaze dropped from me and seemed to find something of great interest near the fireplace. Still he remained silent, offering me no clue as to how to proceed. His unusual reticence was discomforting in an already unnerving situation. Clumsily, I sought to satisfy my curiosity about a trivial matter. "Was it the date that inspired you to pick up Kipling, or did reading Kipling remind you of the date?"

There was a long, painful silence before Watson finally looked back at me. "I was aware of the date, I suppose, when I chose the book, but I was much more reminded when . . . when I read . . ."

"That particular passage I so heartlessly quoted," I finished. He nodded, but something in what he had said struck a dischord. "You were not truly conscious of today's – or yesterday's, rather – date, and yet you chose a book very much pertaining to the army? What prompted it, if not the anniversary?"

He looked back towards the fireplace, still not speaking, and my patience broke under the weight of my concern. I dragged my chair closer to the couch, sitting directly in front of him. "Watson, what happened to you?"

Again he flushed but as I was now sitting directly between him and the fireplace, he could not seek visual distraction from that venue. But he still chose not to look at me directly. "Do you mean in Afghanistan, this evening or a few minutes ago?" he muttered. The tone was flat, indicating getting information out of him would be about as easy as pulling teeth.

"All three, I daresay, as the events are linked," I retorted, telling him with my own tone that I would not be easily swayed. "However, I leave the chronology of the explanation to you."

Watson sighed and closed his eyes. At last he opened them, looked at me, and asked, "Are you familiar with the phenomenon of scents or odors triggering memories?"

"Yes." In truth, the answer was "not particularly," but I thought it best to humor him.

"This evening – " Once again he looked away and I found myself leaning forward, so low was his voice "—my thoughts were turned to Maiwand, moreso than they had been in years, but I could not for the life of me understand why. It was more than just the date. When I came downstairs again, just a little while ago, I realized why." He paused. "Every country, even provinces and cities, have their own unique odors. London smells nothing like Lyons, for example."

Normally such ramblings grate on my nerves. This was no exception but I suppressed my annoyance. Watson was speaking voluntarily; that was enough. He would make his point in due time. My patience was rewarded with his next sentence.

"Afghanistan . . . Afghanistan smelt of sulfur . . . and heat . . . and talc. And the battles . . . of black powder. And blood."

Watson met my eyes directly. "The way this room smells."

I gaped at him, aghast, recognizing immediately the elements he named. "My experiment!"

"I hadn't realized it before," he continued, "since the odors built up gradually this evening. But when I returned a few minutes ago, it hit me with full force. It was – is – especially strong around the fireplace."

"Where I threw the rags after cleaning the mess the experiment made. Where you stood when I quoted Kipling." I groaned. "Watson, I am so sorry."

"Holmes, how on earth were you to know when I myself didn't know?" He sounded irritable but I did not take it to heart. Sleep deprivation, residual fear, and embarrassment were most likely to blame.

"So the odor triggered unconscious memories that were compounded by your choice of reading material and the day's date," said I, thinking aloud. "Then when the beaker cracked . . ." I stopped and suppressed another groan. "It sounded like gunfire."

Watson nodded, still embarrassed.

"Which led you to make a hasty departure from the sitting room. But when you returned, Watson?"

"You mean, after you quoted Kipling?"

"Yes."

Neither of us spoke for what seemed an age but in reality I'm sure was no more than a minute or two. Watson kept his eyes firmly on the floor; I stared at the pipe in my hands as it died and went cold. Finally I whispered, "You seemed to be in a trance. I couldn't wake you. I thought . . ."

"Hypnagogic regression," he interrupted quietly.

"What?"

Watson sighed and looked up. "Hypnagogic regression," he repeated, louder. "It's . . . an intense reliving of an emotionally-laden memory or group of related memories. Clinically speaking."

There was much he left unsaid but I was unwilling to press him too far. At any rate, I wasn't sure I was ready to hear what answers he had to give. "How bad?" I asked, as gently as I could.

"Bad enough."

Then, with the air of a man facing the gallows, Watson continued. "At Netley, there was talk of battle fatigue, of how some men cannot return to life during peace. Some have even been known to go mad from it. At the time, it was an interesting observation, but hardly worth looking into further. Or taking seriously." He gave a twisted smile, contempt for his younger self apparent.

"These . . . episodes . . . are rare for me," he added, though I could not tell if he was trying to reassure me or himself. Perhaps the both of us. "Even when I returned to England in late 1880, they were infrequent."

"When was the last one?"

He paused, calculating. "More than ten years ago, I should think."

I found myself torn. Ten years was a significant amount of time. Nevertheless, I found this revelation upsetting. Five years after the battle, Watson still had not fully recovered psychologically. Worse, I hadn't even noticed. "I'm so sorry, Watson," I said again.

He waved away my apology and I saw him suppress a yawn. "It's all right, Holmes. You have nothing to blame yourself for."

I wanted to but could not tell him that he was quite wrong. I am a detective; my very livelihood depends upon my powers of observation, upon my knowledge of people and events, and upon my abilities to forge connections that others miss. I had failed to do so with my dearest friend and he had suffered because of it. No, I was very much to blame but I could not voice my culpability. Instead, I rose abruptly from my chair, dropped by pipe and shoved the windows as open as they would go. Then I gathered the offending rags into the empty coal bucket. It was very much a case of locking the stall after the horse had been stolen but it was all I could do.

"Holmes, that's hardly necessary now," Watson protested as I made my way into the hall with the bucket.

I turned to look at him. His face has often been an open window to his thoughts and now was no exception. Watson believed that I feared he would have another regression, interpreting my guilt as overprotection. If I continued with my original plan – to throw the rags into the alley – I would shame him to no end.

"You're quite all right?" I asked, striving for a light tone.

Watson's answer to the affirmative was serious and sincere.

Against all my desires to the contrary, I deliberately set the bucket down by the doorframe and walked away from it. "It's after three in the morning now. I suppose you are right and it can wait until dawn." I could not help but glance sideways at him as I spoke. I saw relief, and also a great weariness.

I had not lied about the lateness of the hour.

A light breeze blew through the windows and I hoped it would continue through what was left of the night, as I was fairly certain Watson would end up sleeping here rather than in his room. He had not told me what memory had just relived, what had happened if Afghanistan, but I knew now was not the time. Eventually, when he was ready, he would tell me. Surreptitiously a slipped a blanket within his reach. "I shall wish you a good night, then." My words were a statement but my look was an inquiry.

"Good night, Holmes." He could not fight down another yawn and I turned down the lamp before I entered my room.

I made certain to keep my door ajar.

TBC