And We Will All Be Home Before Christmas
Dec. 1st, 2018 08:48 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
capt_facepalmTitle: And We Will All Be Home Before Christmas
Author:capt_facepalm
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight ACD)
Characters: Mr Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective (retired), Dr John Watson, Major, RAMC (not as retired as Mr Holmes would like)
Summary: There's a war on, you know
Warning: contains meh
Word Count: 1325
Author's Notes: WAdvent 2018 - December 1
Author:
capt_facepalm Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Gaslight ACD)
Characters: Mr Sherlock Holmes - consulting detective (retired), Dr John Watson, Major, RAMC (not as retired as Mr Holmes would like)
Summary: There's a war on, you know
Warning: contains meh
Word Count: 1325
Author's Notes: WAdvent 2018 - December 1
.oOOo.
December 1st, 1914
Tuesdays were like every other day for a retired man and at this time of the year, with the early frost and his beehives fortified for their dormant inhabitants, Mr Sherlock Holmes was left restless and discontented. His small garden had been painstakingly clipped and raked to the point that not even wind-blown leaves dared to settle there. Not that there was much wind that day; the scent on the gentle breeze and the heavy-clouded sky foretold of rain to come. Perhaps he would have time to finish reading that book he had started so many times. Better get out for his daily constitutional whilst the rain held off, he thought. As a precaution, he picked up his umbrella and struck out for the village. He would not get a newspaper today. If the war in France was going as well as the reportage claimed, it would have been over by now.
The Post Office had three letters for him but no word from his friend Watson who was serving as a Medical Officer somewhere in France. Their earlier correspondences were so heavily censored that they quickly adopted code words and phrases. Watson’s comments were also at odds with the general public’s perception of the state of affairs and if the doctor’s casualty count was to be trusted, and of course it was, Britain was in for a long war. Already there were food shortages in London and other large cities.
Holmes was nearly halfway back to his cottage when he first heard the aircraft engine. A training plane, by the sound of it, flying much too low… no, landing! Something was afoot. Perhaps the pilot was off-course and required assistance, or worse, although there had been no instances so far, this part of Sussex was within the enemy’s striking range. Holmes picked up his pace.
To Holmes’s amazement, a Royal Flying Corps two-seater bi-plane idled a mere yards from the lane to his cottage. The occupant of the second seat threw down a satchel and clambered after it. The pilot revved the engine twice as the man on the ground removed his flight helmet, goggles, and grimy boiler suit. Holmes’ heart skipped a beat and he started to run. He recognised that stance, the army uniform, and the gestures used by the passenger as he conversed with the pilot over the engine’s sustained drone. The pilot pointed at Holmes and the passenger, wiping the soot from his face, grinned broadly. Major John H. Watson, Medical Officer, Royal Army Medical Corps, had come home.
‘Watson, it is incredible to see you here! How did you manage it?’
‘I was owed some leave and although I should have stayed in France, the opportunity to...'
'Risk your life in that flying contraption?' Holmes added acerbically.
'Bumpy McPherson is an excellent pilot.'
'"Bumpy?!?" You knowingly flew with a pilot named Bumpy?'
'Erm, yes. Nothing wrong with his flying... it's his landings that earned him that moniker.'
Holmes was less than reassured by this news but saw the glint in Watson's eye.
'To make a long story short it’s good to have friends in high places,’ Watson continued, his eyes following the bi-plane as it climbed toward the heavens.
Good old Watson, thought Holmes, a little worse-for-wear, tough as nails, and as unrepentant a punster as ever.
Supplementary Notes:
My headcanon proposes that Watson did resurrect his medical career by specialising in ophthalmology (as did Doyle) and this is why there are gaps in canon chronology because in later years Watson was not always a full-time Boswell.
December 1st, 1914
Tuesdays were like every other day for a retired man and at this time of the year, with the early frost and his beehives fortified for their dormant inhabitants, Mr Sherlock Holmes was left restless and discontented. His small garden had been painstakingly clipped and raked to the point that not even wind-blown leaves dared to settle there. Not that there was much wind that day; the scent on the gentle breeze and the heavy-clouded sky foretold of rain to come. Perhaps he would have time to finish reading that book he had started so many times. Better get out for his daily constitutional whilst the rain held off, he thought. As a precaution, he picked up his umbrella and struck out for the village. He would not get a newspaper today. If the war in France was going as well as the reportage claimed, it would have been over by now.
The Post Office had three letters for him but no word from his friend Watson who was serving as a Medical Officer somewhere in France. Their earlier correspondences were so heavily censored that they quickly adopted code words and phrases. Watson’s comments were also at odds with the general public’s perception of the state of affairs and if the doctor’s casualty count was to be trusted, and of course it was, Britain was in for a long war. Already there were food shortages in London and other large cities.
Holmes was nearly halfway back to his cottage when he first heard the aircraft engine. A training plane, by the sound of it, flying much too low… no, landing! Something was afoot. Perhaps the pilot was off-course and required assistance, or worse, although there had been no instances so far, this part of Sussex was within the enemy’s striking range. Holmes picked up his pace.
To Holmes’s amazement, a Royal Flying Corps two-seater bi-plane idled a mere yards from the lane to his cottage. The occupant of the second seat threw down a satchel and clambered after it. The pilot revved the engine twice as the man on the ground removed his flight helmet, goggles, and grimy boiler suit. Holmes’ heart skipped a beat and he started to run. He recognised that stance, the army uniform, and the gestures used by the passenger as he conversed with the pilot over the engine’s sustained drone. The pilot pointed at Holmes and the passenger, wiping the soot from his face, grinned broadly. Major John H. Watson, Medical Officer, Royal Army Medical Corps, had come home.
.oOOo.
The bi-plane’s engine roared and once positioned, sped down the road and lifted into the air.
‘Watson, it is incredible to see you here! How did you manage it?’
‘I was owed some leave and although I should have stayed in France, the opportunity to...'
'Risk your life in that flying contraption?' Holmes added acerbically.
'Bumpy McPherson is an excellent pilot.'
'"Bumpy?!?" You knowingly flew with a pilot named Bumpy?'
'Erm, yes. Nothing wrong with his flying... it's his landings that earned him that moniker.'
Holmes was less than reassured by this news but saw the glint in Watson's eye.
'To make a long story short it’s good to have friends in high places,’ Watson continued, his eyes following the bi-plane as it climbed toward the heavens.
Good old Watson, thought Holmes, a little worse-for-wear, tough as nails, and as unrepentant a punster as ever.
.oOOo.
Watson retrieved his civilian clothes from the belongings he kept at the cottage and was amused to see how loosely they fit. Holmes saw no humour in it at all. Whenever Holmes broached the subject, Watson would deflect with responses of 'Oh, let's not talk about the war. Can we not enjoy the peace and quiet and a warm hearth?'
Throughout the next few days, Holmes observed his friend for causes of his unusually quiet demeanor. Sometimes he would hear the doctor awake in the night and wandering around the cottage but could not bring himself to mention it. They would take daily walks around the local countryside and into the village. Watson began to nap in the afternoons. At first Holmes put it off as exhaustion as surely the responsibilities of command and dealing with the casualties of war would have worn heavily upon any sane person, and more so on someone with a compassionate sensibility, and who would begrudge such a man some much-needed rest?
It would be three days before Holmes decided that enough was enough and confronted Watson over tea.
'You will concede that I know you well, Watson. I know when you are troubled. Pray tell me, what is it?'
'There's a war on Holmes. I suspect that might have something to do with it,' was the all-too-cavalier response.
Not to be deterred this time, Holmes withheld the plate of sandwiches. 'Do you fear that your surgical skills are not up to par?'
‘Hardly. I’m an ophthalmologist, not a thoracic surgeon: I run the hospital and repair wounded eyes when the situation arises. I do not resect bowels, perform amputations, or remove spleens.’
‘You don’t?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.
‘I’ve been known to lend a hand,’ Watson admitted.
There was the Watson Holmes had been looking for. 'Then what is it?'
‘I know that despite my efforts to stay current, there are limits to my abilities. No, other than sometimes having too many casualties at once, the medical component of the job is under control. It's the damned politics that get to me, and it's everywhere, from my superior officers, all the way down the line. My stretcher-bearers are the most belligerent, reckless conscientious objectors you could ever meet, there’s civil unrest brewing amongst my nurses, my quartermaster might be trying to destabilise the economy, and don’t get me started on my surgeons. I never imagined that it would all become so difficult. But let's not discuss it. May I have a sandwich or not?’
Throughout the next few days, Holmes observed his friend for causes of his unusually quiet demeanor. Sometimes he would hear the doctor awake in the night and wandering around the cottage but could not bring himself to mention it. They would take daily walks around the local countryside and into the village. Watson began to nap in the afternoons. At first Holmes put it off as exhaustion as surely the responsibilities of command and dealing with the casualties of war would have worn heavily upon any sane person, and more so on someone with a compassionate sensibility, and who would begrudge such a man some much-needed rest?
It would be three days before Holmes decided that enough was enough and confronted Watson over tea.
'You will concede that I know you well, Watson. I know when you are troubled. Pray tell me, what is it?'
'There's a war on Holmes. I suspect that might have something to do with it,' was the all-too-cavalier response.
Not to be deterred this time, Holmes withheld the plate of sandwiches. 'Do you fear that your surgical skills are not up to par?'
‘Hardly. I’m an ophthalmologist, not a thoracic surgeon: I run the hospital and repair wounded eyes when the situation arises. I do not resect bowels, perform amputations, or remove spleens.’
‘You don’t?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.
‘I’ve been known to lend a hand,’ Watson admitted.
There was the Watson Holmes had been looking for. 'Then what is it?'
‘I know that despite my efforts to stay current, there are limits to my abilities. No, other than sometimes having too many casualties at once, the medical component of the job is under control. It's the damned politics that get to me, and it's everywhere, from my superior officers, all the way down the line. My stretcher-bearers are the most belligerent, reckless conscientious objectors you could ever meet, there’s civil unrest brewing amongst my nurses, my quartermaster might be trying to destabilise the economy, and don’t get me started on my surgeons. I never imagined that it would all become so difficult. But let's not discuss it. May I have a sandwich or not?’
.oOOo.
On the eve of his departure, Watson stood at the window, looking out at the rain in the premature dusk. Holmes was reading and almost did not hear Watson's question.
‘What if I told you that I don’t want to go back?’
‘I would not believe you,’ Holmes replied blithely. ‘For as long as I have known you, and even when your life took you in other directions, your heart has always been with the Army. And, considering the great lengths you went through to get recommissioned…’
Watson was too quiet. Too, too quiet. He had turned to look out the window and Holmes could not see his face.
‘You know, Watson, if you truly want out of it, I can make it happen. Rest assured that nothing would delight me more. My brother may be retired but he still holds considerable influence.’
‘I don’t know what I want anymore.’
‘What if I told you that I don’t want to go back?’
‘I would not believe you,’ Holmes replied blithely. ‘For as long as I have known you, and even when your life took you in other directions, your heart has always been with the Army. And, considering the great lengths you went through to get recommissioned…’
Watson was too quiet. Too, too quiet. He had turned to look out the window and Holmes could not see his face.
‘You know, Watson, if you truly want out of it, I can make it happen. Rest assured that nothing would delight me more. My brother may be retired but he still holds considerable influence.’
‘I don’t know what I want anymore.’
.oOOo.
The distinctive drone of the biplane heralded its approach. The two old friends stood together in silence. So much had been left unsaid; as if giving voice to their fears would make them come to pass.
‘How I wish you could stay for Christmas. This is your home too, not just a store for your steamer trunk,’ said Holmes.
‘I wish it too, but this year, my place is to be with my unit.’
The bi-plane bounced along as it landed on the narrow road.
Bumpy McPherson grinned as only the survivor of multiple hard landings can and offered a thumbs up. Watson replied in kind and climbed into the second seat. As the engine roared, Watson gave Holmes what he hoped was his best cheery wave and they were off.
Holmes followed the speck disappearing into the clouds and strained to hear it until it was no more. Eventually the cold east wind shook him from his fugue and he returned to the lonely warmth of his empty cottage.
‘How I wish you could stay for Christmas. This is your home too, not just a store for your steamer trunk,’ said Holmes.
‘I wish it too, but this year, my place is to be with my unit.’
The bi-plane bounced along as it landed on the narrow road.
Bumpy McPherson grinned as only the survivor of multiple hard landings can and offered a thumbs up. Watson replied in kind and climbed into the second seat. As the engine roared, Watson gave Holmes what he hoped was his best cheery wave and they were off.
Holmes followed the speck disappearing into the clouds and strained to hear it until it was no more. Eventually the cold east wind shook him from his fugue and he returned to the lonely warmth of his empty cottage.
.oOOo.
Supplementary Notes:
My headcanon proposes that Watson did resurrect his medical career by specialising in ophthalmology (as did Doyle) and this is why there are gaps in canon chronology because in later years Watson was not always a full-time Boswell.
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Date: 2018-12-02 02:42 pm (UTC)Mrs Px