There are distinct disadvantages to having carefully honed a sense of suspicion. Watson's unwillingness to speak of this third person, his avoidance of my gaze, gave me a decided chill. Though he spoke of Afghanistan freely now, he had not yet revealed any details about his own convalescence in England. I knew the old wounds still caused him pain on occasion. It stood to reason the pain had been greater when the wounds were fresh. And I knew how easy it was to become dependent on morphine, long after the initial cause for the painkiller had passed. I found my heart had begun to pound.
I feared it was Watson who had battled morphine addiction. And I feared to hear him confirm it.
Watson continued to stare out the window, the countryside in dull shades of autumnal gray. It had begun to rain lightly. The silence in our compartment was no less oppressive. I wracked my brain for thoughts, words, anything, that might close the lengthening gap between us. Without prompts, my tongue remained dumb and useless. Again, I was forced to follow my friend's lead. But if he chose not to lead, if he were waiting to follow mine . . . did I have the fortitude and strength of character needed to break that terrible silence?
"Who was he?" I asked before I lost my nerve entirely.
"A patient of mine," Watson murmured. "No," he added suddenly, more loudly, "that is not entirely accurate." My heart clenched painfully.
"He was not truly a patient of mine, though I did treat him. Nor did I see him struggle with the drug." The word "struggle" was lightly emphasized and I dared to feel a kindling of hope.
"He succumbed to it?"
"In a way, yes. It certainly hastened his death."
"Thank God!" I cried, going limp with relief. I had been wrong, and I had never been so happy admit it in all my life.
Watson, poor fellow, was not privy to my thoughts and at my outburst he turned to look at me with a mixture of outrage, surprise, and confusion. Only then did I realize how he must have construed my exclamation. Quickly, I held up a hand to stay his words. "I do beg your pardon, Watson. I refer not to the deceased unfortunate."
"To what, then?"
"To my ability to acknowledge that even I am prone to drawing erroneous conclusions. Pray continue."
Naturally, Watson could not let it go at that. I suppose part of it was my own fault, building up a reputation for infallibility though he has seen my mistakes, infrequent as they are. Puzzled, he asked, "What erroneous conclusion had you drawn, Holmes? And from what? There was precious little I've said to –" He broke off suddenly, realization dawning. "Good God, Holmes!"
I could not tell from his tone if he were amused or insulted. Perhaps he was both. "Again, I beg your pardon, Watson. However, in my defense, I have heard both men and women refer to fictional acquaintances when describing problems of their own."
"Thank you for having such confidence in my candor," Watson retorted. He had been insulted, I saw, but his innate tolerance for my eccentricities was gaining the upper hand. He shook his head. "No, Holmes, I took extensive pains to avoid falling into such a trap myself, not only from morphine but from opiates."
"Which, I am sure, was no small feat, given your close proximity to the Orient," I added, seeking to soothe his ruffled feelings.
Watson smiled in response and inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment. "To be completely frank, it was no great feat. Having had one vastly unpleasant personal experience with laudanum, I was not then, nor am I now, keen to see if a second experience would be equally unpleasant."
The little confession added more insight into Watson's prejudice against drugs in general and yet I was not willing to let the conversation slip onto other topics. "But what of your unfortunate patient who succumbed to morphine?" It was not the most graceful of transitions but it sufficed.
"He was not truly my patient. He was a wounded soldier who happened to be in the same bullock cart as me when we were traveling from Kandahar to Quetta. Nor was he an addict. I would assume, anyway." An odd look swept over Watson's face. He had revealed more than he had meant to, and now realized he had given me enough data to build up at least one theory.
"Holmes." His voice was strained, pleading. "Don't. Please."
Don't deduce; don't theorize; don't draw conclusions was what he meant. As much as I wished I could comply, it was not in my nature. It was far too late anyway, for my mind had already begun weaving together the threads. I let my regret show on my features and I shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, Watson," I whispered. He sighed, sounding infinitely tired, and waited for me to finish my deductions while he gazed at some point on the floor between our feet.
They were not long in coming. A wounded soldier, died of morphine, not an addict . . . An overdose, then, from a doctor who was undertrained or overzealous. Or one distracted by the chaos around him, and had accidentally misjudged the dosage. Knowing Watson, it was the latter and he had taken his mistake to heart.
"You need not blame yourself for giving him too much morphine, Watson," I offered.
The short, bitter laugh he gave in response was not encouraging.
"None of us are perfect, you know, myself included. Accidents are bound to happen, especially in times of war."
Immediately Watson raised his head to stare at me, incredulous. At first I thought it was because he could not believe I had used so trite of a phrase. Then I became dimly aware that I had missed some vital point entirely.
"Certainly you are right that accidents happen," Watson said. Then, to my distress, he folded his arms in a most defensive posture and resumed looking out the window. Nevertheless, I caught the haunted look in his eyes. I remained silent, seeing him struggle for words. When he spoke again, low and flat, it chilled me to the core.
"But it was no accident, Holmes."
I fear those of you who have read "On Afghanistan's Plains" have a distinct leg-up on understanding what Watson is talking about and so will not be as tortured by the cliffhanger (I hope For those of you who haven't read OAP, yes this is a shameless plug.