The days following the armistice were, for those of us in service in France, confusing and chaotic times. Far from the relief many expected at the end of the war, the quick, pre-timed resolution fell rather flat, leaving many men on both sides feeling as if the years and lives sacrificed had been entirely in vain.

I knew, from my friend Sherlock Holmes's letters, that the feeling at home could not be more different, as mothers and wives anticipated the return of their men and an end to the disastrous previous five years. Though, he reported, even amongst the celebrations there was a feeling of wistfulness, as if everyone knew the world had been utterly changed by the cataclysm which had engulfed the world for the previous five years.

Still, though I was looking forward to the peaceful retirement that awaited me at Sussex Downs, the bustle of activity as transports were organized to take troops home meant that I was hardly less busy than I had been during the war, as there were still wounded and sick men I had to tend to, as well as soldiers who needed to be given medical permission to return home. With the rumors of disease coming from Spain, I understood the need for caution, however much it frustrated the men who thought only of returning home and putting this dreadful endeavour behind them.

Despite the military's reputation for organization, the armies of different Allied countries frequently mixed, so that I often found myself giving clearance to American soldiers to leave for home while my countrymen were given their own clearance by my American counterparts. These young doughboys, as they were known, were widely credited with the Allied victory, and so were feted nearly everywhere they went. Having seen less action than the British soldiers, many of them were less worn down by battle and the harsh conditions of the trenches. I could not blame them; indeed, I often found their enthusiasm infectious. It had been too long since there was joy in my life, and I enjoyed spending time among them. It reminded me of when I had been a young soldier in my prime, though my experience had been so far removed from theirs as to be from different worlds altogether. I felt more strongly than ever that they were the future and I the past, something that Holmes had, surprisingly, discovered for himself earlier than I.

"You are free to return home," I said to one young soldier, handing him the medical pass which would allow him to board the ship for New York. He thanked me with a smile, and I moved on to the next young man, a tall fellow wearing the uniform of an ambulance driver. Yet what captured my attention was not the fellow himself, but the drawings on the side of his ambulance. Brightly colored, they resembled children's drawings, though they betrayed a better skill than most children would have. The young man noticed my looking at the drawings and smiled.

"You like them, Doc?"

"Did you draw them?" I asked.

"Sure did," he answered. "Had to do something since I ended up here after all the fun was over."
I hardly thought the carnage I had lived through should be termed fun, yet I had encountered this attitude from American soldiers before, and so ignored it. It was not so very different from the attitude of our own British boys in 1914, before they learned the true horror of war, and I wished none of them should have had to learn it at all. "It is certainly unique," I said.

"They weren't so fond of them higher-up," my charge answered as I took out my stethoscope to check his heartbeat. "I'm fine, Doc. I've already had the Spanish flu anyway. That's why I was late here."

"Well, there are other diseases you may contract, and I would hardly want you to bring them home to your family," I said. I noticed a sketchbook next to him and asked, "You are an artist, then?"

"I draw a bit. Took classes whenever I could. You ever been to Kansas City, Doc? I studied at the art college there, though when I go home now I'm going to Chicago."

"I have never been to the United States," I said. "Though I have a friend who spent some time in Chicago." Holmes, what little I had seen of him between his return from Chicago and my shipping out to France, had not been effusive in his praise of the city, though I knew he would never love any city as he had loved London.

"Here, let me show you." The young ambulance driver pulled out his sketchbook and showed me several small drawings, more like caricatures than art. Most were of animals - a rabbit, some of a mouse, others of dogs, ducks, and occasionally, people. I recognized one of President Wilson, his signature glasses exaggerated to enormous size, and could not help but laugh.

"That is rather good," I said. "You have captured him very well." Used as I was to the grand subjects and skill of classical art, the young soldier clearly had skill. I thought Holmes, with his unusual ideas of art, would find the simple drawings on display interesting.

"Thanks, Doc," he answered, as I returned the sketchbook with his medical pass. After a glance at it, he looked at me closely. "Dr. Watson! Why, you must be him. My God, to think I've been talking to the author of the Sherlock Holmes stories!"

I had become used to British soldiers of all ages reacting in such a way when they realized who I was, but to see an American who so clearly enjoyed my stories was new to me. I had known, of course, that my works had been sold elsewhere, even been popular, but to see it with my own eyes was gratifying. We are all, truly, more alike than different, if such small stories about a detective can bring such joy to so many disparate people. "Thank you," I said. "I shall be sure to tell him so, though he is still not fond of my literary endeavours."

The ambulance driver had sat down quickly as I was speaking and opened his sketchbook. A few short lines later, and he tore out the page and handed it to me. There, captured in a few strokes of exaggerated features, was my friend Sherlock Holmes. The deerstalker he never wore enlarged to comical height and his piercing eyes sharp even on the page. "Good Lord, that is excellent," I said. "And so quick." Paget had certainly taken his time with his illustrations. Though I doubt Holmes would have appreciated the humor in this drawing, and I resolved to show him only when he was in the best of moods. "Thank you, Mr-"

"Walt," the young man answered quickly, shaking my hand. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."