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acdholmesfestTitle: Rewriting History
Recipient:methylviolet10b
Author: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, past John Watson/Mary Morstan, mentions of Mycroft Holmes and the Forrester family (from The Sign of Four)
Warnings: Discussion of depression and concern about the possibility of self-harm (no one is harmed in the course of the fic)
Length: 10,000 words
Summary: A correspondence between Holmes and Watson in the immediate aftermath of the Great War in which they discuss questions of history both public and personal.
Author’s note: Here are a few terms that might need defining: “Tommies” = British infantry soldiers; “CCS” = Casualty Clearing Station, the WWI version of field hospitals; “pozzy” = jam preserves.
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
January 2, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I mentioned in my last that I expected to be reassigned to one of the coastal transit camps. I am at this moment on the train. Once I reach Rouen, there's a mountain of exit exams waiting. All the Tommies need their papers done before they can be released back home across the Channel, so I'll be filling out a legion of health certificates. (Forgive me if my next letters become even more illegible and cramped!) I expect it will take another year for the army to fully demobilise, and we medical men will be among the last released.
Are you still staying with your brother in Pall Mall? I will address this letter there in hopes of finding you. I imagine that MI5 is shrinking back to peacetime levels more rapidly than the army itself, but of course I know little of the Bureau's inner workings. Perhaps by the time you receive this you will have already returned to your cottage. I like to picture you reading over these lines in your dusty parlour, scorching the soles of your slippers against the fireplace grate or looking out through frosted panes to the dormant hives.
I will make a confession to you. Many years ago, now, when I left Baker Street to return to my practice, I committed an accidental theft in the course of packing my books. One of yours found its way into my boxes, though it took me years to notice the mistake. I assumed it was an old relic of mine from some forgotten class: The History of the Peloponnesian War, by Thucydides. It looked stately enough on my shelf but seemed too serious and too Greek to tempt me into an evening's light reading. In a rare fit of reflection just before I left to rejoin the army, I finally cracked it open and was quite surprised to see your name scribbled across the flyleaf. It was an artefact of your university years, not mine, and my curiosity was piqued. I had never known you to save any of your schoolbooks, apart from a few scientific ones.
On the questionable reasoning that, not having missed it for a decade, you could spare it a while longer, I packed it in my rucksack. I half-formed a resolution to read it in the CCS and send you my running commentary. I wanted to be able to write you on subjects outside this current War, you see. But as soon as I reached Ypres I fell headfirst into the chaos, and I knew that anything I touched would be tainted with that time and place. I could not stand to soil your schoolbook with the godforsaken stench.
I kept it tucked away in my luggage from that day to this. I am not ashamed to tell you that over the years it has taken on the quality of a talisman. I promised myself many times that when the war was over, I would read it. I would discover why you had deemed it worth keeping. And then I would travel across the green, unsullied English countryside to your doorstep and place it in your hands.
The war is over, my dear Holmes. It is over, thank God, thank God. And today I am sitting on a train with a hundred other men, most younger and many braver but none more joyous, and taking up my pen to write to you. Your book is sitting open in my lap. Today I will begin to read.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
January 8, 1919
My dear Watson,
I was glad to receive your letter of the 2nd and hope this finds you as it leaves me, in good health of body and mind. Wishing you a very happy New Year; and may it end for all of us as peacefully as it's begun. You may continue to direct your correspondence to this address. I have no plans as yet for my return to Sussex and will inform you well in advance of any move.
I have taken the liberty of sending along a pair of gloves, a scarf, a hat, waterproof boots, and an afghan that can serve as either a shawl or blanket. I could append a joke here to make light of my concern, but I wish you to notice it. You are sixty-four and camping on a beach in France off the Channel in January. For the love of all that's holy, don't catch pneumonia.
I always knew that you had the makings of a cat burglar in you, my dear fellow, but I doubt you will find much of a market for my old school things, unless it be among ardent subscribers to The Strand. But by all means peruse the text from cover to cover, and I feel sure that you will pinpoint the reason I found that volume of lasting interest.
I am more grateful than I can say that so small a thing has been a source of comfort and hope to you. Your dreams of reunion once the war was over have not been dissimilar to mine. We both have a little more road to travel before we are released from duty, though, so let us forge ahead as best we can. I will look forward to hearing your opinions on our Greek historian, and as always I wish to be kept abreast of all the latest news with you.
From London I have little of interest to report. Work is slow, the papers are dull, Mycroft is ghastly, and the water pipe that runs inside the wall behind my bed has developed an intermittent drip. I have not seen the sun in living memory. I am dogged by the torments of hell and I miss my bees.
Nevertheless, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
January 15, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Firstly, I must apologise for having forgotten in my last to send you birthday greetings. I trust that Mycroft's inestimable cook was able to serve something special for the occasion. Many happy returns, my dear fellow. Your package arrived and all items were most gratefully received. The afghan in particular is remarkably warm and remarkably ugly and has already become something of a legend in my corner of the compound. I was asked yesterday whether it was made from the pelt of a cheetah, though in fairness I must assume that my interlocutor had never seen one.
The campgrounds here are an overcrowded mess, unsurprisingly. But the men are used to so much worse that there are few complaints. Most get away to the city as often as they can while they wait to be cleared for a boat. My days are full of milder and more routine work than has fallen to my lot in years. You would be surprised at the number of men who come in for their exams, chuckle when they hear my name, and attempt to tease by asking me where Mr. Holmes might be? For some reason they never expect that I am indeed that Dr. Watson.
When I tell them you are in London with your brother but writing regularly, I usually provoke a double-take followed by the most exuberant curiosity. A lad from Dorset has asked after your violin and hopes you might find opportunity to offer a concert to the veterans. A boy from New Zealand wishes you to know that he wore black crepe on his sleeve after you went over the waterfall. Two young artillerists have inquired whether you are secretly married to Ms. Adler. I know there is a part of you that recoils to hear all this, but could you see them, my dear Holmes, I believe they would do your heart good.
Yet still, so many are maimed. Deaf, or blind, or missing limbs. Others go blank behind their eyes or fall in fits as unpredictable as they are violent. It does not shock me anymore; or perhaps I should say, it does not shock me yet. For I suspect that I am slightly blank myself just now, internally. In a year I will probably experience a keener and more painful sympathy for these patients than I can today.
Enough of that. I have now to make my first report upon Thucydides. I can already tell that I will be progressing through the work at a snail's pace, since by the end of the day I run short of both energy and lamplight. I have fallen asleep in my tent a half dozen times with the book propped open on my chest. Fortunately, however, the first chapter, in which the author assesses what can be known of the Trojan War, has already revealed the attractions that must have drawn you to the work. I felt, while reading, that I had met your kindred spirit. Listen to him decry the popularity of poets and chroniclers, who go muddying the available facts with their romanticisms!
"So little pains do the vulgar take in the investigation of truth, accepting readily the first story that comes to hand. On the whole, however, the conclusions I have drawn from the proofs quoted may, I believe, safely be relied on. Assuredly they will not be disturbed either by the lays of a poet displaying the exaggeration of his craft, or by the compositions of the chroniclers that are attractive at truth's expense...Turning from these, we can rest satisfied with having proceeded upon the clearest data, and having arrived at conclusions as exact as can be expected in matters of such antiquity."
"….The absence of romance in my history will, I fear, detract somewhat from its interest; but if it be judged useful by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must resemble if it does not reflect it, I shall be content. In fine, I have written my work, not as an essay which is to win the applause of the moment, but as a possession for all time."
I adored this passage. The author's noble ambition and careful rationality demand admiration, but I am no less charmed by his casual snobbery. For the remainder of the book I shall be imagining Thucydides puffing anachronistically on your cherrywood pipe whilst lambasting 'The Iliad.'
But look! Although he echoes so perfectly your skepticism at my approach to dramatising the adventures we were privileged to share, I find tucked into this same passage an unexpected dash of vindication:
"With reference to the speeches in this history, some were delivered before the war began, others while it was going on; some I heard myself, others I got from various quarters; it was in all cases difficult to carry them word for word in one's memory, so my habit has been to make the speakers say what was in my opinion demanded of them by the various occasions, of course adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what they really said."
This, my friend, is as succinct a summation and justification of my methods as any I could have made in my own defense. Our venerable author sides with me as well as with you. He does not feel that the human voices of his history need to be removed. Instead, he attempts to refashion them in ways that fit the narrative, while admitting that his facsimiles are more suggestive than exactly representative of reality. I do believe that the next time you begin to lecture me about the imprecision of my writings, I shall simply whisper "Thucydides" in your ear and have done.
Good grief, I began this letter two days ago. Someday I will learn to be concise. Until then, a rushed farewell so that it may go out with today's mail.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
January 24, 1919
My dear Watson,
Your fond remembrances of Mycroft's cook are endearing given that it must be fifteen years since you last tasted her fare. I passed along your compliments after receiving your last letter and have since been bombarded with gingerbread and jam and cakes that I am now obliged to send you. They will not keep, so eat what you can and share the rest. Bon appétit.
You may feel free to pass along my well-wishes to the admiring readers among your patients, though I shall not be regaling the veterans with concerts or with hidden wives anytime soon. In London more boys are coming home every day, and the streets and docks overflow with scenes of reunion. I did not like to mention it earlier, while the war was still on, but now I should inform you that the Lestrades lost young George last year at the Marne. Their other three sons have just come back to London, each having served at a different post during the war by their own request so as to reduce the chances that all would be lost together. I have made plans to take them to lunch at Marcini's at the end of the week, and will of course give them your best regards.
Ever since the armistice in November I have received a flood of inquiries from former clients who wish to be reassured that you are still with us. Mrs. Bloomberg, née Hunter, hopes you are well; Mr. Melas thanks you for your service; Lord Baskerville remembers you fondly and Mr. Phelps prays for your safe return. I have a dozen similar cards waiting for you upon the mantel.
I realise I have not found time yet to ask you about your own plans once the army sees fit to let you go. Do you intend to take up your rooms again in Queen Anne Street? I know that you may be contemplating starting up your medical practice again after your hiatus abroad. But I do think you should consider the likelihood that your writings will sell well enough to meet your needs, and of course those of Alice's family as well if necessary. By all observable evidence, fresh issues of your old novels and stories have made prodigious sales during the war. Barely a month goes by that I do not see them on display in some shop window.
Your first report on Thucydides was highly entertaining, though I am not prepared to rescind my long-standing critiques. I cannot applaud your literary flourishes simply because you have found another author who relied on similar artifice to paper over the gaps between facts. But I will be most happy to continue this argument when you come to the country to return my book at last. We shall sit in the garden among the bees, and you shall read to me aloud if you like. I have missed your voice, Watson.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
February 7, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Please forgive the delay in my correspondence, I was briefly laid up with a cold. Nothing serious, but I preferred to sleep through as much of the headache as possible and could not rouse myself either to read or write. Your package of foodstuffs, however, was heavenly comfort. Nectar and ambrosia. I hoarded a portion of its riches for myself, and the good Mrs. Burns now has reverent followers among the Royal Warwicks and the 55th Berkshires as well.
I am so sorry to hear of Lestrade's loss. My heart goes out to him and his good wife. I know that their other children will draw together all the more closely in remembrance and love. Their son's sacrifice will not be forgotten.
I am sorry to report that I have not made a great deal of further headway in my historical reading. But even so early in the account, I am struck by the eerie similarities between this ancient conflict and our contemporary politics. Thucydides recounts Sparta's public debate over whether to allow their allies and dependents, and the rebellious cities under Athens' empire, to draw them into a war. Their system of alliances, and above all their concern to maintain some effective counterweight against the growth and dominion of Athens, prompted them to adopt other cities' quarrels as their own. And so began a ruinous, protracted war. Did we not adopt the very same strategy with just as poor an idea of what the ultimate costs would be?
I'm glad that I have always been too intimidated to discuss politics with your brother. His insights into the real nature of empire, however wise and incisive, would probably destroy what tattered illusions I have managed to retain. I am too old and have seen too much sacrificed for our country to let go of what patriotism I have left.
Thank you for your inquiries about my homecoming plans. I don't expect to return to Queen Anne Street, as I do not mean to resuscitate my oft-neglected practice. I have finally seen my fill of injury and illness. Alice has not needed my assistance for some years now, and as you said, my writings will be enough to support me for the future. When I arrive back in England, then, I will come straight to you for our visit. We can read and argue to our hearts' content. As for your bees, they may continue to rely on my sincere, but cordial, antipathy.
When do you expect to remove yourself to Sussex? I am surprised you have resisted its siren call this long.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
February 13, 1919
My dear Watson,
I have not time for a proper reply today, but I cannot forbear asking what on earth my bees have ever done to you? Why this unprovoked hostility? Tell me the basis for your grievances, and let us see if you cannot be reconciled to these harmless creatures.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
February 17, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Ah, your poor maligned colonies! I'm amused at your assumption that some ancient feud must underlie my aversion to them. In my experience, it is hardly unusual for stinging creatures of any kind to be considered pests. As it happens, however, you are not wrong. I am neither a biologist nor a natural philosopher, and my feelings towards the birds and beasts depend on personal experience. Though never overfond of serpents, I did not develop a settled grudge against their kind until that sleepless night at Stoke Moran. Toward dogs my feelings have been so thoroughly chivvied from fondness to horror and back that I am approaching a point of perfect neutrality.
As for bees, I regret to inform you that I decided against them at the tender age of eleven. Harry and I were spending the summer in Wales in the tiny town of Llanuwchllyn, where my aunt and uncle then lived. They rented a farm which in hindsight was rather decrepit, but at the time it filled my city-bred soul with delight. My cousins and I insisted on carrying our dinners out into the clover for picnics as often as possible until we discovered that, in the eyes of the local bees, I possessed some intangible allure akin to a hothouse flower.
The wretched creatures crawled inside my shirts. They settled under my armpits, presumably where my scent was strongest, and stung me when I flailed. In the midst of eating, I would have to shut my mouth tight while one or another of them landed on my lips - mistaken for petals? - and walked back and forth in search of nectar. I was miserable, sore, and anxious, not to mention thoroughly teased by my brother and cousins, who were at the most merciless age for that sort of thing. After a week I refused to go outside with them anymore. There followed a dreary, indoor summer full of loneliness and acute embarrassment whenever the lads came up with another rhyme for my 'mouth of rose.' There are many, many words that rhyme with rose. I can laugh now at the poor, stung pride of my boyhood, but at the time my suffering was pitiably genuine.
In short, honey bees and I do not get on. Though I am grateful for the food and flowers that spring from their work, I much prefer to leave them to it and observe their industry from a great distance, if at all. However, for the sake of the happiness and interest they have given you, I am prepared to forgive them their old trespasses. We shall never be friends, but I trust they will find in me an unobjectionable acquaintance.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
February 24, 1919
My dear Watson,
You poor boy. Are not the wounds of childhood the most untouchable? I have from time to time regretted that we never met as boys, particularly since it seems your closest relatives were sorely in need of a drubbing. Though I was never a bulky child, I was quick and pitiless when fairness required a display of force. I would also happily have assisted you in authoring retributive poetry. Alas for the lost days of youth!
During the war I was not at liberty to tell you much about my work, but now that everything is finished, I can share this anecdote. One of my responsibilities was to invent ciphers for the Allies. I was asked whether I could recommend any other potential candidates who might have a talent for such projects and whose loyalty was beyond question. After brief reflection, I contacted Mrs. Elsie Cubitt, who is still living on her late husband's estate. From her girlhood she had made a game of inventing and cracking codes, and she still remembered dozens of systems unique to the underworld of nineteenth-century Chicago. Most of these ciphers were so antiquated that I doubt today's mafia would have been able to decode them, and certainly the Central Powers’ interpreters would find them entirely unfamiliar. And so it was that Mrs. Cubitt joined the intelligence services. She turned the codes that had been harbingers of crime and tragedy into the means for saving many lives.
I know this news will please you. Wishing you good health and happiness, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 2, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Forgive this short note, but I cannot sleep and my thoughts are circling. Best to air them.
I am concerned that you still have not said a word about returning to your cottage. I expected you to escape from your brother's oversight and shake the dust of London from your feet as soon as the war was over. I'm probably being foolish, but we in service have a pervasive suspicion that we are 'being spared' things. No one receives bad news from home, everything is just so much cheerful encouragement as long as we're away.
I wish to be spared nothing. Are you well? Is Mycroft?
Apologies for the interrogation, I only want to be sure that all is right. Please tell me what keeps you in London. If all is not right, I would like to help if I can.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
March 9, 1919
My dear Watson,
After a friendship of nearly forty years, I should no longer be surprised at your intuition, but I never get your limits. Thank you for your generous concern. I am perfectly well. My fears are for my brother.
During the whole of his career, he bent his mind to maintaining a balance of powers in Europe. He has always been a prodigy and there is no question that he worked wonders. Yet he was like an architect who raises vast cities atop old ruins without surveying the underlying faults. For the last four years he has watched sinkholes erupt; he has seen his life's work collapse and bury a whole generation in the rubble. The scope of the disaster is nearly incomprehensible, though to his extraordinary perception it reveals itself with agonizing clarity.
He holds himself responsible, and the miserable truth is that he probably is so, to the degree that any individual can be.
He brought me to share his rooms here in London at the start of the war as a mercy, so that I would not run myself ragged with worry over you. He meant his company to be an irritant and a distraction, both of which I sorely needed. Instead, I have watched guilt and futility wear him nearly to pieces. He breaks my heart. Were you to pass him on the street, I would lay even odds you would not recognise him, so extremely is he changed. He has the look of a dying oak; towering, serene, but hollowed through.
That is why I have lingered here in London, and I am determined to stay until I can convince him to retire with me to the country. I'll sell my cottage and purchase a larger house. We must allow time the chance to heal what wounds it can, for him, and you, and all those who survived. I cannot leave him alone anymore.
There is none but you, Watson, to whom I would have confided half as much. I know that you will not misunderstand him and could never despise him. You will help, and between us I believe we will see him through.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 14, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Thank you for sharing this confidence with me. I'm deeply sorry to hear of your brother's distress. Of course his reaction is understandable, for he has always been an utterly decent man and no one could expect him to view the wages of this war with indifference. But to take the guilt of it all on his own shoulders is a distortion of both justice and truth. Grief is treacherous, and the reproaches it whispers cannot be trusted. In his more rational moments he will be able to grasp that. But we must take care not to permit him to isolate himself when he is not thinking entirely clearly. His safety is paramount, of course, and you are right not to leave him. At the same time, we cannot judge how best to respond until he is able to tell us more clearly what state he is in and what his intentions are.
I have taken the liberty of writing a few words of encouragement to him which I send by the same mail as this letter. I have said nothing indiscreet, and I trust that my respect for him will be clear enough that he will feel at liberty to accept or to set aside my words as he thinks best.
My best wishes are with you both, as always.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
March 25, 1919
My dear Watson,
I will admit to deep misgivings when I saw that you had sent my brother a letter. I was considering pre-emptively throwing it in the fire but had no opportunity to do so unobserved. Mycroft had never authorised me to discuss his situation with anyone, and I feared that he would feel offended, or worse, betrayed. Thankfully, his true reaction has been quite the opposite.
I do not know what you said to him, but whatever it was, God bless you. He has been more himself these last few days than I have seen in months. This evening he paused on his way to bed, standing just out of sight behind my armchair, and gave me his solemn word that he would take no drastic action. He said he would never do anything to grieve me, and that he hated to see me kept in constant fear of accident.
I had never had the courage to ask whether he felt tempted to injure himself. To receive such reassurance was a profound gift. I think the unspoken tension in these apartments has been drawn taught for so long that this sudden relaxation has left us both unbalanced. I, at least, am reeling with relief. I can read in him a renewed determination not to dwell so constantly upon the past. I am not so foolish as to imagine that his peace of mind is a matter of choice alone, or that it can be restored through simple good intentions. He will probably continue to struggle against despair for the rest of his life. But at least he is struggling, now, rather than staring numb at the account of his sins. He has my support and yours, and he knows it.
Thank you, Watson, for finding the words to reach him. It is such a weight off my mind to feel that I can rest without the risk that harm will befall him in my moments of inattention.
Tomorrow, I will rise in the morning knowing that I have slept rather than merely suspecting it. That is progress indeed.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 29, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that your brother's spirits are somewhat improved and that you have been able to reassure each other. I know that I risked overstepping my bounds, for which I apologise. I hoped that he would not blame me, or you, for reaching out to offer help.
I well remember how long we struggled to communicate on certain matters, like the cocaine, that used to drive me mad with worry. I believe a great deal of the trouble was that we were simply too close to one another and to the situation. Distance is sometimes useful for opening up a delicate conversation. At that time, I was too reticent to make an honest start at addressing the danger you were courting. I held my tongue for years. Now, in the aftermath of immense battles, I am faced every day with incurable suffering. Therefore to that suffering that can be eased, I no longer hesitate to apply myself.
Be assured of my love and support, my dear fellow. You are right that your brother, and all who care for him, will not have an easy road ahead. The depression of his spirits and the loss of his sense of purpose are wounds that must be touched on lightly but monitored steadily during the years to come. I know you are committed to tending and encouraging him, while also respecting his independence, as am I. He is a brave and brilliant man, of steadier temper than either of us, and I believe that he will find his way.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
April 4, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I hope you will not mind if I take the opportunity to write again without waiting for my proper turn. I have been meaning to return to our discussion of Thucydides. Both as a medical man and as a veteran of war and illness, I was riveted by his descriptions of the plague that struck Athens while its population was beseiged within the city walls. He described the symptoms, the onset, and the progress of the illness so clearly and with such clinical detachment. I was astounded at his casual mention that the source of his wealth of evidence had been his own suffering. Regarding the fatal distemper, he writes, "All speculation as to its origin and its causes, if causes can be found adequate to produce so great a disturbance, I leave to other writers, whether lay or professional; for myself, I shall simply set down its nature, and explain the symptoms by which perhaps it may be recognized by the student, if it should ever break out again. This I can the better do, as I had the disease myself, and watched its operation in the case of others." To speak so coolly of such trauma; is not the man's stoicism remarkable?
Of course the medical history that he lays out is both sobering and invaluable, and I have never been more grateful that this hideous contagion appears to have gone extinct long before our time. While one cannot be certain whether this plague was the same Black Death that decimated large swathes of medieval Europe before the end of its long reign, it seems likely. More wrenching still are Thucydides' descriptions of the social consequences of the outbreak, as people became too terrified to nurse the sick. So virulent was the disease and so irresistible its transmission, the charitable and the humane who dared to perform their duties of care were the first struck down. In the end, many of those ill were abandoned to die at the first sign of weakness.
All this has brought vividly to mind my own brush with death and disease in my youth. I suffered nothing so terrible as the horrors described in this history, but I came near enough to facing my end nonetheless. The enteric fever struck me in the aftermath of desperate military defeat. It is frankly incredible that I was not left behind during the chaotic retreat when I was first wounded, and equally amazing that I was nursed through my illness so skillfully when resources and medicine were so scarce. I cannot but feel that I have been extraordinarily fortunate to find myself in the hands of such selfless and competent medics. Murray was my friend, though that does not in the least diminish his heroism, but so many of the others who saved my life were perfect strangers.
And then, of course, I returned to England. I was in a precarious state by any measure, but at the same time so astonished to be alive that I felt invincible. The worst had already happened, and I told myself that the time for worries was past. My concern for the future was temporarily exhausted. Although I have no doubt that real necessity would have broken through my haze soon enough, a cloudy tincture not unlike intoxication colours my memories of those days. In London there were surely hundreds who would have readily taken advantage of my carelessness, and thousands more who would merely have remained indifferent.
Is it not astonishing, my dear Holmes, to think that I passed by all those hundreds or thousands who would have brought me to grief and walked into a room with you in it? I tell you, it was the most unlikely thing that has ever happened to me in a life full to bursting with improbable mysteries.
I can only conclude that I was born under a lucky star. For so much good fortune to befall me purely by chance defies belief.
Moving now from the sublime to the ridiculous: our camp is lately overrun with poultry. Every army represents a hoard of cheerfully amoral foragers, and ours have set their sights on the poulet of Rouen. I don't know who started the fad, but every young infantryman nowadays keeps a hen roosting at his tent. Some are quickly sacrificed to make a roast dinner, but most are kept to provide eggs that supplement the skimpy rations of biscuits and pozzy.
From daybreak to nightfall I am immersed in a restless, dun-coloured, clucking sea. This is why I could never have been a farmer, Holmes. I cannot live among barnyard animals for any length of time without feeling that my brain is dribbling out my ears. Give London my best, I miss it terribly just now. The chickens say hello.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
April 14, 1919
My dear Watson,
The astounding luck of our first meeting was far more on my side than yours. I cannot think what my life would have been had you not walked into that laboratory in search of cheap lodgings. It is one of the events on which I base whatever hope I have in providence.
In those early days, you never spoke of your hardships or the gauntlet you had run before we met. It was not until we had lived together for years that I began to understand the complexity of your feelings toward the army. You will remember, of course, the long siege of Khartoum in 1884, when every day the papers called on our leaders to send relief for General Gordon. The thought of the man stranding himself there, nobly – but perhaps foolishly – determined to hold out despite his orders and against all odds, affected you powerfully. Your heart was alive to the romance and heroism of his gesture, and yet you remembered too well the horrors of needless violence and sudden defeat. I lost count of the sleepless nights you waited through. And then, of course, when the government finally ceded to public pressure and sent reinforcements, they arrived two days too late. After holding out a year, Gordon was slaughtered almost within sight of rescue. The pointlessness of it all seemed unbearable.
I told you, did I not, that I visited Khartoum during my years away? I walked up the steps where Gordon was struck down, and saw the stain of his blood. It was kept on display there as both a tribute and a warning. I will never forget the strange mixture of warmth and foreboding that I felt, standing on that fatal stone half a world away and thinking of you.
I am not sure there is any clear moral to draw from these memories, but they have been on my mind since I read your last letter. Turning to more practical matters, the fact that you have been forced to entangle yourself with the local French fowl in order to supplement your rations seems a clear sign that I have gone too long between care packages. In consultation with Mrs. Burns, I am gathering as much meat and fresh veg as can be found. It should arrive with the next mail. Best of luck with the birds in the meantime.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
April 20, 1919
My dear Holmes,
You and Mrs. Burns are, between you, a culinary godsend. I feel spoiled rotten, and unrepentantly so. Thank you for all your generosity. I am glad, as well, to have had another glimpse of your travels all those years ago. It is strangely comforting to know that you thought of me in such a moment.
I have been reading through our venerable author's harrowing descriptions of the civil wars in Corcyra. He condemns the breakdowns of civil order and individual morality that spread across Greece when war suspended the laws. Into the social vacuum rushed the worst of human vices, as private citizens and fanatical parties used the cover of the larger conflict to commit venal atrocities in greed or personal vengeance. They murdered their neighbours for money and claimed they acted out of patriotism. They made false political accusations in order to satisfy old grudges and harnessed the power of paranoid leaders to wipe out their enemies and competitors.
"In the various cities," he writes, "these revolutions were the cause of many calamities -- as happens and always will happen while human nature is what it is, though there may be different degrees of savagery, and, as different circumstances arise, the general rules will admit of some variety. In times of peace and prosperity cities and individuals alike follow higher standards, because they are not forced into a situation where they have to do what they do not want to do. But war is a stern teacher; in depriving them of the power of easily satisfying their daily wants, it brings most people's minds down to the level of their actual circumstances."
"….With the ordinary conventions of civilized life thrown into confusion, human nature, always ready to offend even where laws exist, showed itself proudly in its true colours, as something incapable of controlling passion, insubordinate to the idea of justice, the enemy to anything superior to itself; for, if it had not been for the pernicious power of envy, men would not so have exulted vengeance above innocence and profit above justice. Indeed, it is true that in these acts of revenge on others men take it upon themselves to begin the process of repealing those general laws of humanity which are there to give a hope of salvation to all who are in distress, instead of leaving those laws in existence, remembering that there may come a time when they, too, will be in danger and will need their protection."
Though this passage was written four hundred years before the birth of Christ, to me it seems as if it could have been written yesterday. I do not believe, and never have believed, that human beings are inherently wicked. But when you combine desperate circumstances with the collapse of common standards and public restraints, is it any wonder that a radical and dangerous selfishness can spread like any other disease? This current War has stretched so far, lasted so long, and affected so many. What laws of humanity have we left standing? What weapons have we hesitated to invent or to turn on each other? What has happened in the towns and cities too close to the armies? What of the women and children who lived far from the front but were nevertheless showered with shells and bombs thanks to the modern miracles of flight?
I tell you, my dear Holmes, I am afraid even to contemplate what the next war will look like, given the extent to which our militaries have abandoned restraint. And yet, to hope that there will be no more wars beyond this one seems hopelessly naïve. I suppose all that I have left to desire is that I will be safe in my grave before I need witness any more.
And yet, for all that, Thucydides tells only one side of the story. For heroism is still possible in extremis, and I have been privileged to see it many times. For I have spent much of my life standing next to you, Holmes. You have defended innocence and justice, not merely in the abstract but in the lives of individuals. Danger and violence have never stood in your way. Call 'human nature' whatever names you like, but there will always be those who embody its nobler facets.
Perhaps someday the long march of civilization will arrive at the possibility for peace in some more lasting form than we have yet achieved. Self-preservation, at least, may counsel even the strongest nations to embrace discretion as the better part of valour. Let us hope.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
April 30, 1919
My dear Watson,
When I look to the future, I must admit I am as apprehensive as you are about the fate of nations. The chief conundrum, to my mind, is knowledge itself and the rapid advancement of human invention. One thing that it has proved impossible to impress upon the military is that they should never invent a weapon they are not prepared to see turned quickly against their own men. It takes large investments of money, time, education, research, individual effort, and trial-and-error to create a new breakthrough in the machinery or chemicals of war. It requires far less investment to steal or simply reconstruct knowledge of such an invention once achieved.
Information, once discovered, will spread. That is its nature. What was I doing throughout the war in MI5 but struggling to delay the transmission of our country's secrets long enough to allow our troops to reap even the slightest advantage before our advancements were copied and turned against us? The modern age is the age of information, and in such a milieu the army that moves farthest ahead does little except to advance the whole field of violence to new heights.
We have been too incautious, too frantic in our calculations. Even before the war, how many times did you and I see the price that unscrupulous men were willing to pay for the smallest scraps of strategic advantage? Remember the Bruce-Partington submarine – it seems quaint now to think how we convinced ourselves the fate of nations rested on some double-valved slot or other. See how quickly it became obsolete, how little the death of a good citizen bought in terms of real benefit to his country. Then multiply that small tragedy a thousandfold, and you have a picture of the recent war. Our leaders, our allies, and our enemies all made it their business to release every genie out of every bottle they could reach without reference to conscience or thought for long-term consequence. Now the world will have to live with what we have set loose.
In these dark times, my friend, my greatest comfort is to have you still alive and near me. Let us commend the human race to what safety can be salvaged and hope that providence, self-interest, or conscience will put some stopper in these poisons. We have seen enough death. Let us be utopian for once, in our old age, and curse the idea of the next war into oblivion.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
May 9, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I have nerved myself at last to write you a difficult letter.
Our correspondence is four years old and more now. Yet in all the hundreds of messages we have exchanged, we never spoke of our estrangement. The War was all-consuming, and I relied on the bright thread of your affections far too much to risk stirring up old quarrels, especially since I am not sure where all our hidden minefields lie. And yet, each time I signed my name at the end of another letter, I told myself that I should try. That I should speak before it was too late and offer the apology that I now realise you deserve. I do not pretend to fully comprehend your feelings, even now, and the bitterness of our old separation still confounds me as much as it ever did. Yet you were the one who reached out first to heal the breach, when you called on me to help you in the case of your German spy. You stood next to me on a bridge at sunset and told me that war was coming, and such a war as England had never seen.
Now that we have faced that cruel east wind and all its storms at last, and have come out the other side and caught our breaths, what say you? Shall we venture once more into the ring and grapple with our old failings, this time with clearer eyes and calmer heads? You and I ought not to die without explaining ourselves to each other.
Regarding the causes of our quarrel: I have always known that, whatever else you resented, it was never the children. You are the soul of generosity to those in need, and the Forrester girls were as close as daughters to my Mary, and thus to me. It was the Baring panic of '91 that stole their family's wealth and home, but they never breathed a word of it during Mary's illness for fear of disturbing her. At her funeral they said nothing to me of their hardship, though I remember holding their hands in church as the girls wept for Mary like a lost mother. We were not closely in touch during the '90s, but what letters I received from them at Christmas and upon the anniversaries of Mary's passing were sweetness itself. I had no notion how desperately they were struggling, nor did they intend that I should.
At the time of my marriage, did you guess – or rather, did you ever deduce – that I did not particularly want children? Or that I had told Mary so, before we wed? I had no natural instinct or inclination toward fatherhood, and I was loathe to swear off my adventures with you entirely, as I knew I would have to do were I to become the sole support of a growing household. I expected to shock her and was prepared to yield to her wishes rather than lose her hand, but she was perfectly accepting.
She told me that Alice and Diana Forrester were charges enough for any woman to raise and were dear to her as her own flesh and blood. Although it was unorthodox, she wished to continue to work as their governess even after our marriage. She, too, was prepared to yield to my wishes, but the thought of letting those girls go – of becoming a mere spectator to their lives after holding a place in the bosom of their family for years – oppressed her. In this, as in so many ways, we found ourselves well-suited. We trusted in the strength of our marriage and continued to work where our hearts called us, even though it meant sacrifices of money and time. I never held her back from the Forresters any more than she held me back from you. The family we made together was an elective and extended one, and you were all a part of it.
It was with mingled guilt and horror, then, that I finally learned of the girls' straits at the end of 1902. Alice came to me because she hoped I would be willing to treat her poor husband without charge. By that time, as you know, his cancer was inoperable. Diana had long since left for America, and Alice had no hope of supporting little Mary and Billy alone after her husband passed. I blamed myself for remaining ignorant and neglectful of their circumstances for so long. More than that, I felt that fate was directing me to take up the responsibilities that I had balked at in my youth. It was in this mindset that I made my resolutions.
With the best of intentions, I returned to my medical practice and my writing to support Alice and her children. I considered her claim on me to be very nearly that of a daughter, and I believed myself the only fitting person to assume responsibility. I well remember how vehemently you argued against the necessity of my departure from Baker Street. You had money enough to spare and were prepared to donate as much to them as I would be able to earn. Together we could keep the young family as far from want as they could wish. What need was there for me to leave and assume all their debts on my own?
At the time your offer seemed both noble and profoundly kind, but I felt honour-bound to refuse it. You had no tie or obligation at all to the poor girl or her children. How on earth could you be expected to pour out so much of your income on their behalf? I was bound to them through Mary. The duty was mine, and to turn it over into the hands of another gentleman seemed wrong; very nearly improper. So I held stubbornly to my resolve, believing that I was doing right and that the sacrifice was mine to make.
I did not expect to lose your friendship over it. The depth of your anger took me by surprise, and to this day you have never fully exposed its roots. But although the years that have passed since our falling-out have done little to render your side of this story transparent, they have taught me to see the error of my own ways. In my pride, I made everything harder than it had to be. I took it upon myself to deny the Forresters the benefit of your charity, which I had no right to do. In my determination to lift their burdens on my own, I wronged them.
And I wronged you.
I wronged you just as much as I would have wronged Mary by renouncing her, as I intended to do, had she inherited the Agra jewels. I should have learned long ago that money is far too petty a concern to justify abandonment. Money is not worth the smallest sacrifice of feeling nor the loss of an hour's companionship. Looking back, I am horrified at the extent to which I allowed it to rule me and to dictate my ideas of honour. I have been a slave to propriety to a degree that has been truly hurtful. Not only to myself, which I could bear, but to those I love best, which is intolerable.
If I could give you back those years between the last Jubilee and the War, there are so many things that I would change. I would accept your generous offer, and together we could support the happiness of that young family without diminishing our own. I would stay in Baker Street. We would work until you were ready to meet retirement as a reward rather than a retreat. We would move to Sussex. You would find me marginally wiser, and less stiff-necked, and infinitely happier.
I know it is only a dream. But I wanted to tell you.
You will be pleased to hear that, in spite of it all, Alice's family is doing very well. In the end, they only needed my assistance for a handful of years. By 1907, her sister Diana had established herself as headmistress of a private school in Illinois and was able to invite all the remaining family to join her. Alice teaches mathematics, and her children are now quite grown. Her boy, Billy, will be twenty-one this year. America entered the War so late, you know, that he was never drafted.
Here we are then, my dear Holmes. My past foolishness has undoubtedly done damage, but I hope none permanent. Happy endings and second chances have been allotted us despite ourselves. In hopes that you will find it in your heart to forgive both the old pride and the fresh sentiment touched upon in this letter, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
May 13, 1919
My dear Watson,
I cannot answer your last with the length and honesty it deserves, for the heart of the matter between us should be discussed in person rather than in print. But I could not let your message go unanswered. Your apology is most heartily accepted. Please be assured that I likewise regret my past behaviour and sincerely beg your pardon.
At the time I was shaken to find you so determined to leave and so resistant to every argument I could make to change your mind. Suffice it to say, I once thought to share more with you than my pocket-book. To be so soundly rejected in this matter, for the sake of what seemed to me a narrow view of respectability, dashed my hopes. In your actions, I read the answer to questions I had been waiting a long time to ask. My bitterness was a measure of my disappointment.
This reaction was unjust and foolish on my part. I should never have treated your resolution in this one instance as if it represented your last word on the boundaries of our friendship. I owed it to you to speak my intentions plainly rather than to anticipate you or to blame you. Instead, I shied away altogether and became very nearly a stranger. After losing one battle, I ceded the field and retired to nurse my resentment. And for what? You had done nothing except to overburden yourself in a compassionate cause.
Forgive me. I do not know if you understand what I have said, or what I mean to say. At this point we have waited out not only the war but our own tempers, and that, I think, is time enough lost. I have no intention of delaying the rest of this conversation for another year until His Majesty's service sees fit to release you back to London.
A week from Friday I am taking the ferry across to Calais. We shall make port at a quarter past ten. If you can obtain a day's pass, then by all means meet me there. If not, I shall take the first train to Rouen.
Let me take you by the hand, Watson, and say all that remains to be said.
À bientôt,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
May 17, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I have obtained a day pass and will meet you on the ferry dock at Calais on Friday morning. Your letter surprised me very much. I hardly know what to think or write, but I believe I understand what you have said and perhaps even what you mean to say. I hope – I trust – that we may find ourselves in sympathy.
Yesterday morning I finished Thucydides. The final line of the last page cuts off mid-sentence, as if the writer keeled over dead at his desk. That is the answer as to why you kept this book, is it not? You read it in college and decided to solve a two thousand year old murder, because you are an outrageous human being. I know I am right! In my mind's eye I see your young face shining with resolve and intrigue as clearly as if I had been sitting there beside you in the library.
Come and tell me the rest of your secrets, Holmes. Come and tell me everything.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
May 25, 1919
My dear John,
After we parted, the return passage over the Channel was smooth and untroubled. My train was delayed, but I arrived safely at Pall Mall last night, or rather, very early this morning. All is well.
I have told Mycroft. It has done more to lift his spirits than anything else since the armistice. He could not be more pleased.
He was surprised to hear that you sided firmly with me, and that we would not hear of resettling without him. It will be an odd household, but what household of ours has ever been anything less? We have another six months until you are decommissioned, and that should be time enough for him to wind down his last business in Whitehall. I will look for a house that can fit the three of us comfortably, if such a thing be possible.
Speaking of buying houses, I seem to remember some passage or other of Shakespeare on the subject. A mansion purchased but not yet possessed, sold but awaiting enjoyment – something in that vein? Poetry is more in your line than mine; you will probably recall the verse. We need another classical author to carry our conversations for us, do we not, now that Thucydides has reached his untimely end? Congratulations on your last deduction, by the way. You know me well. Regrettably, I cannot say my investigations into his demise have made much progress since my college days. My antiquarian interests are fickle, and I was waylaid by Phoenician tin and the polyphonic motets of Lassus. But we could surely use a shared hobby in our retirement. It might as well be researching ancient homicide, since I have given up hope that you will ever take an interest in the bees.
When the time comes I will make arrangements to transfer my hives to the new house. Do not bother to protest. If you feel that a garage where you can tinker away at your motorcar is necessary in counterbalance, I am open to negotiation.
Write often, my dear fellow. When the army lets you go, I will be here. The best lies yet ahead of us.
Yours ever,
Sherlock Holmes
********************
********************
Author’s Note on References: The ‘house buying’ passage of Shakespeare to which Holmes refers in his last letter is, in fact, Juliet’s speech in anticipation of her wedding night. Though he undoubtedly intended to direct Watson’s thoughts to the entirety of the poem, the verses he specifically paraphrases are:
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.
I borrowed a number of quotations from real historical letters. “You and I ought not to die without explaining ourselves to each other” is a line written from John Adams to Thomas Jefferson; “The chickens say hello” is, believe it or not, from a letter of Niccolo Machiavelli’s; “to know that I have slept rather than merely to suspect it” is in one of Seneca’s letters to Lucilius.
For the Thucydides quotations, I have drawn from Richard Crawley’s 1874 translation for the most part, but I did anachronistically excerpt some of Rex Warner’s 1954 translation when I felt that it significantly improved the clarity and readability of the passages.
Thank you for reading!
Recipient:
methylviolet10bAuthor: [redacted]
Rating: PG
Characters, including any pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, past John Watson/Mary Morstan, mentions of Mycroft Holmes and the Forrester family (from The Sign of Four)
Warnings: Discussion of depression and concern about the possibility of self-harm (no one is harmed in the course of the fic)
Length: 10,000 words
Summary: A correspondence between Holmes and Watson in the immediate aftermath of the Great War in which they discuss questions of history both public and personal.
Author’s note: Here are a few terms that might need defining: “Tommies” = British infantry soldiers; “CCS” = Casualty Clearing Station, the WWI version of field hospitals; “pozzy” = jam preserves.
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
January 2, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I mentioned in my last that I expected to be reassigned to one of the coastal transit camps. I am at this moment on the train. Once I reach Rouen, there's a mountain of exit exams waiting. All the Tommies need their papers done before they can be released back home across the Channel, so I'll be filling out a legion of health certificates. (Forgive me if my next letters become even more illegible and cramped!) I expect it will take another year for the army to fully demobilise, and we medical men will be among the last released.
Are you still staying with your brother in Pall Mall? I will address this letter there in hopes of finding you. I imagine that MI5 is shrinking back to peacetime levels more rapidly than the army itself, but of course I know little of the Bureau's inner workings. Perhaps by the time you receive this you will have already returned to your cottage. I like to picture you reading over these lines in your dusty parlour, scorching the soles of your slippers against the fireplace grate or looking out through frosted panes to the dormant hives.
I will make a confession to you. Many years ago, now, when I left Baker Street to return to my practice, I committed an accidental theft in the course of packing my books. One of yours found its way into my boxes, though it took me years to notice the mistake. I assumed it was an old relic of mine from some forgotten class: The History of the Peloponnesian War, by Thucydides. It looked stately enough on my shelf but seemed too serious and too Greek to tempt me into an evening's light reading. In a rare fit of reflection just before I left to rejoin the army, I finally cracked it open and was quite surprised to see your name scribbled across the flyleaf. It was an artefact of your university years, not mine, and my curiosity was piqued. I had never known you to save any of your schoolbooks, apart from a few scientific ones.
On the questionable reasoning that, not having missed it for a decade, you could spare it a while longer, I packed it in my rucksack. I half-formed a resolution to read it in the CCS and send you my running commentary. I wanted to be able to write you on subjects outside this current War, you see. But as soon as I reached Ypres I fell headfirst into the chaos, and I knew that anything I touched would be tainted with that time and place. I could not stand to soil your schoolbook with the godforsaken stench.
I kept it tucked away in my luggage from that day to this. I am not ashamed to tell you that over the years it has taken on the quality of a talisman. I promised myself many times that when the war was over, I would read it. I would discover why you had deemed it worth keeping. And then I would travel across the green, unsullied English countryside to your doorstep and place it in your hands.
The war is over, my dear Holmes. It is over, thank God, thank God. And today I am sitting on a train with a hundred other men, most younger and many braver but none more joyous, and taking up my pen to write to you. Your book is sitting open in my lap. Today I will begin to read.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
January 8, 1919
My dear Watson,
I was glad to receive your letter of the 2nd and hope this finds you as it leaves me, in good health of body and mind. Wishing you a very happy New Year; and may it end for all of us as peacefully as it's begun. You may continue to direct your correspondence to this address. I have no plans as yet for my return to Sussex and will inform you well in advance of any move.
I have taken the liberty of sending along a pair of gloves, a scarf, a hat, waterproof boots, and an afghan that can serve as either a shawl or blanket. I could append a joke here to make light of my concern, but I wish you to notice it. You are sixty-four and camping on a beach in France off the Channel in January. For the love of all that's holy, don't catch pneumonia.
I always knew that you had the makings of a cat burglar in you, my dear fellow, but I doubt you will find much of a market for my old school things, unless it be among ardent subscribers to The Strand. But by all means peruse the text from cover to cover, and I feel sure that you will pinpoint the reason I found that volume of lasting interest.
I am more grateful than I can say that so small a thing has been a source of comfort and hope to you. Your dreams of reunion once the war was over have not been dissimilar to mine. We both have a little more road to travel before we are released from duty, though, so let us forge ahead as best we can. I will look forward to hearing your opinions on our Greek historian, and as always I wish to be kept abreast of all the latest news with you.
From London I have little of interest to report. Work is slow, the papers are dull, Mycroft is ghastly, and the water pipe that runs inside the wall behind my bed has developed an intermittent drip. I have not seen the sun in living memory. I am dogged by the torments of hell and I miss my bees.
Nevertheless, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
January 15, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Firstly, I must apologise for having forgotten in my last to send you birthday greetings. I trust that Mycroft's inestimable cook was able to serve something special for the occasion. Many happy returns, my dear fellow. Your package arrived and all items were most gratefully received. The afghan in particular is remarkably warm and remarkably ugly and has already become something of a legend in my corner of the compound. I was asked yesterday whether it was made from the pelt of a cheetah, though in fairness I must assume that my interlocutor had never seen one.
The campgrounds here are an overcrowded mess, unsurprisingly. But the men are used to so much worse that there are few complaints. Most get away to the city as often as they can while they wait to be cleared for a boat. My days are full of milder and more routine work than has fallen to my lot in years. You would be surprised at the number of men who come in for their exams, chuckle when they hear my name, and attempt to tease by asking me where Mr. Holmes might be? For some reason they never expect that I am indeed that Dr. Watson.
When I tell them you are in London with your brother but writing regularly, I usually provoke a double-take followed by the most exuberant curiosity. A lad from Dorset has asked after your violin and hopes you might find opportunity to offer a concert to the veterans. A boy from New Zealand wishes you to know that he wore black crepe on his sleeve after you went over the waterfall. Two young artillerists have inquired whether you are secretly married to Ms. Adler. I know there is a part of you that recoils to hear all this, but could you see them, my dear Holmes, I believe they would do your heart good.
Yet still, so many are maimed. Deaf, or blind, or missing limbs. Others go blank behind their eyes or fall in fits as unpredictable as they are violent. It does not shock me anymore; or perhaps I should say, it does not shock me yet. For I suspect that I am slightly blank myself just now, internally. In a year I will probably experience a keener and more painful sympathy for these patients than I can today.
Enough of that. I have now to make my first report upon Thucydides. I can already tell that I will be progressing through the work at a snail's pace, since by the end of the day I run short of both energy and lamplight. I have fallen asleep in my tent a half dozen times with the book propped open on my chest. Fortunately, however, the first chapter, in which the author assesses what can be known of the Trojan War, has already revealed the attractions that must have drawn you to the work. I felt, while reading, that I had met your kindred spirit. Listen to him decry the popularity of poets and chroniclers, who go muddying the available facts with their romanticisms!
"So little pains do the vulgar take in the investigation of truth, accepting readily the first story that comes to hand. On the whole, however, the conclusions I have drawn from the proofs quoted may, I believe, safely be relied on. Assuredly they will not be disturbed either by the lays of a poet displaying the exaggeration of his craft, or by the compositions of the chroniclers that are attractive at truth's expense...Turning from these, we can rest satisfied with having proceeded upon the clearest data, and having arrived at conclusions as exact as can be expected in matters of such antiquity."
"….The absence of romance in my history will, I fear, detract somewhat from its interest; but if it be judged useful by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must resemble if it does not reflect it, I shall be content. In fine, I have written my work, not as an essay which is to win the applause of the moment, but as a possession for all time."
I adored this passage. The author's noble ambition and careful rationality demand admiration, but I am no less charmed by his casual snobbery. For the remainder of the book I shall be imagining Thucydides puffing anachronistically on your cherrywood pipe whilst lambasting 'The Iliad.'
But look! Although he echoes so perfectly your skepticism at my approach to dramatising the adventures we were privileged to share, I find tucked into this same passage an unexpected dash of vindication:
"With reference to the speeches in this history, some were delivered before the war began, others while it was going on; some I heard myself, others I got from various quarters; it was in all cases difficult to carry them word for word in one's memory, so my habit has been to make the speakers say what was in my opinion demanded of them by the various occasions, of course adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of what they really said."
This, my friend, is as succinct a summation and justification of my methods as any I could have made in my own defense. Our venerable author sides with me as well as with you. He does not feel that the human voices of his history need to be removed. Instead, he attempts to refashion them in ways that fit the narrative, while admitting that his facsimiles are more suggestive than exactly representative of reality. I do believe that the next time you begin to lecture me about the imprecision of my writings, I shall simply whisper "Thucydides" in your ear and have done.
Good grief, I began this letter two days ago. Someday I will learn to be concise. Until then, a rushed farewell so that it may go out with today's mail.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
January 24, 1919
My dear Watson,
Your fond remembrances of Mycroft's cook are endearing given that it must be fifteen years since you last tasted her fare. I passed along your compliments after receiving your last letter and have since been bombarded with gingerbread and jam and cakes that I am now obliged to send you. They will not keep, so eat what you can and share the rest. Bon appétit.
You may feel free to pass along my well-wishes to the admiring readers among your patients, though I shall not be regaling the veterans with concerts or with hidden wives anytime soon. In London more boys are coming home every day, and the streets and docks overflow with scenes of reunion. I did not like to mention it earlier, while the war was still on, but now I should inform you that the Lestrades lost young George last year at the Marne. Their other three sons have just come back to London, each having served at a different post during the war by their own request so as to reduce the chances that all would be lost together. I have made plans to take them to lunch at Marcini's at the end of the week, and will of course give them your best regards.
Ever since the armistice in November I have received a flood of inquiries from former clients who wish to be reassured that you are still with us. Mrs. Bloomberg, née Hunter, hopes you are well; Mr. Melas thanks you for your service; Lord Baskerville remembers you fondly and Mr. Phelps prays for your safe return. I have a dozen similar cards waiting for you upon the mantel.
I realise I have not found time yet to ask you about your own plans once the army sees fit to let you go. Do you intend to take up your rooms again in Queen Anne Street? I know that you may be contemplating starting up your medical practice again after your hiatus abroad. But I do think you should consider the likelihood that your writings will sell well enough to meet your needs, and of course those of Alice's family as well if necessary. By all observable evidence, fresh issues of your old novels and stories have made prodigious sales during the war. Barely a month goes by that I do not see them on display in some shop window.
Your first report on Thucydides was highly entertaining, though I am not prepared to rescind my long-standing critiques. I cannot applaud your literary flourishes simply because you have found another author who relied on similar artifice to paper over the gaps between facts. But I will be most happy to continue this argument when you come to the country to return my book at last. We shall sit in the garden among the bees, and you shall read to me aloud if you like. I have missed your voice, Watson.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
February 7, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Please forgive the delay in my correspondence, I was briefly laid up with a cold. Nothing serious, but I preferred to sleep through as much of the headache as possible and could not rouse myself either to read or write. Your package of foodstuffs, however, was heavenly comfort. Nectar and ambrosia. I hoarded a portion of its riches for myself, and the good Mrs. Burns now has reverent followers among the Royal Warwicks and the 55th Berkshires as well.
I am so sorry to hear of Lestrade's loss. My heart goes out to him and his good wife. I know that their other children will draw together all the more closely in remembrance and love. Their son's sacrifice will not be forgotten.
I am sorry to report that I have not made a great deal of further headway in my historical reading. But even so early in the account, I am struck by the eerie similarities between this ancient conflict and our contemporary politics. Thucydides recounts Sparta's public debate over whether to allow their allies and dependents, and the rebellious cities under Athens' empire, to draw them into a war. Their system of alliances, and above all their concern to maintain some effective counterweight against the growth and dominion of Athens, prompted them to adopt other cities' quarrels as their own. And so began a ruinous, protracted war. Did we not adopt the very same strategy with just as poor an idea of what the ultimate costs would be?
I'm glad that I have always been too intimidated to discuss politics with your brother. His insights into the real nature of empire, however wise and incisive, would probably destroy what tattered illusions I have managed to retain. I am too old and have seen too much sacrificed for our country to let go of what patriotism I have left.
Thank you for your inquiries about my homecoming plans. I don't expect to return to Queen Anne Street, as I do not mean to resuscitate my oft-neglected practice. I have finally seen my fill of injury and illness. Alice has not needed my assistance for some years now, and as you said, my writings will be enough to support me for the future. When I arrive back in England, then, I will come straight to you for our visit. We can read and argue to our hearts' content. As for your bees, they may continue to rely on my sincere, but cordial, antipathy.
When do you expect to remove yourself to Sussex? I am surprised you have resisted its siren call this long.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
February 13, 1919
My dear Watson,
I have not time for a proper reply today, but I cannot forbear asking what on earth my bees have ever done to you? Why this unprovoked hostility? Tell me the basis for your grievances, and let us see if you cannot be reconciled to these harmless creatures.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
February 17, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Ah, your poor maligned colonies! I'm amused at your assumption that some ancient feud must underlie my aversion to them. In my experience, it is hardly unusual for stinging creatures of any kind to be considered pests. As it happens, however, you are not wrong. I am neither a biologist nor a natural philosopher, and my feelings towards the birds and beasts depend on personal experience. Though never overfond of serpents, I did not develop a settled grudge against their kind until that sleepless night at Stoke Moran. Toward dogs my feelings have been so thoroughly chivvied from fondness to horror and back that I am approaching a point of perfect neutrality.
As for bees, I regret to inform you that I decided against them at the tender age of eleven. Harry and I were spending the summer in Wales in the tiny town of Llanuwchllyn, where my aunt and uncle then lived. They rented a farm which in hindsight was rather decrepit, but at the time it filled my city-bred soul with delight. My cousins and I insisted on carrying our dinners out into the clover for picnics as often as possible until we discovered that, in the eyes of the local bees, I possessed some intangible allure akin to a hothouse flower.
The wretched creatures crawled inside my shirts. They settled under my armpits, presumably where my scent was strongest, and stung me when I flailed. In the midst of eating, I would have to shut my mouth tight while one or another of them landed on my lips - mistaken for petals? - and walked back and forth in search of nectar. I was miserable, sore, and anxious, not to mention thoroughly teased by my brother and cousins, who were at the most merciless age for that sort of thing. After a week I refused to go outside with them anymore. There followed a dreary, indoor summer full of loneliness and acute embarrassment whenever the lads came up with another rhyme for my 'mouth of rose.' There are many, many words that rhyme with rose. I can laugh now at the poor, stung pride of my boyhood, but at the time my suffering was pitiably genuine.
In short, honey bees and I do not get on. Though I am grateful for the food and flowers that spring from their work, I much prefer to leave them to it and observe their industry from a great distance, if at all. However, for the sake of the happiness and interest they have given you, I am prepared to forgive them their old trespasses. We shall never be friends, but I trust they will find in me an unobjectionable acquaintance.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
February 24, 1919
My dear Watson,
You poor boy. Are not the wounds of childhood the most untouchable? I have from time to time regretted that we never met as boys, particularly since it seems your closest relatives were sorely in need of a drubbing. Though I was never a bulky child, I was quick and pitiless when fairness required a display of force. I would also happily have assisted you in authoring retributive poetry. Alas for the lost days of youth!
During the war I was not at liberty to tell you much about my work, but now that everything is finished, I can share this anecdote. One of my responsibilities was to invent ciphers for the Allies. I was asked whether I could recommend any other potential candidates who might have a talent for such projects and whose loyalty was beyond question. After brief reflection, I contacted Mrs. Elsie Cubitt, who is still living on her late husband's estate. From her girlhood she had made a game of inventing and cracking codes, and she still remembered dozens of systems unique to the underworld of nineteenth-century Chicago. Most of these ciphers were so antiquated that I doubt today's mafia would have been able to decode them, and certainly the Central Powers’ interpreters would find them entirely unfamiliar. And so it was that Mrs. Cubitt joined the intelligence services. She turned the codes that had been harbingers of crime and tragedy into the means for saving many lives.
I know this news will please you. Wishing you good health and happiness, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 2, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Forgive this short note, but I cannot sleep and my thoughts are circling. Best to air them.
I am concerned that you still have not said a word about returning to your cottage. I expected you to escape from your brother's oversight and shake the dust of London from your feet as soon as the war was over. I'm probably being foolish, but we in service have a pervasive suspicion that we are 'being spared' things. No one receives bad news from home, everything is just so much cheerful encouragement as long as we're away.
I wish to be spared nothing. Are you well? Is Mycroft?
Apologies for the interrogation, I only want to be sure that all is right. Please tell me what keeps you in London. If all is not right, I would like to help if I can.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
March 9, 1919
My dear Watson,
After a friendship of nearly forty years, I should no longer be surprised at your intuition, but I never get your limits. Thank you for your generous concern. I am perfectly well. My fears are for my brother.
During the whole of his career, he bent his mind to maintaining a balance of powers in Europe. He has always been a prodigy and there is no question that he worked wonders. Yet he was like an architect who raises vast cities atop old ruins without surveying the underlying faults. For the last four years he has watched sinkholes erupt; he has seen his life's work collapse and bury a whole generation in the rubble. The scope of the disaster is nearly incomprehensible, though to his extraordinary perception it reveals itself with agonizing clarity.
He holds himself responsible, and the miserable truth is that he probably is so, to the degree that any individual can be.
He brought me to share his rooms here in London at the start of the war as a mercy, so that I would not run myself ragged with worry over you. He meant his company to be an irritant and a distraction, both of which I sorely needed. Instead, I have watched guilt and futility wear him nearly to pieces. He breaks my heart. Were you to pass him on the street, I would lay even odds you would not recognise him, so extremely is he changed. He has the look of a dying oak; towering, serene, but hollowed through.
That is why I have lingered here in London, and I am determined to stay until I can convince him to retire with me to the country. I'll sell my cottage and purchase a larger house. We must allow time the chance to heal what wounds it can, for him, and you, and all those who survived. I cannot leave him alone anymore.
There is none but you, Watson, to whom I would have confided half as much. I know that you will not misunderstand him and could never despise him. You will help, and between us I believe we will see him through.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 14, 1919
My dear Holmes,
Thank you for sharing this confidence with me. I'm deeply sorry to hear of your brother's distress. Of course his reaction is understandable, for he has always been an utterly decent man and no one could expect him to view the wages of this war with indifference. But to take the guilt of it all on his own shoulders is a distortion of both justice and truth. Grief is treacherous, and the reproaches it whispers cannot be trusted. In his more rational moments he will be able to grasp that. But we must take care not to permit him to isolate himself when he is not thinking entirely clearly. His safety is paramount, of course, and you are right not to leave him. At the same time, we cannot judge how best to respond until he is able to tell us more clearly what state he is in and what his intentions are.
I have taken the liberty of writing a few words of encouragement to him which I send by the same mail as this letter. I have said nothing indiscreet, and I trust that my respect for him will be clear enough that he will feel at liberty to accept or to set aside my words as he thinks best.
My best wishes are with you both, as always.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
March 25, 1919
My dear Watson,
I will admit to deep misgivings when I saw that you had sent my brother a letter. I was considering pre-emptively throwing it in the fire but had no opportunity to do so unobserved. Mycroft had never authorised me to discuss his situation with anyone, and I feared that he would feel offended, or worse, betrayed. Thankfully, his true reaction has been quite the opposite.
I do not know what you said to him, but whatever it was, God bless you. He has been more himself these last few days than I have seen in months. This evening he paused on his way to bed, standing just out of sight behind my armchair, and gave me his solemn word that he would take no drastic action. He said he would never do anything to grieve me, and that he hated to see me kept in constant fear of accident.
I had never had the courage to ask whether he felt tempted to injure himself. To receive such reassurance was a profound gift. I think the unspoken tension in these apartments has been drawn taught for so long that this sudden relaxation has left us both unbalanced. I, at least, am reeling with relief. I can read in him a renewed determination not to dwell so constantly upon the past. I am not so foolish as to imagine that his peace of mind is a matter of choice alone, or that it can be restored through simple good intentions. He will probably continue to struggle against despair for the rest of his life. But at least he is struggling, now, rather than staring numb at the account of his sins. He has my support and yours, and he knows it.
Thank you, Watson, for finding the words to reach him. It is such a weight off my mind to feel that I can rest without the risk that harm will befall him in my moments of inattention.
Tomorrow, I will rise in the morning knowing that I have slept rather than merely suspecting it. That is progress indeed.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
March 29, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that your brother's spirits are somewhat improved and that you have been able to reassure each other. I know that I risked overstepping my bounds, for which I apologise. I hoped that he would not blame me, or you, for reaching out to offer help.
I well remember how long we struggled to communicate on certain matters, like the cocaine, that used to drive me mad with worry. I believe a great deal of the trouble was that we were simply too close to one another and to the situation. Distance is sometimes useful for opening up a delicate conversation. At that time, I was too reticent to make an honest start at addressing the danger you were courting. I held my tongue for years. Now, in the aftermath of immense battles, I am faced every day with incurable suffering. Therefore to that suffering that can be eased, I no longer hesitate to apply myself.
Be assured of my love and support, my dear fellow. You are right that your brother, and all who care for him, will not have an easy road ahead. The depression of his spirits and the loss of his sense of purpose are wounds that must be touched on lightly but monitored steadily during the years to come. I know you are committed to tending and encouraging him, while also respecting his independence, as am I. He is a brave and brilliant man, of steadier temper than either of us, and I believe that he will find his way.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
April 4, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I hope you will not mind if I take the opportunity to write again without waiting for my proper turn. I have been meaning to return to our discussion of Thucydides. Both as a medical man and as a veteran of war and illness, I was riveted by his descriptions of the plague that struck Athens while its population was beseiged within the city walls. He described the symptoms, the onset, and the progress of the illness so clearly and with such clinical detachment. I was astounded at his casual mention that the source of his wealth of evidence had been his own suffering. Regarding the fatal distemper, he writes, "All speculation as to its origin and its causes, if causes can be found adequate to produce so great a disturbance, I leave to other writers, whether lay or professional; for myself, I shall simply set down its nature, and explain the symptoms by which perhaps it may be recognized by the student, if it should ever break out again. This I can the better do, as I had the disease myself, and watched its operation in the case of others." To speak so coolly of such trauma; is not the man's stoicism remarkable?
Of course the medical history that he lays out is both sobering and invaluable, and I have never been more grateful that this hideous contagion appears to have gone extinct long before our time. While one cannot be certain whether this plague was the same Black Death that decimated large swathes of medieval Europe before the end of its long reign, it seems likely. More wrenching still are Thucydides' descriptions of the social consequences of the outbreak, as people became too terrified to nurse the sick. So virulent was the disease and so irresistible its transmission, the charitable and the humane who dared to perform their duties of care were the first struck down. In the end, many of those ill were abandoned to die at the first sign of weakness.
All this has brought vividly to mind my own brush with death and disease in my youth. I suffered nothing so terrible as the horrors described in this history, but I came near enough to facing my end nonetheless. The enteric fever struck me in the aftermath of desperate military defeat. It is frankly incredible that I was not left behind during the chaotic retreat when I was first wounded, and equally amazing that I was nursed through my illness so skillfully when resources and medicine were so scarce. I cannot but feel that I have been extraordinarily fortunate to find myself in the hands of such selfless and competent medics. Murray was my friend, though that does not in the least diminish his heroism, but so many of the others who saved my life were perfect strangers.
And then, of course, I returned to England. I was in a precarious state by any measure, but at the same time so astonished to be alive that I felt invincible. The worst had already happened, and I told myself that the time for worries was past. My concern for the future was temporarily exhausted. Although I have no doubt that real necessity would have broken through my haze soon enough, a cloudy tincture not unlike intoxication colours my memories of those days. In London there were surely hundreds who would have readily taken advantage of my carelessness, and thousands more who would merely have remained indifferent.
Is it not astonishing, my dear Holmes, to think that I passed by all those hundreds or thousands who would have brought me to grief and walked into a room with you in it? I tell you, it was the most unlikely thing that has ever happened to me in a life full to bursting with improbable mysteries.
I can only conclude that I was born under a lucky star. For so much good fortune to befall me purely by chance defies belief.
Moving now from the sublime to the ridiculous: our camp is lately overrun with poultry. Every army represents a hoard of cheerfully amoral foragers, and ours have set their sights on the poulet of Rouen. I don't know who started the fad, but every young infantryman nowadays keeps a hen roosting at his tent. Some are quickly sacrificed to make a roast dinner, but most are kept to provide eggs that supplement the skimpy rations of biscuits and pozzy.
From daybreak to nightfall I am immersed in a restless, dun-coloured, clucking sea. This is why I could never have been a farmer, Holmes. I cannot live among barnyard animals for any length of time without feeling that my brain is dribbling out my ears. Give London my best, I miss it terribly just now. The chickens say hello.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
April 14, 1919
My dear Watson,
The astounding luck of our first meeting was far more on my side than yours. I cannot think what my life would have been had you not walked into that laboratory in search of cheap lodgings. It is one of the events on which I base whatever hope I have in providence.
In those early days, you never spoke of your hardships or the gauntlet you had run before we met. It was not until we had lived together for years that I began to understand the complexity of your feelings toward the army. You will remember, of course, the long siege of Khartoum in 1884, when every day the papers called on our leaders to send relief for General Gordon. The thought of the man stranding himself there, nobly – but perhaps foolishly – determined to hold out despite his orders and against all odds, affected you powerfully. Your heart was alive to the romance and heroism of his gesture, and yet you remembered too well the horrors of needless violence and sudden defeat. I lost count of the sleepless nights you waited through. And then, of course, when the government finally ceded to public pressure and sent reinforcements, they arrived two days too late. After holding out a year, Gordon was slaughtered almost within sight of rescue. The pointlessness of it all seemed unbearable.
I told you, did I not, that I visited Khartoum during my years away? I walked up the steps where Gordon was struck down, and saw the stain of his blood. It was kept on display there as both a tribute and a warning. I will never forget the strange mixture of warmth and foreboding that I felt, standing on that fatal stone half a world away and thinking of you.
I am not sure there is any clear moral to draw from these memories, but they have been on my mind since I read your last letter. Turning to more practical matters, the fact that you have been forced to entangle yourself with the local French fowl in order to supplement your rations seems a clear sign that I have gone too long between care packages. In consultation with Mrs. Burns, I am gathering as much meat and fresh veg as can be found. It should arrive with the next mail. Best of luck with the birds in the meantime.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
April 20, 1919
My dear Holmes,
You and Mrs. Burns are, between you, a culinary godsend. I feel spoiled rotten, and unrepentantly so. Thank you for all your generosity. I am glad, as well, to have had another glimpse of your travels all those years ago. It is strangely comforting to know that you thought of me in such a moment.
I have been reading through our venerable author's harrowing descriptions of the civil wars in Corcyra. He condemns the breakdowns of civil order and individual morality that spread across Greece when war suspended the laws. Into the social vacuum rushed the worst of human vices, as private citizens and fanatical parties used the cover of the larger conflict to commit venal atrocities in greed or personal vengeance. They murdered their neighbours for money and claimed they acted out of patriotism. They made false political accusations in order to satisfy old grudges and harnessed the power of paranoid leaders to wipe out their enemies and competitors.
"In the various cities," he writes, "these revolutions were the cause of many calamities -- as happens and always will happen while human nature is what it is, though there may be different degrees of savagery, and, as different circumstances arise, the general rules will admit of some variety. In times of peace and prosperity cities and individuals alike follow higher standards, because they are not forced into a situation where they have to do what they do not want to do. But war is a stern teacher; in depriving them of the power of easily satisfying their daily wants, it brings most people's minds down to the level of their actual circumstances."
"….With the ordinary conventions of civilized life thrown into confusion, human nature, always ready to offend even where laws exist, showed itself proudly in its true colours, as something incapable of controlling passion, insubordinate to the idea of justice, the enemy to anything superior to itself; for, if it had not been for the pernicious power of envy, men would not so have exulted vengeance above innocence and profit above justice. Indeed, it is true that in these acts of revenge on others men take it upon themselves to begin the process of repealing those general laws of humanity which are there to give a hope of salvation to all who are in distress, instead of leaving those laws in existence, remembering that there may come a time when they, too, will be in danger and will need their protection."
Though this passage was written four hundred years before the birth of Christ, to me it seems as if it could have been written yesterday. I do not believe, and never have believed, that human beings are inherently wicked. But when you combine desperate circumstances with the collapse of common standards and public restraints, is it any wonder that a radical and dangerous selfishness can spread like any other disease? This current War has stretched so far, lasted so long, and affected so many. What laws of humanity have we left standing? What weapons have we hesitated to invent or to turn on each other? What has happened in the towns and cities too close to the armies? What of the women and children who lived far from the front but were nevertheless showered with shells and bombs thanks to the modern miracles of flight?
I tell you, my dear Holmes, I am afraid even to contemplate what the next war will look like, given the extent to which our militaries have abandoned restraint. And yet, to hope that there will be no more wars beyond this one seems hopelessly naïve. I suppose all that I have left to desire is that I will be safe in my grave before I need witness any more.
And yet, for all that, Thucydides tells only one side of the story. For heroism is still possible in extremis, and I have been privileged to see it many times. For I have spent much of my life standing next to you, Holmes. You have defended innocence and justice, not merely in the abstract but in the lives of individuals. Danger and violence have never stood in your way. Call 'human nature' whatever names you like, but there will always be those who embody its nobler facets.
Perhaps someday the long march of civilization will arrive at the possibility for peace in some more lasting form than we have yet achieved. Self-preservation, at least, may counsel even the strongest nations to embrace discretion as the better part of valour. Let us hope.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
April 30, 1919
My dear Watson,
When I look to the future, I must admit I am as apprehensive as you are about the fate of nations. The chief conundrum, to my mind, is knowledge itself and the rapid advancement of human invention. One thing that it has proved impossible to impress upon the military is that they should never invent a weapon they are not prepared to see turned quickly against their own men. It takes large investments of money, time, education, research, individual effort, and trial-and-error to create a new breakthrough in the machinery or chemicals of war. It requires far less investment to steal or simply reconstruct knowledge of such an invention once achieved.
Information, once discovered, will spread. That is its nature. What was I doing throughout the war in MI5 but struggling to delay the transmission of our country's secrets long enough to allow our troops to reap even the slightest advantage before our advancements were copied and turned against us? The modern age is the age of information, and in such a milieu the army that moves farthest ahead does little except to advance the whole field of violence to new heights.
We have been too incautious, too frantic in our calculations. Even before the war, how many times did you and I see the price that unscrupulous men were willing to pay for the smallest scraps of strategic advantage? Remember the Bruce-Partington submarine – it seems quaint now to think how we convinced ourselves the fate of nations rested on some double-valved slot or other. See how quickly it became obsolete, how little the death of a good citizen bought in terms of real benefit to his country. Then multiply that small tragedy a thousandfold, and you have a picture of the recent war. Our leaders, our allies, and our enemies all made it their business to release every genie out of every bottle they could reach without reference to conscience or thought for long-term consequence. Now the world will have to live with what we have set loose.
In these dark times, my friend, my greatest comfort is to have you still alive and near me. Let us commend the human race to what safety can be salvaged and hope that providence, self-interest, or conscience will put some stopper in these poisons. We have seen enough death. Let us be utopian for once, in our old age, and curse the idea of the next war into oblivion.
Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
May 9, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I have nerved myself at last to write you a difficult letter.
Our correspondence is four years old and more now. Yet in all the hundreds of messages we have exchanged, we never spoke of our estrangement. The War was all-consuming, and I relied on the bright thread of your affections far too much to risk stirring up old quarrels, especially since I am not sure where all our hidden minefields lie. And yet, each time I signed my name at the end of another letter, I told myself that I should try. That I should speak before it was too late and offer the apology that I now realise you deserve. I do not pretend to fully comprehend your feelings, even now, and the bitterness of our old separation still confounds me as much as it ever did. Yet you were the one who reached out first to heal the breach, when you called on me to help you in the case of your German spy. You stood next to me on a bridge at sunset and told me that war was coming, and such a war as England had never seen.
Now that we have faced that cruel east wind and all its storms at last, and have come out the other side and caught our breaths, what say you? Shall we venture once more into the ring and grapple with our old failings, this time with clearer eyes and calmer heads? You and I ought not to die without explaining ourselves to each other.
Regarding the causes of our quarrel: I have always known that, whatever else you resented, it was never the children. You are the soul of generosity to those in need, and the Forrester girls were as close as daughters to my Mary, and thus to me. It was the Baring panic of '91 that stole their family's wealth and home, but they never breathed a word of it during Mary's illness for fear of disturbing her. At her funeral they said nothing to me of their hardship, though I remember holding their hands in church as the girls wept for Mary like a lost mother. We were not closely in touch during the '90s, but what letters I received from them at Christmas and upon the anniversaries of Mary's passing were sweetness itself. I had no notion how desperately they were struggling, nor did they intend that I should.
At the time of my marriage, did you guess – or rather, did you ever deduce – that I did not particularly want children? Or that I had told Mary so, before we wed? I had no natural instinct or inclination toward fatherhood, and I was loathe to swear off my adventures with you entirely, as I knew I would have to do were I to become the sole support of a growing household. I expected to shock her and was prepared to yield to her wishes rather than lose her hand, but she was perfectly accepting.
She told me that Alice and Diana Forrester were charges enough for any woman to raise and were dear to her as her own flesh and blood. Although it was unorthodox, she wished to continue to work as their governess even after our marriage. She, too, was prepared to yield to my wishes, but the thought of letting those girls go – of becoming a mere spectator to their lives after holding a place in the bosom of their family for years – oppressed her. In this, as in so many ways, we found ourselves well-suited. We trusted in the strength of our marriage and continued to work where our hearts called us, even though it meant sacrifices of money and time. I never held her back from the Forresters any more than she held me back from you. The family we made together was an elective and extended one, and you were all a part of it.
It was with mingled guilt and horror, then, that I finally learned of the girls' straits at the end of 1902. Alice came to me because she hoped I would be willing to treat her poor husband without charge. By that time, as you know, his cancer was inoperable. Diana had long since left for America, and Alice had no hope of supporting little Mary and Billy alone after her husband passed. I blamed myself for remaining ignorant and neglectful of their circumstances for so long. More than that, I felt that fate was directing me to take up the responsibilities that I had balked at in my youth. It was in this mindset that I made my resolutions.
With the best of intentions, I returned to my medical practice and my writing to support Alice and her children. I considered her claim on me to be very nearly that of a daughter, and I believed myself the only fitting person to assume responsibility. I well remember how vehemently you argued against the necessity of my departure from Baker Street. You had money enough to spare and were prepared to donate as much to them as I would be able to earn. Together we could keep the young family as far from want as they could wish. What need was there for me to leave and assume all their debts on my own?
At the time your offer seemed both noble and profoundly kind, but I felt honour-bound to refuse it. You had no tie or obligation at all to the poor girl or her children. How on earth could you be expected to pour out so much of your income on their behalf? I was bound to them through Mary. The duty was mine, and to turn it over into the hands of another gentleman seemed wrong; very nearly improper. So I held stubbornly to my resolve, believing that I was doing right and that the sacrifice was mine to make.
I did not expect to lose your friendship over it. The depth of your anger took me by surprise, and to this day you have never fully exposed its roots. But although the years that have passed since our falling-out have done little to render your side of this story transparent, they have taught me to see the error of my own ways. In my pride, I made everything harder than it had to be. I took it upon myself to deny the Forresters the benefit of your charity, which I had no right to do. In my determination to lift their burdens on my own, I wronged them.
And I wronged you.
I wronged you just as much as I would have wronged Mary by renouncing her, as I intended to do, had she inherited the Agra jewels. I should have learned long ago that money is far too petty a concern to justify abandonment. Money is not worth the smallest sacrifice of feeling nor the loss of an hour's companionship. Looking back, I am horrified at the extent to which I allowed it to rule me and to dictate my ideas of honour. I have been a slave to propriety to a degree that has been truly hurtful. Not only to myself, which I could bear, but to those I love best, which is intolerable.
If I could give you back those years between the last Jubilee and the War, there are so many things that I would change. I would accept your generous offer, and together we could support the happiness of that young family without diminishing our own. I would stay in Baker Street. We would work until you were ready to meet retirement as a reward rather than a retreat. We would move to Sussex. You would find me marginally wiser, and less stiff-necked, and infinitely happier.
I know it is only a dream. But I wanted to tell you.
You will be pleased to hear that, in spite of it all, Alice's family is doing very well. In the end, they only needed my assistance for a handful of years. By 1907, her sister Diana had established herself as headmistress of a private school in Illinois and was able to invite all the remaining family to join her. Alice teaches mathematics, and her children are now quite grown. Her boy, Billy, will be twenty-one this year. America entered the War so late, you know, that he was never drafted.
Here we are then, my dear Holmes. My past foolishness has undoubtedly done damage, but I hope none permanent. Happy endings and second chances have been allotted us despite ourselves. In hopes that you will find it in your heart to forgive both the old pride and the fresh sentiment touched upon in this letter, I remain,
Very sincerely yours,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
May 13, 1919
My dear Watson,
I cannot answer your last with the length and honesty it deserves, for the heart of the matter between us should be discussed in person rather than in print. But I could not let your message go unanswered. Your apology is most heartily accepted. Please be assured that I likewise regret my past behaviour and sincerely beg your pardon.
At the time I was shaken to find you so determined to leave and so resistant to every argument I could make to change your mind. Suffice it to say, I once thought to share more with you than my pocket-book. To be so soundly rejected in this matter, for the sake of what seemed to me a narrow view of respectability, dashed my hopes. In your actions, I read the answer to questions I had been waiting a long time to ask. My bitterness was a measure of my disappointment.
This reaction was unjust and foolish on my part. I should never have treated your resolution in this one instance as if it represented your last word on the boundaries of our friendship. I owed it to you to speak my intentions plainly rather than to anticipate you or to blame you. Instead, I shied away altogether and became very nearly a stranger. After losing one battle, I ceded the field and retired to nurse my resentment. And for what? You had done nothing except to overburden yourself in a compassionate cause.
Forgive me. I do not know if you understand what I have said, or what I mean to say. At this point we have waited out not only the war but our own tempers, and that, I think, is time enough lost. I have no intention of delaying the rest of this conversation for another year until His Majesty's service sees fit to release you back to London.
A week from Friday I am taking the ferry across to Calais. We shall make port at a quarter past ten. If you can obtain a day's pass, then by all means meet me there. If not, I shall take the first train to Rouen.
Let me take you by the hand, Watson, and say all that remains to be said.
À bientôt,
Sherlock Holmes
D British Infantry Depot
Rouen, France
May 17, 1919
My dear Holmes,
I have obtained a day pass and will meet you on the ferry dock at Calais on Friday morning. Your letter surprised me very much. I hardly know what to think or write, but I believe I understand what you have said and perhaps even what you mean to say. I hope – I trust – that we may find ourselves in sympathy.
Yesterday morning I finished Thucydides. The final line of the last page cuts off mid-sentence, as if the writer keeled over dead at his desk. That is the answer as to why you kept this book, is it not? You read it in college and decided to solve a two thousand year old murder, because you are an outrageous human being. I know I am right! In my mind's eye I see your young face shining with resolve and intrigue as clearly as if I had been sitting there beside you in the library.
Come and tell me the rest of your secrets, Holmes. Come and tell me everything.
With warmest regards,
J.H. Watson
8 Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, London SW
May 25, 1919
My dear John,
After we parted, the return passage over the Channel was smooth and untroubled. My train was delayed, but I arrived safely at Pall Mall last night, or rather, very early this morning. All is well.
I have told Mycroft. It has done more to lift his spirits than anything else since the armistice. He could not be more pleased.
He was surprised to hear that you sided firmly with me, and that we would not hear of resettling without him. It will be an odd household, but what household of ours has ever been anything less? We have another six months until you are decommissioned, and that should be time enough for him to wind down his last business in Whitehall. I will look for a house that can fit the three of us comfortably, if such a thing be possible.
Speaking of buying houses, I seem to remember some passage or other of Shakespeare on the subject. A mansion purchased but not yet possessed, sold but awaiting enjoyment – something in that vein? Poetry is more in your line than mine; you will probably recall the verse. We need another classical author to carry our conversations for us, do we not, now that Thucydides has reached his untimely end? Congratulations on your last deduction, by the way. You know me well. Regrettably, I cannot say my investigations into his demise have made much progress since my college days. My antiquarian interests are fickle, and I was waylaid by Phoenician tin and the polyphonic motets of Lassus. But we could surely use a shared hobby in our retirement. It might as well be researching ancient homicide, since I have given up hope that you will ever take an interest in the bees.
When the time comes I will make arrangements to transfer my hives to the new house. Do not bother to protest. If you feel that a garage where you can tinker away at your motorcar is necessary in counterbalance, I am open to negotiation.
Write often, my dear fellow. When the army lets you go, I will be here. The best lies yet ahead of us.
Yours ever,
Sherlock Holmes
********************
********************
Author’s Note on References: The ‘house buying’ passage of Shakespeare to which Holmes refers in his last letter is, in fact, Juliet’s speech in anticipation of her wedding night. Though he undoubtedly intended to direct Watson’s thoughts to the entirety of the poem, the verses he specifically paraphrases are:
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them.
I borrowed a number of quotations from real historical letters. “You and I ought not to die without explaining ourselves to each other” is a line written from John Adams to Thomas Jefferson; “The chickens say hello” is, believe it or not, from a letter of Niccolo Machiavelli’s; “to know that I have slept rather than merely to suspect it” is in one of Seneca’s letters to Lucilius.
For the Thucydides quotations, I have drawn from Richard Crawley’s 1874 translation for the most part, but I did anachronistically excerpt some of Rex Warner’s 1954 translation when I felt that it significantly improved the clarity and readability of the passages.
Thank you for reading!
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Date: 2017-10-26 03:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-01 12:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-26 04:25 am (UTC)Mere words are not adequate to thank you for this treasure you've given me. From its structure - I adore epistolary tales! - to its meticulous research and layered historical references (I adore history, and the way you layered one historical account of ancient battles on top of another layer of WWI warfare, and then deftly wove in its relevancy to today's events is ASTOUNDING and AMAZING) - to its nods to characters throughout canon (Lestrade! Elsie Cubitt! Lord Baskerville! and MYCROFT!!!! Oh, Mycroft. Oh oh oh.)...WOW. Simply WOW, and AWE, and blissful enjoyment from beginning to end.
Really, this couldn't be more perfect. Beautifully written. An original and plausible take on the separation and the war. Impeccably paced. Touching and funny in turns, with sly nuggets of wit. Generous doses of compassion throughout, with the deep love, friendship, caring, and determination shining through every word between the correspondents - and a wonderful and well-earned resolution. Honestly, I'm gobsmacked. (And did I mention your fantastic vocabulary?)
Thank you so much for this fantastic care package of a fic, packed so full of wonderful things. It couldn't have come a better time, and I am deeply grateful. I look forward to thanking you 'in person' at the reveal.
Very truly yours,
Violet
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Date: 2017-11-01 01:32 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for such an amazing and wonderful comment, I can't tell you how delighted I was to read it! I'm so happy that you liked the story. I was very excited when I was matched with you for this exchange, because I love your writing, and I'm also so grateful for all the fantastic things that you do for this fandom. From this ACD Holmesfest to the JWP and Wadvent celebrations at watsons_woes, your generosity and your choice to make time to put together these community events for all of us - well, your kindness has given me many years of creativity and joy. I was really hoping that I could say thank you with a gift that you would enjoy, and I'm so glad that it struck a chord with you.
I enjoy history, too (it's what I studied in school), and Thucydides made quite an impression on me in my own college days. I still had my annotated copy on the shelf, with my favorite passages highlighted, so it was a lot of fun to revisit them and think about how I could wind them into discussions that would give us windows into Holmes and Watson's relationship. Romance, for me, works best when both parties have plenty of other things to talk about or to do, so that their depth of feeling gets to infuse their interactions without often being itself the focal point. I do love getting little glimpses of more minor canon characters and learning how they are doing. And once I decided on the WWI setting it occurred to me that, though many lovely fics deal with the war's effects on Watson and Holmes, I had never read one that addressed what it would have done to Mycroft. I was excited to get to explore that.
This particular explanation for Holmes and Watson's estrangement and separation is a bit of headcanon I've been nursing for a while, so it was lovely to have the chance to develop it here. It allows Watson to desert Holmes for a wife, but not his wife (take that, canon line that left me miniscule wiggle room!). It allowed me to tackle Watson's ideas about money and honor, which are so striking and troubling in The Sign of Four. It lets me imagine a version of the Watson/Mary marriage in which her many absences are signs, not of unhappiness or neglect, but of the value they both place on her continuing work and their decision not to give up, either of them, the relationships and callings that were most important to them as individuals before their marriage. And of course, it gives Holmes and Watson a chance for the loving and happy retirement they deserve to share together without needing to dispose of another wife to get to that point.
This was my first attempt at epistolary fic, and I loved writing it. The pacing turned out to be the hardest part, so I'm particularly happy that you noticed it and thought it worked out well. I'm afraid I was in such a rush at the end that I didn't have a chance to ask a beta to look over the work, and as a result there are some mistakes that I will be happy to correct once I put the story up on AO3. Most embarrassingly, I took the list of Normandy's WWI coastal transit camps and managed to pick one of the only cities among them - Rouen - that was not actually on the coast! It sits on the shore of the Seine and sent its soldiers down the river to the Channel. *facepalm* So on AO3 I will probably exchange Rouen for Le Havre. My blushes, Watson!
Thank you again for your wonderful comment, I'm so glad you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I could listen to these two characters talk forever :)
All best wishes,
Rachel
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Date: 2017-10-26 05:40 am (UTC)It is such a powerful work you have made. There is talented artistry in its construction and language, and such beauty in its heart. When you are revealed, Author, I look forward to reading your back catalog. What a wonder it must be.
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Date: 2017-11-01 02:00 pm (UTC)I'm especially happy that the storyline about Mycroft resonated with you - he's a character dear to my heart. And yes, it is lovely to see Holmes and Watson at their best, being compassionate to him, and to each other, and eventually even to themselves. Being honest about the past and letting old regrets go, and most importantly finding hope again in their future together.
Thanks again for your wonderful comment. This was my first epistolary fic and I was nervous about how it would come across to readers. Your kind words had me floating on air. Thank you.
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Date: 2017-10-26 07:30 am (UTC)Highly perceptive to deduce that the focus of Mycroft's great brainwork would be torn asunder by the War that shattered that empire, leaving the poor man to suffer his own version of shell-shock.
With Watson's arrangement with the Forrester girls as foreshadowing, he once again sets out to conjure a family from the people around him, and start a new life in Sussex with the man he loves and his brother.
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:04 pm (UTC)Thank you so much for pointing out that parallel between the informal extended family John built with Mary and the one he, Sherlock, and Mycroft create here. I hadn’t consciously thought about those two storylines bookending each other, but they do. Just as the Forrester girls will always be in some sense the children Watson and Mary never had, I think that Mycroft will be a brother to Watson as well as Sherlock. And perhaps, by supporting and caring for Mycroft, Watson might even be able to put to rest his lingering regrets about Harry’s death, and have a second chance to avert that kind of tragedy.
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Date: 2017-10-26 01:05 pm (UTC)Thank you for creating this!
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-27 05:26 am (UTC)Thucydides is, alas, a closed book to me; but I knew Llanuwchllyn quite well as a child, and have a very clear picture of the particular field in which young John's distaste for bees might have begun (a distaste which I don't share; I kept bees myself for several years!)
And finally I have to say that this the easiest-to-read epistolary story that I've ever come across. Not a form I can generally get into, but this one worked so well for me.
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:22 pm (UTC)You’ve made me so happy by telling me about that field in Llanuwchllyn, what a wonderful thing! I have never visited there, but I’ve seen photographs online. There are even some remarkable photographs that have been found of what the town looked like in the 1860s, when Watson would have been a child.
Ha ha, I must confess that Watson’s uncomfortable encounters with the bees were quite autobiographical on my part! There must be something about my scent or body chemistry that attracts them. The only time I’ve been stung, as a child, was when a bumblebee crawled inside my shirt and under my arm, presumably tracking a scent. I also gave up on eating my lunches outside after the persistent circling of the bees escalated when one of them landed on my lips and searched around diligently for nectar. I have a similar effect on other insects, unfortunately. Once when my brother and I came in from playing together outside we compared our mosquito bites – he had three or four; I had more than twenty! So maybe it’s not surprising that I spent a lot of my childhood indoors reading things like the Sherlock Holmes stories! :)
Thanks again for your kind words, I’m really glad you had fun reading this.
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Date: 2017-10-27 04:31 pm (UTC)I loved that you have Mrs. Elsie Cubitt joining the intelligence services and working with ciphers. And it’s almost a minor part of the story but Mary having continued on as a governess is such an original idea. I mean, Mary marries and she doesn’t concentrate on running her husband’s household, she doesn’t join her husband in his work helping Holmes - she carries on with her own work. And even though being a governess is low paid and has low social status, Mary sees the worth in the work itself. More than that - it’s the children she sees the worth in.
And it’s all so moving - an older and wiser Watson reflecting on money and honour, he and Holmes talking about how lucky they were to meet each other, Watson being able to help Mycroft, and a brighter future awaiting the three of them. You engage the heart, you engage the head and it’s all just beautifully written.
I’ll just pick out a few parts that particularly struck me:
The author's noble ambition and careful rationality demand admiration, but I am no less charmed by his casual snobbery. For the remainder of the book I shall be imagining Thucydides puffing anachronistically on your cherrywood pipe whilst lambasting 'The Iliad.'
I do believe that the next time you begin to lecture me about the imprecision of my writings, I shall simply whisper "Thucydides" in your ear and have done.
I'm glad that I have always been too intimidated to discuss politics with your brother. His insights into the real nature of empire, however wise and incisive, would probably destroy what tattered illusions I have managed to retain. I am too old and have seen too much sacrificed for our country to let go of what patriotism I have left.
Yet he was like an architect who raises vast cities atop old ruins without surveying the underlying faults. For the last four years he has watched sinkholes erupt; he has seen his life's work collapse and bury a whole generation in the rubble. The scope of the disaster is nearly incomprehensible, though to his extraordinary perception it reveals itself with agonizing clarity. He holds himself responsible, and the miserable truth is that he probably is so, to the degree that any individual can be… He has the look of a dying oak; towering, serene, but hollowed through.
And yet, for all that, Thucydides tells only one side of the story. For heroism is still possible in extremis, and I have been privileged to see it many times. For I have spent much of my life standing next to you, Holmes. You have defended innocence and justice, not merely in the abstract but in the lives of individuals. Danger and violence have never stood in your way. Call 'human nature' whatever names you like, but there will always be those who embody its nobler facets.
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:24 pm (UTC)I’m so glad that you liked the small mention of Mrs. Cubitt, I always want to imagine something good happening to her to cheer myself up after the tragic ending of “Dancing Men.” And yes, to me the idea that Mary continued on with her teaching, both because the work suited her and because she loved the children and was like a second mother to them, adds a nice layer into the Watson’s marriage. To me, it is a comforting explanation of why she was so often away, and also why they decided not to have children of their own. It also cements her character in my mind as a woman with a tendency toward the same quiet unorthodoxy I often sense in Watson – they both seem far more conventional on the surface than they really were underneath. Both, I think, were willing to go without the traditional milestones of success (for Watson professional success and wealth; for Mary motherhood and domesticity) in order to live their lives in ways they found more meaningful.
I loved seeing the quotations you singled out. Thucydides really is always grumbling disdainfully about Homer, it made me laugh how well it matches Holmes’s attitudes. And that line about Mycroft as a serenely hollow, dying oak was one of my favorites; I’m so glad you liked it, too.
Thanks again for your wonderful comments both here and in the guessing post, they meant a lot to me.
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Date: 2017-10-27 10:28 pm (UTC)I can hardly hope that these scant words do justice to your 10,000, but let me say I thoroughly enjoyed the depth and nuance and sheer volume of research that went into all the aspects of this: from Thucydides, to establishing their positions before and during the war, all of it. You built suspense so well throughout that I read each entry with heart-fluttery excitement as if I had just received a letter from a loved one.
I like that they get very much more personal in these letters than they perhaps ever have in person (stories about childhood, worries about Mycroft's risk of suicide, finally asking questions left too long unsaid, etc). It seems to often happen that a certain frankness and closeness comes only though the protection of the written word, doesn't it?
Anyway, I shall probably have more to say once the author has been revealed, but for now I will end with: This is a colossal achievement and I hope you are justly very proud. Bravo!
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:25 pm (UTC)Truly, I loved reading your comment. I admire your writing so much, so it was a thrill to see that you enjoyed this. I especially appreciated your observation about how the written word gives them the freedom to discuss themselves with an intimacy that they would probably find much more difficult to achieve in person. There’s a small line that Watson writes during their discussion about Mycroft that I think was revealing: Distance is sometimes useful for opening up a delicate conversation. To me, that is a central theme of this story. I think throughout the correspondence Watson is gradually pushing himself to raise personal topics, to invite Holmes’s confidences and to share his own more vulnerable truths, because in the back of his mind he is trying to work up to the point of tackling the estrangement and putting those old regrets to rest.
It makes sense to me that Watson finds it easier to express his thoughts and feelings about Holmes through writing – that is what he’s always done through his stories. For Holmes, I think it was more of a learning process, and he usually follows the openings Watson gives him rather than forging ahead himself. Canonically, Holmes is a very terse writer; telegraphs are his preference – short and to the point, with just room enough for that teasing bite he so loves (“if inconvenient, come all the same.”) I think that the years of the war forced him to master the art of longer, more intimate letter writing, since that was his only line of connection to Watson. But he still carefully obfuscates (that line in his first letter, ‘Mycroft is ghastly,’ changes its meaning in retrospect, and you can see how carefully he is striving to seem like his amusing, off-the-cuff, invincible self). But yes, I think it’s an interesting contrast, the emotional safety that comes with distance and the ability to compose their words with control and care, while at the same time the unique risks and dangers of putting their feelings – especially the romantic feelings they confess by the end of the story – too directly in print. I assume that by this point, with the war over, the army censorship of the mail would have eased off considerably, but the risk was still there.
It’s that odd combination of circumspection and openness that makes epistolary fiction so fun, I think :) The pacing was, for me, the hardest part, so I’m so glad that you thought the suspense built successfully and that, when you read one of the letters, you were eager for the next. I so hoped that would happen!
Thank you again for your lovely comment, it really made my day to receive it.
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Date: 2017-10-29 05:33 pm (UTC)This is so beautiful, it's utterly in tone and in character, beautifully understated yet composed of so many complex layers: Watson and Holmes talking about war in the specific, about war in general, and then circling gradually, deftly deeper into more personal matters, until they've finally brought themselves close enough to each other to be able to uncover and address the truths of their estrangement.
I wondered how you would show their in-person reunion and the happy conclusion those letters were leading up to, since of course we as readers wouldn't get to be privy to anything that happens outside of the bounds of their correspondence – but that too was handled perfectly, only decorously hinted at but nonetheless fully satisfying for the reader who by this point is rooting so deeply for Holmes and Watson and their future happiness together.
I, too, am in awe of the research and background knowledge you have put into this.
And I want to mention, too, the bit where Watson writes to Mycroft: Like Holmes, I was slightly on edge, wondering if it was really the best idea for Watson to write to Mycroft when he hadn't explicitly been given leave to know such personal things about Mycroft's state...but also like Holmes, I should have trusted that Watson would know just the right thing to say. I like how you handled that section – we don't find out what precisely Watson said, only that its effect was exactly what was needed.
That's true of this fic as a whole, in fact: what you reveal to us as readers is deftly calibrated and always exactly right.
Thank you for this beautiful and quietly, deeply moving story. It will stay with me.
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Date: 2017-11-02 05:53 pm (UTC)I'm especially happy that you had that slightly on edge reaction to Watson's letter to Mycroft -- I also find it an uncomfortable moment. Everyone can bring their own headcanons to the story, of course, but for me, it seemed to be a revealing detail about both Watson and Mycroft's characters.
I see Watson as a man whose first instinct whenever someone is in trouble is to act, and usually in the most direct way possible, addressing the difficulty head-on. In addition to his usual instincts, he is - after years of being surrounded by absolute carnage - somewhat desensitized (as he himself admits), and any scruples about privacy or sensitivity to boundaries that might have nuanced the situation for him either before or after his wartime service are simply deadened at this point. So he takes action right away and writes forthrightly to Mycroft.
In another person's case, that might not have been the right approach and it could have gone quite badly. But this is Mycroft. For him, facts are facts and knowledge is knowledge, and he's spent so much of his life knowing private things about other people that I didn't think he would resent Watson's knowledge of his situation or react defensively to his attempt to discuss it with him respectfully. Sherlock was too close to the situation; he was tying himself up in knots and living in fear that Mycroft would hurt himself, but he couldn't just ask him about his feelings and intentions. So I think in this case Watson's approach was able to open up communication and help Mycroft realize that taking care of Sherlock necessitated taking care of himself as well. In my head, I also feel that Mycroft is able to regard Watson's intervention as a kindness rather than an intrusion in part because he understands how much John and Sherlock love each other (though he's never said a word about it) and he already privately considers Watson to be equivalent to a family member. Anyway, all of that is just my own imaginings, but that's what I thought might have been going on behind the scenes.
I'm so happy that you found this story moving, and it's such a gift to have someone like you as a reader. Thank you so much!
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Date: 2017-11-06 11:58 pm (UTC)You're very welcome for the rec! And thank *you* for mentioning that open recs post at 221b-recs, which I'd forgotten about by that point.
I love your take on the characters, and hearing your behind-the-scenes thoughts on the interactions between them. Thank you!
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Date: 2017-11-01 09:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-11-02 06:03 pm (UTC)Fortunately, in my story at least the chickens in the camp did not become pestilential, though Watson surely treated them as though they were. He and Holmes most definitely get their happy ending, with many years together in Sussex to look forward to. Thanks again for reading and for your lovely comment!