AUGUST 20, 1895

Watson had returned after a fortnight at Reigate and by all appearances had fared well. Part of this, I'm sure, had to do with escaping London during the hottest time of year, though he has a high tolerance for sweltering weather – another souvenir from his service in Afghanistan. I remained in Baker Street. As much as I had enjoyed the colonel's company back in '87, I knew that my presence now would be an unwelcomed obstruction in much-needed conversation between veterans. At any rate, I found myself at no loss for activities.

The fruits of one such project lay on Watson's desk. While he unpacked upstairs, I left the single sheet of paper next to his unread mail. Then I retired to the table where I continued to clip articles for my indexes, another project I had undertaken in Watson's absence. The table also offered a superior vantage point from which I might clearly observe my friend's reaction.

Undoubtedly my impatience was to blame but it seemed Watson was taking an age to unpack. When at last he returned to the sitting room he was smiling to himself. "It seems for once you were wrong, Holmes. The 'much neither of us were ready to speak of' turned out to be surprisingly small."

"I am glad," I replied, sincerely. As much as I wanted to surprise Watson, there was another matter that needed attending. "By the by, I have been requested to ask you about Beledi dancing girls and to note your response."

His response was to stare at me in bewilderment while a blush slowly spread over his face. "Requested by whom? The colonel?"

I pointed to the offending telegram. "He must have sent it shortly after you left for it arrived well before you did."

Watson shook his head. "I cannot believe he did that," he laughed.

"Are you deliberately avoiding answering?"

"No! There is really nothing to tell." The blush did not dissipate; if anything, it increased.

I was hard-pressed to keep a grin from my face. "Hayter also said that if you demurred, I was to ask your opinion of Karachi's Beledi versus that of Bombay's."

Watson snorted in half-amusement, half-exasperation but he blushed a darker shade. "Yes, I have no doubt he would be quite interested in that." Then his better nature won out and he sat at the table across from me, smiling faintly. "Two nights before the troopship Orontes left Karachi, the colonel dragged me – despite my protests, might I add – to an establishment specializing in . . . such entertainments. His comment about Karachi and Bombay references my protest that –" I had not thought it possible but Watson went redder "—that I had already seen such performances in Bombay and so need not see another in Karachi."

"And what, exactly, does Beledi dancing encompass?"

Watson gave me a dark look and reached for the "B" volume of my index. Thumbing through it rapidly, he handed me the open volume and pointed at a paragraph. "That, I believe, should answer your question."

The paragraph in question was short, but explicit. "I see," I said, feeling a blush of my own. I clapped the book shut and slid it from me, feeling rather than seeing my friend's amusement at my expense.

"As for the differences between regions, the Bombay dancers wore noticeably less clothing but the Karachi dancers were much less . . . inhibited in their movements," Watson added, rather puckishly.

I could feel my cheeks grow warmer and I cleared my throat abruptly. "Your mail is on your desk," I said, gesturing with my paste brush.

"I suppose I should see if the old devil sent me any such missiles as well," he laughed. I grabbed an index at random and bent my head over it. Surreptitiously I glanced his way while he methodically sorted through them. Any moment now . . .

"What's this?" Watson paused, the piece of paper in his hand and a furrow on his brow. For once, I had taken pains to write clearly and neatly. Aloud, he read, " 'Henry Murray. Orderly, 66th Berkshires. Bachelor of Medicine, 1894, Saint Bart's of London. Current residence – Holmes, what is this?"

"Keep reading," I said, keeping my head bent.

"Surgeon General Alexander Francis Preston(1), Surgeon General Ernest Fuller Ives, Brigadier General George Burrows, Surgeon Major William Bennet . . . Holmes!"

"Yes, Watson?" At last I trusted myself to look at him directly and was not disappointed. If Hayter's relayed telegram had surprised him, I had astonished him entirely.

"These are all people I served with or came into close contact with in Afghanistan and India," he said, "but you've included their current residences and occupations. How on earth did you come by this information?"

I smiled. "I am Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to uncover information that is not readily accessible to others."

In truth, it had taken nearly the entire fortnight and both conventional and unconventional means to compile the little list that lay in Watson's hand. Among these were hours spent pouring over old army records; a telegram sent to Colonel Hayter immediately after Watson left Baker Street, with the strictest instructions to employ discretion; unrelenting badgering of my brother Mycroft; and, I regret to say, Watson's own medical and military records. Despite the breach of privacy, the latter had been the most helpful tool in my search. The doctors who had recorded Watson's information were most likely to still be alive and have been in close contact with him. Sadly, the 66th Berkshires had been virtually decimated. Any friends Watson made among them would have killed. Indeed, of the few names Hayter had mentioned, not a one of them had survived Maiwand. These unfortunates I did not include on the list; undoubtedly Watson knew of their fates already.

That thought reminded me of something. "I should warn you, before you read further, that not all the information there is felicitous. Some are now deceased."

Watson appeared to have not heard me, or at least to have not grasped what I said. "I cannot thank you enough for this, Holmes."

I turned back to the index, slightly embarrassed. "There is no need, Watson. I had the resources at my disposal. If you can use anything I have uncovered, that is thanks enough."

There as a long pause, during which I dared not look up. Then, quietly, Watson said, "There are a few here that you say currently live in London. Should I visit them, would you care to join me?"

At that I looked back at him. He was very much in earnest. Feeling as though our roles had been reversed, I replied, "If you are certain I would not be intruding, I would be delighted."

(1) Preston was a Surgeon Major when attached to the 66th. Rumor has it his life inspired Doyle's characterization of a particular doctor, as Preston was also wounded at Maiwand.

If anyone cares to see some people Watson could have come into contact with, replace the hyphens with periods and check out: www-garenewing-co-uk/angloafghanwar/biography/portraits-php

Especially check out the picture of Lt.Neville Francis Fitzgerald Chamberlain – he looks a lot like how I imagine Watson.