32Disclaimer: same as chapter 1.
Author's notes:
- Sorry about the lack of updates... I had to study hard and work overtime in the office right after summer vacation; now I have to study for the final exam!
- Some details about John's experience in Afghanistan come from the story "A study in scarlet" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859 – 1930).
- Sherlock alludes to the play "Hamlet", act V, scene 1, written between 1599 and 1601 by William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616).
- Georges Courteline (1858 – 1929) was a French dramatist and novelist, known for his sarcastic sense of humour.
- Hypnos was the Ancient Greek god of sleep (from Wikipedia).
Chapter 3: Always, always, always the sun
"So, you avoided capture thanks to the air strike. Were you rescued right after that?" asked Sherlock.
"Actually, I wasn't. I remember waking up amongst smoke and debris; surrounded by corpses so hideously deformed by fire you could hardly believe they were once human beings. The air was irrespirable and it was my coughing that had brought me back from unconsciousness, the hacking of my lungs sending shooting pains to my wounded shoulder. I was so dizzy I could barely stand, and the only thing that came to my mind was: "Get out of here, get out of here…"
Sherlock's firm lips trembled for a second at the thought of his friend, wounded and disoriented, stumbling out of a battlefield without any help. Courageous, resourceful John who had witnessed horrors beyond the imagination… and some people actually thought he was an easy prey because of his shorter frame and his kindness. Some people could win the World's Stupidest Persons Trophy ten times in a row!
"I don't even know how I got away from this mess… I found myself walking in the desert, shoulder aching so bad it felt like my body has been torn in two and God, was I thirsty! I could think only of a glass of water with a red-and-white drinking straw poking out of ice cubes and a few mint leaves floating on the surface. Silly, huh? A survivor would give prayers of thanks for escaping with his life, or being obsessed with reuniting with his loved ones, but I got stuck with this idea blocking my mind. The sun was out again and it felt like being beaten from head to toes with red-hot pokers, and to add to my torments predators trailed me."
"More enemies?"
"No, it was a pack of wild dogs. They act like wolves but they are smaller and thinner. A soldier from Arizona told me once they looked like coyotes. Wild dogs are usually scavengers, but they don't mind having a go at a living prey – especially when it is isolated and injured. I still had my handgun but I couldn't use it because shooting in the desert would have been a sure way to betray my position and get captured by hostiles. But the wild dogs kept on following me and in the end, one of them got bold and attacked; I had to smash its skull with a rock. A revolting thing to do but I truly didn't have any choice. The pack feasted on their fallen comrade and it gave me time to escape again. I walked like a zombie, obsessed by the image of a cold drink but somehow, I managed to find the general direction of our base camp. Night came and I found shelter in a large group of rocks before passing out. I woke up to gunfire sounds; imagine my surprise when I realize the rocks were overlooking a dirt road, where a group of American soldiers was being ambushed by rebels! Apparently it was a dawn patrol and enemies had used a homemade road mine to bust the Humvee before firing at the men… And, by a horrible twist of fate, the rebels had been hiding in the same rocks sheltering me. Much later I realized they must have missed my presence by fifty yards or so, too busy with their ambushing plan to look twice at whatever may have been lying amongst those rocks."
"And in this case it was an injured, unconscious British soldier. Paradoxically, John's wounded state saved his life instead of making him an easy prey. He hasn't moved a finger while unconscious and he was camouflaged by a blanket of dirt and grime, that's the reason why the hostiles haven't noticed him. But it has been a close call, very close indeed!" thought the detective. Again, he wondered at the miraculous line of events that had brought John Watson in his life.
"And then, what did you do?"
"I… Well, I drew my weapon and shot at the rebels."
The detective's pale eyes widened in disbelief!
"Do my excellent ears deceive me? Do you mean to say that you came to the rescue of ambushed American soldiers all by yourself, while being wounded and in dire need for help?"
The blond-haired man fidgeted with a corner of his blanket, feeling very uneasy. He was certain Sherlock wouldn't approve of his illogical decision to engage combat: "It sounds ridiculous, I know, but... Yes, that's what I did. I couldn't let those soldiers being slaughtered like my friends, Sherlock, I just couldn't! I still had enough strength to press on my handgun's trigger and shoot at random, to create a diversion that would help the Americans. The rebels certainly didn't expect to be attacked from the flank and they were confused for a few seconds just before shooting at me – but it was too late, the Americans returned fire and within seconds, the fighting was over. A bullet had grazed my arm and I collapsed amongst the rocks again, certain this was the end. The last thing I saw before loosing consciousness were the wide blue eyes of an American soldier, staring down at me... I guess he would never have imagined having to rescue a shot-to-pieces rescuer."
Sherlock brushed his hand against the doctor's in an unconscious gesture of comfort. Poor John.
"What I don't understand is why the British army's rescue team hasn't picked you up in the battlefield, instead of letting you wandering in the desert. Were there no intelligent officers around, apart from you?"
"Sherlock, no one thought there could be any survivors after the downpour the Tornadoes had fired in the area so no rescue teams had been sent. The Americans checked on my dog tags and drove me to their base camp, and my presence caused quite a ruckus! I remember waking up while being carried to the medical tent and the stupefied faces hovering over me… they all looked as if I had fallen from the Moon. But I was in sad shape: broken collarbone, severe dehydration, infected wounds, shell shock and on top of everything else, I developed typhoid fever. That prompted my rapid evacuation to Kandahar; the G.I. handed me over to the British Army but the RAMC doctors despaired about my case. Finally, after two months the fever abated and I was sent home with a shower of medals, a pension and the order to keep quiet about my miraculous survival."
"Why?"
"The official statement was that the rebels killed all the men, overlooking the fact that the Tornadoes obliterated the whole area without making any distinction between friends or foes. The presence of a survivor would raise embarrassing questions... The higher powers feared an outraged reaction from the soldiers' families, that's why I've been sworn to secrecy before being honourably discharged from the Army on medical grounds. I felt like betraying my dead friends, but... I was too broken as a soldier and a surgeon; I knew I couldn't remain in the Army and the only way to return to civil life was to remain silent about what had happened. I settled down in London and muddled along therapy sessions, loneliness and boredom until I met you."
Silence fell between the two men, interrupted only by the soft "tick tock" of John's watch resting on the bedside table, next to the emptied glass, and the faint humming of the refrigerator downstairs, in the kitchen. Sherlock was still seated on the bed, his hands under his chin and his fingers pressed against one another, his favourite position while thinking hard – and his thoughts were getting darker by the minute, full of resentment towards his brother. No wonder why Mycroft had pressed him to read the confidential army file; he had wanted Sherlock to spy on his friend, to know if John was writing a secret book about Afghanistan as part of his therapy – since he was too honourable a man to post this kind of information on his blog. Mycroft had figured out Sherlock borrowed his flatmate's laptop from time to time and, in the name of "national security", would have pressed his sibling to report any dangerous writings and destroy them behind John's back. Mycroft had offered money to John for information about Sherlock; he wouldn't have any scruples to blackmail his brother to spy on John.
"I wonder how long I would have to stay in jail if I gave the British unofficial government a black eye?" thought Sherlock, his pales eyes hardening like precious stones.
"Sherlock, are you all right?" asked John, his voice full of concern for his friend.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, there's always the sun.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine. I was just thinking about that you have just told me. No wonder you're having a difficult time with your war experience; I can't imagine what must have been the worst: the horrid deaths of your men or having to deal with a high-ranking hypocrisy during your recovery at Kandahar. I suppose remembering graded hush-ups prompted your most recent nightmare?"
"No... The dream I've just had was so stupid, I feel ridiculous for having screamed because of it."
"It hurt you, John. And I can see it is still distressing you. I fail to see the ridicule here."
The ex-army doctor felt a blush had indeed spread on his cheeks and he thought for a brief instant that the dim light would hide it, and then he mentally kicked himself: Sherlock had good eyesight so denying the dream was still upsetting him was useless!
"I was dreaming about reliving the battle, Sherlock, except that... when the hostiles captured me, they suddenly vanished and I found myself staring at the 221B front door. I was dressed in fatigues, covered with grime and sweat, but I turned about and no one in the street was paying any attention to me! I'm not sure, but I think Lestrade was standing on the sidewalk, calmly talking to Donovan like nothing had happened."
"Dreaming about Donovan would make any sane man scream in terror," thought a sardonic detective.
"I opened the door and entered but... our house had been turned into a slaughterhouse. There was blood everywhere, on the walls, on the stairs and Mrs. Hudson was lying on the ground, her prized tea cups in pieces next to her body. I tried to revive her but it was too late, it broke my heart. Then I climbed the stairs calling out for you, only to meet face-to-face with the Afghan warlord. He was still holding his Jezail gun and standing in our living room as if he owned the place. He was covered with blood and laughing and yelling in Pashtu, and then he pointed his finger towards the fireplace and... Oh Sherlock, it is an awful thing to say, but... Your severed head was resting on the mantelpiece. Your eyes opened and you said my name, begging me to help you and I ran towards you, but the warlord held me back and... And then I woke up, thankfully."
The reminiscence of the nightmare made John shiver in spite of the blankets covering his bed: "God, it was horrible."
"It upset you to imagine me as a possible Yorick character?" asked Sherlock on a light tone.
"Yes, and it is not a reason to make fun of me, Mr. Holmes."
"I would never do that. It just happens that "Yorick" is the name I gave to the skull: "Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is!" Mind you, I am not eager to step in Yorick's shoes even if his feet have been lost a long time ago, so there's little chance I'll replace him as adornment to our mantelpiece."
"And what role do I play in the theatre of your life, Sherlock?"
"You are Horatio, of course!" "And my sun," added the detective inwardly.
Always, always, always the sun.
Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle lightly at the delighted expression on his friend's face. Good old John, what a big heart was beating inside this war-scarred chest. With his loyalty, his supportive and rational character, had he been an actor John would be cast as Horatio on the spot. After that dreadful experience at the Pool, Sherlock had considered asking the doctor to run away from London before he would be hurt again by Moriarty, but that preposterous idea had been dismissed as soon as it had formed inside his powerful brains. It would be illogical to send John away since distance wouldn't guarantee his safety. At least, in London, John benefited from both Mycroft's and Lestrade's protection, and from Sherlock's extreme vigilance. Besides, the detective couldn't bear the idea of returning to his cold, lonely existence, renouncing to the sun's presence because of a megalomaniac enemy. It was too late; Sherlock had grown used to warmth and light in his life, something Moriarty was sick of envy about while perfectly knowing he would never reach it.
And John was not a man to be frightened lightly. His Afghanistan experience may have torn him apart but it certainly hadn't shattered his courage. The doctor would never have accepted to flee the city just to save his own life. John was a soldier to the core, and a true believer of that sacred motto: never leave anyone behind.
No, his friend was safer at 221 B Baker Street, watched over by police officers, CCTV cameras (used by shadowy people) and the eagle eyes of the world's only consulting detective. However, the frustrating problem of those awful dreams plaguing John's nights remained and that was something that couldn't be solved by deductions or bullet holes in the wall.
The doctor shivered again under the bedding, making Sherlock frown. John should be warm enough with sleep clothes and blankets, so cold could be ruled out as a cause for shudder. And then, the only logical conclusion sprang into Sherlock's mind. Oh, of course.
John was still upset from the dream of his murdered friend and landlady, still fresh in his memory; it was rattling his nerves and making his heart beat too fast. In the same time, he was angry at himself for not being able to calm down, judging by the way he was absently scratching on the hard surface of his wrist cast. John was a former soldier, used to overcome any given stressful situation but the haunting images were too strong for his military training, making him feel dizzy and disoriented.
Sherlock didn't waste time to take a decision: desperate times called for desperate measures.
"John?"
"Mmm?"
"Scoot over, will you?"
"What?"
Before the doctor could comprehend what he was doing, Sherlock had promptly swung his long legs on the bed, lying on top of the covers and gathering his friend in his arms, bundling John in blankets and cradling him. The blond man's eyes widened as he found himself folded into Sherlock's embrace; never, not in a million years, would have he thought the misanthropic detective would actually reach out, and hug someone in distress because of something as mundane as a nightmare.
"Sherlock! But what are you...?"
"Hush, my dear John. If you raise your voice again, you'll succeed in awakening Mrs. Hudson. 'Tis a wonder she hasn't climbed the stairs yet, after all the racket you've made recently!"
"But..."
"Worry not, I don't intent to jump on your bones, therefore your virtue is safe. I happen to know about social customs even if I don't practise them often, and holding an upset person is the best way to calm said person, bringing reassurance and/or a sense of security. Since you are still shaken from this dream – and don't bother denying it, John, you are trembling – I figured a close presence nearby you will do the trick in chasing away those dark thoughts mulling inside your brains, and hopefully give you a good rest."
John opened his mouth to protest, to tell Sherlock that he didn't need to be coddled like a crying child, but no words could pass his lips. The fact was, he was grateful for his friend's gesture. John had spent fifteen years in the army and he had had his share of tight-spot situations, hiding inside ruined buildings as bombs flew above or crouching in the mud, not daring to move a muscle while enemies lurked too close for comfort. And, during those fearful times, he had always offered reassurance to the injured – or the scared – with a stroke of a brow, a gentle smile or by squeezing a shoulder, giving a bit of cheer under fire. Lots of soldiers have been grateful for his kindness but the idea to comfort the doctor had never crossed their minds – and after John had returned to civil life, no one had been here for him. His parents were dead, he had no female companion and permanently-drunk Harry was too fascinated by her own problems to pay attention to her brother's distress. Nobody had ever reached out a helping hand towards John, until he had crossed paths with a one-of-a-kind detective.
A few minutes of silence ticked away on the bedside table, and then Sherlock felt blanket-bundled John relaxing against his side, the tremors fading away. A quick glance confirmed the eyelids covering the dark blue orbs were slowly closing, a testimony that his friend was feeling sleepy again. John let his head rest against the detective's long neck and sighed deeply, indeed finding reassurance in the embrace which did a marvellous job in chasing the horrid images away. Sherlock had a small smile; it wouldn't be long now before Hypnos would claim the ex-army surgeon again.
"Fraternity of the humble; fraternity of the simple; fraternity of the soldier," suddenly said John in a soft voice.
"What is it, John?"
"It's the first line of a short story by Georges Courteline, a French dramatist; a soldier spends the night helping his drunken buddy to go to bed. It isn't easy since the guy is noisy, sick and very demanding. But the soldier always gets up to help his friend, no matter how many times he is disturbed from getting rest himself. The drunkard is grateful, though, since he knows he would be punished by the corporal-sergeant if not for his friend's assistance. This story is a description of the endless support of one man to another, out of friendship."
"You can hardly be described as a drunkard, John, and I've never been a soldier."
"The fraternity is the same."
Sherlock tightened his grip for a few seconds, making John smile, and then his heavy eyelids closed and he succumbed to sleep, warm under the blankets and secure in his friend's embrace. The detective remained awake, immobile as a statue, his chiselled features betraying no emotion but his clear blue eyes were shining more intensely, as if annoying moisture had formed at the corners and was threatening to spill on his marble-like cheeks in the form of salty droplets.
How John could... dared... to make him feel (a bit more) human again? How could he so easily awaken feelings the detective had buried deep down inside him for so long? Feelings that even Sherlock had forgotten about them?
But then again, who could fight the power of the sun?
There's always the sun.
No one; in fact, only a fool could imagine triumphing over the Milky Way's brightest star.
Mmm, there's always the sun.
Sherlock sighed, basking in the warmth he felt on his side. John was sleeping peacefully in his arms, quietness had returned in the house located number 221 B of Baker Street; the moon followed her course in the sky, stars gave an impression of movement, and the younger Holmes found out in amazement that his thoughts about the Pool Incident weren't as dark as before. He was still resolute in making Moriarty pay for his crimes but useless rage had vanished from his brains, replaced by the familiar presence of logical intelligence which gave him the first clue to capture the criminal mastermind.
Step one: keep John close.
The sleeping doctor moved his head, resting more comfortably against the detective's shoulder. Sherlock gently pressed his lips on his friend's sun-kissed hair.
John brings light; the best weapon to overcome darkness.
Sherlock knew from this minute that he would vanquish Moriarty; no matter the years or the sacrifices, he was certain the consulting criminal would meet his fate at the hands of the consulting detective.
Because Sherlock had a trump card that no one, not even his annoying brother, could take away from him: a true ally. Moriarty could hide behind legions of faceless minions but they would prove a poor protection against the younger Holmes' wrath.
Because Sherlock had someone to fight for; Moriarty only had his oversized navel to keep him company.
Because Sherlock had the sun; Moriarty was rotting in the shadows.
Always, always, always the sun.
Looking at John gently snoring against his shoulder, Sherlock suddenly realised what the term "bosom friend" meant.
As on clue, inside his mind, Hugh Cornwell started singing the last part of the song:
There's always the sun.
There's always the sun.
Always, always, always the sun.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, there's always the sun.
Always, always, always the sun.
Always the sun...
Always, always, always the sun.
There's always the sun.
Mmm, there's always the sun.
Always, always, always the sun.
THE END!
