Because of the open door, I went through the pretenses of going to bed for Watson's sake though I remained wakeful. There was much to read between the lines of what he had said.
At Netley, there was talk of battle fatigue . . . it was an interesting observation, but hardly worth looking into further. Or taking seriously.
A young, green doctor just venturing into the military, convinced battle fatigue was a thing that happened to others. The arrogance of youth is a shield for many things but not war. Watson had been forced to acknowledge his vulnerability just when he was at his most vulnerable. No wonder he was overly-sensitive about the regressions. I wondered, idly, exactly when the previous occurrence had been, and how on earth it had slipped my notice.
How bad? Bad enough.
That was an understatement if ever I heard one. If even half of what Kipling's poetry had implied were true, Maiwand had been horrific. Small wonder Watson was troubled by it even a decade and a half after the fact, or hesitant to speak of it.
Then, too, there was his reluctance to speak of any part of his service in Afghanistan at all. I had heard several anecdotes of when he was stationed in India, and amusing, adventurous tales they were too. Most had come out during our visit to Colonel Hayter's home in Surrey, though Doyle had chose not to include them in the case he titled "The Reigate Puzzle." I pondered on the significance of the timing. Watson's willingness to share his past might have been an attempt to lift my spirits after Lyons, or it may have been the empathetic company of one who had undergone the same experiences.
Had I wished you to pry into such matters I would have stayed where I was
Instead, he had left my presence so as to maintain a façade of composure. My Boswell still loathed admitting this chink in his armor, even to himself. Very well. I would respect Watson's wishes and follow his lead, wherever it led.
I surprised myself by actually falling asleep after reaching this conclusion. I awoke when the pink light of early dawn struck my face. It had only been a few hours of repose but got up anyway and entered the sitting room.
Watson, as I predicted, had slept on the couch; indeed, was still asleep despite the early morning noises of the city coming through the open windows. As quietly as I could I closed them. It was then that I, now buffered from extraneous sounds, was able to hear Watson's nearly silent murmurings.
I was already approaching the couch when he sat up with a gasp, fear and disorientation in his eyes. I crouched nearby. "It's all right, Watson. You were dreaming."
"No. Not dreaming. Remembering." His voice was still thick with sleep.
"Maiwand?"
He shook his head slowly. "The retreat."
God help me, I am the worst specimen of friend to walk the earth. A part of me wished he would leave it at that. Distance has always been my modus operandi. Distance, and cowardice. I have shunned intimacy of any sort. It invites too many unknown, unplottable variables. If Watson took me into his confidences, I would become a part of this, ensnarled in something frighteningly personal and unpredictable. I feared the change it would force upon me.
Another part of me, I blush to admit, was intensely curious about what he might say, what clues he might offer about his past that I had not already deduced. And one last, miserable little voice was desperate to offer my friend aid, no matter the cost. At last, I softly asked, "Can you speak of it?"
Watson closed his eyes and at first I thought he was about to fall asleep again. Then he spoke again, his voice low. "I do not actually remember many concrete details, only impressions, but . . . In its own way, the retreat was worse. In battle, a man can lose himself in the melee. He can forget for a little while the danger to his life in the heat of the fight. There was no way to forget during the retreat save through injury or illness. Heaven knows there was enough of both.
"So many were hurt or killed when we fled to Kandahar. I believe the retreat had a higher rate of casualties than the actual battle. We were desperately in need of water and terrified for our lives. If it was not the Ghazis behind us, then it was the villagers flanking us."
"The villagers?" I could not help but ask.
Watson nodded, opening his eyes. "Oh, yes," he said, rather ruefully. "We were the 'foreign white devils,' Holmes. And we had been defeated utterly. It was a point of pride for some to say they had helped take back their country. And it lasted all through that wretched night."
He fell silent again and I hovered between remaining quiet and asking him to continue. He saved me the trouble by speaking again, in the same low tone he had begun with. "We were a caravan of dying men and animals. I suppose I was relatively lucky. I had lost so much blood from the shoulder wound I was but half-conscious at best." Watson paused and looked directly into my face. "I do not even recall when or how a bullet clipped my leg." Then he looked away. "What I do remember is the pain, the pain and fear. Those upon camels and horses were especially targeted. All I could do was stay astride and pray for us to reach safety quickly." He paused again. "That was the memory that possessed me last night," he whispered.
I found I had no words at all. My emotions were a churning ocean, impeding thought. I wished to God my friend had been spared this horror, or that I could be granted the right turn of phrase to ease his mind.
Instead, I rasped out, inadequately, "My dear Watson . . . I am so sorry."
For once, my face must have betrayed my feelings. He looked at me curiously at first, then smiled slightly. "It's all right, Holmes."
There was a quiet confidence in his voice. It was not only his acknowledgement of my sympathy but a reassurance that he was all right, that the situation was all right. I rebelled at the thought of accepting such an utterly wrong situation, though it was clear Watson already had. Indeed, what other choice was there? The past could not be changed. Some ghosts did not rest quietly. Last night had proven that.
However, this morning showed there was a way to exorcise the demons in Watson's past, if only I could find the right tools to help him do so.
TBC
I was going to just summarize what Watson told Holmes but Peekaboo42 wanted stories, so I obliged. (And Aragonite, don't worry. It'll come out eventually