Mrs. Watson had not been surprised when her son, following in the footsteps of his father before him, decided to sign up for the Army surgeon course at Netley. Nor was it a great shock when he announced his impending departure to India. She knew that her dear little John had grown into a brave man, one who was not content to sit at home and let others do the fighting when he could be of use. Protests for his safety would have only been in vain-he was going and that was that. She watched him leave, hiding the moisture in her eyes and not noticing the traitorous tear running down her fearless soldier's cheek.
Waiting for news was always immensely difficult, but that did not surprise her. She had known from the start that it could not be easy.
But she had not expected the telegram from Peshawar, telling her that her seemingly untouchable son had been hit. And none of her friends or relations had been prepared for the attack of brain-fever that followed.
The second telegram arrived on the day of the funeral. The mourners could only hope that someone in heaven would think to tell Mrs. Watson that her son's wounds were not fatal.
Dr. Watson would later attribute his own illness and lengthy convalescence to enteric fever in his memoirs. This falsehood was not created out of a desire to forget his mother or to insult her memory, but rather out of an unwillingness to relive the guilt that had haunted his mind and body for so many months.