Stupid internet went down yesterday – here's two chapters squished together to make up for it.

It was another week before Watson made reference to the persons or addresses on the list. For my part, I obeyed my instincts and followed his lead. I even attempted to hold my deductions about his trains of thought to a minimum, though I confess I failed miserably. He was unsure as to what good it would do to seek out people he had not seen in fifteen years, uneasy that his motives might be selfish ones, and unsure about what he might find.

Of the names on the list, about half lived in England. Of the other half, some were deceased (Dr. William Bennet, who had treated Watson in Kandahar just following the Battle of Maiwand, had died in a cholera outbreak in '84) and some were still serving overseas (Dr. William Preston, of Quetta, had been transferred to India.) Colonel Hayter I had not bothered to list, for obvious reasons. Surgeon General Alexander Francis Preston, formerly Major Surgeon, under whom Watson had served as Assistant Surgeon in the 66th Berkshires, actually resided in London. Watson had been vague about seeing him, finally admitting that he and Preston had not always seen eye to eye about some matters. "Preston was always very proper and 'by the books'," he explained, with a faint grin, "while I was a bit more . . . bohemian." By this, I took him to mean Preston did not approve of Watson's attending to the natives with the army's supplies and equipment.

In the end, Watson chose Henry Murray first. It was a logical choice; as orderly and surgeon they had been close, and the fact that Murray quite literally saved Watson's life certainly held weight. On the other hand, Murray now resided in Southampton, half a day's travel from London.

Murray had continued to serve as an orderly for various officers until 1890, when he was granted an honorable discharge. Almost immediately, he enrolled at the University of London's Bachelor of Medicine program. He took his degree after four years, an accomplishment even more impressive given that he had spent the years also working in St. Bart's. Murray spent one more year employed at St. Bart's when he was hired to teach some classes at Netley Royal Victoria Military Hospital for their Army surgical course. He was to begin this week.

"I had considered the same thing," Watson commented on our train ride to Southampton.

I nodded, though this information was nothing new. I had seen the letter of discharge in his record, and the second medical review file. I also remembered an incident from August of 1881.

I recognized, as I handed Watson the letter, the Netley device on the envelope. His hopeful expression started one of my lines of deduction. Netley was the last word in military medical trainingI knew Watson had "passed" his second medical review earlier that month which dropped his pension from full to half, a financial strain by any accountI also knew he was restless from inactivity. It was perfectly logical, given his "field experience" that Watson would have applied for a faculty position. I had no doubt he would be well-suited in such a role and I wished him luck in that endeavor, though it meant I would have to find a new flatmate.

I felt a sinking sort of pity when I saw his face grow still and stiff as he read. Finally he carefully refolded the letter and lightly tossed it into the fireplace. Without a word, he took his hat and coat and slipped out the door.

When he returned it was already dark. I noted signs that he spent much of his time at Stamford's club (the club which, years later, Stamford was to leave and Watson was to join) and that he had partaken of alcohol. Not that he was drunk. I have never yet seen Watson in such a condition, yet the last drink had not entirely worn off. Given my use of narcotics, however, I thought it tactful to say nothing on that front. I was glad to note he seemed in much better spirits than when he had left.

"So, Doctor, you will remain in London for a little while yet?"

He looked at me in surprise, not yet accustomed to my sudden (and correct) deductions concerning him. "For a while yet, if you can put up with my company," he replied, showing what promised to be a pawky sense of humor. He seated himself in his chair, toying with a business card.

Later, after he had retired, I saw that it was Stamford's card, with his University of London information, and penned on the back was the name of a colleague. Watson, it seemed, had shifted loyalties to another alma mater.

Netley Hospital did not lay within Southampton proper. Indeed, the grounds covered well over twenty-five acres while the building itself was over a quarter of a mile long with three floors. By the time we reached the school and got directions to the room where Murray was teaching, it was well into the middle of the last lecture of the morning. We opted to wait outside the door until the lecture was over, rather than interrupt.

I spent the time forming my first impressions about this person who had played such a large role in Watson's life. Henry Murray was on the shorter side with a strong build. His coloring was that of a "dark Celt" with an olive complexion and black hair liberally streaked with gray. His face was heavily lined from years under tropical suns and there was a white scar extending from the corner of his right eye down almost to his mouth. True to the ancestry of his surname, Murray spoke with a pronounced Scottish burr that had survived despite his years outside of Scotland. (Watson's had faded considerably, but then, he told me once it had never been that strong to begin with.)

I do not know what the subject of the lecture was but the students seemed genuinely reluctant to leave for lunch. As they passed us, Watson suddenly whispered to me, "Surely the oldest ones here cannot be more than twenty-two. It is ridiculous to expect them to go to war. They are far too young."

I raised my eyebrows. "And how old were you, when last you attended a lecture here?"

Startled and sheepish, he muttered, "Twenty-six." Then, seeing my smirk, Watson added, "Holmes, I was too young."

Murray was gathering the last of his notes into neat piles. Now was the best time to speak. Watson slipped inside and started towards the speaker's lectern, I following him. Murray looked up as we approached. He was surprised when he saw that we were not students, and he stared at Watson in the manner of a man trying to pull a name from the recesses of his brain.

"You were quite right not to take my service revolver that day," Watson offered. "I did have use for it afterwards, many times."

This reference went over my head but it was clearly the nudge Murray needed to part the mists of memory. "My God! Dr. Watson!" He laughed in delight. "Whatever are you doing at Netley?"

Watson was grinning broadly. "Looking for you. Murray, this is Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, Dr. Henry Murray(2)."

The little man pumped my hand enthusiastically. "It's an honor to meet you, sir, and I'm delighted to see you did not perish at Reichenbach. I always wondered if the Dr. Watson who narrated those stories was the same man I had served with in Afghanistan."

"I can assure you the honor is mine," I replied. "It is because of your actions that Watson lives to write those stories."

Murray blushed and waved away my comment. "It was my duty, Mr. Holmes."

"No, you were always one to go far 'above and beyond the call of duty,' Murray," Watson contradicted. His voice softened slightly. "I cannot tell you how relieved I was to hear that you survived the siege at Kandahar. I only regret that I was not able to send word sooner but by the time I was able to send a reply -- "

"I had been transferred again," Murray finished, matter-of-fact. Before they could journey too deeply into reminiscing, I suggested we adjourn elsewhere and we slowly made our way to Murray's rooms.

As we walked, Murray asked, "But did you not send word by way of one of the doctors in September?"

Watson looked puzzled. "No. The only telegraphs I sent were the ones asking about you just after the siege failed and the one I sent you in early October."

Now it was Murray's turn to look puzzled. "I received a telegraph in late September with news of your illness, and then another one about a week later saying you were recovering. The second one was in your name."

"No, I had neither the strength nor lucidity to send word to anyone until October," Watson replied frankly. "Who send the first?"

Murray shook his head. "I don't recall. A doctor. Short name, began with a vowel."

Watson stopped walking, forcing Murray and myself to halt also. "Was the name Ives?"

"Perhaps. It sounds vaguely familiar. Why, what is wrong?"

A strange look had crossed my friend's face and he resumed walking. "Nothing, only surprise. But tell me, what made you decide to go into medicine after your discharge?"

"You did." At Watson's startled look, Murray continued. "You were not the first surgeon I was orderly to, but you were the first to insist I 'learn the ropes,' so to speak. After I was reassigned, it made sense to continue learning all I could about injuries and illness and how to treat them. I could be of greater assistance the more knowledge I attained. And, to be truthful, medicine and the army was all I knew. After I was discharged, all I had left was medicine."

"Do you regret joining the army?"

Murray smiled slyly. "I recognize that question, Doctor. You never did answer me then, and we did get out of there alive."

Watson smiled in return. "That is fair enough." The smile faded and he said, simply, "No. I don't."

"Nor do I."

We continued walking along in silence when presently one of them asked some medical question of the other. As the conversation drifted on towards the inevitable "shop talk," I held my tongue and gave in to my musings.

It is odd how the fates of certain individuals can become so entwined with those of others. I could not imagine how my life would have ended up if I had never met Watson, or perhaps I couldn't bear to imagine it. It had been a close thing, so many times over. Had Watson never joined the Army . . . or had Murray been assigned to another surgeon at Maiwand . . . if the Afghan sniper had been more accurate in his shot . . . or Murray less loyal to his assigned officer . . . But then, without Watson starting his feet along the path that would lead to his calling, who knows how Murray would have ended his days. I wallowed about the murky depths of philosophy for a little while and shuddered faintly.

Now I turned my attention to the little matter of Murray's telegraphs from September 1880. I recognized the name "Ives" from the list I had compiled, and had little doubt we would be meeting the man himself at some point in the near future. I smiled to myself; the identity of the sender of the second telegraph was no mystery. However, I was curious as to what manner of man this Dr. Ives was.

(2) Technically, Murray is still only "Mister" although legally a Bachelor of Medicine can use the title "Doctor." Watson is acknowledging him as a fellow medicine man.