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Title: A Letter From the Front
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 277
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, WWI-Era
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: There are all sorts of ways to communicate.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2018 prompt: Stitches
When I was not at Whitehall assisting Mycroft with code-cracking and other war work, I was at the nearest hospital aiding the beleaguered sisters with the legions of returned wounded. In between I ate on the run and snatched a few hours of sleep on nearby cots or even an out-of-the-way spot on the hospital floor or a storage room.
This was a preferable state of affairs to returning to my solitary flat and letting my imagination run mad with thoughts of what my absent spouse was enduring at that moment. All I knew was that Watson was at one of the Casualty Clearing Stations in France, far too near the front for my liking. Our correspondence was sparse and the letters far apart, taking weeks or months to find their destinations.
So when I tended to one new patient and saw his arm, I almost collapsed across the man; I managed to change my reaction to a less-than-elegant slump to the floor even though I retained consciousness. Reassuring the anxious young soldier that I was merely very tired, I asked about his recollection of the aid station where he'd first been treated before being shipped home. Yes, an older doctor had tended him, Pvt. Wilkes told me, an older fellow with a moustache. He'd been as worn and tired-looking as myself, but otherwise well and whole. I expressed my gratitude for the information and continued to change Wilkes' dressing. Inside, I was buoyed up as with a dose of cocaine.
The man I loved was safe and well as of two days ago. And John Watson still favoured that particular style of mattress stitch for lacerations.
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 277
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, WWI-Era
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: There are all sorts of ways to communicate.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor September 2018 prompt: Stitches
When I was not at Whitehall assisting Mycroft with code-cracking and other war work, I was at the nearest hospital aiding the beleaguered sisters with the legions of returned wounded. In between I ate on the run and snatched a few hours of sleep on nearby cots or even an out-of-the-way spot on the hospital floor or a storage room.
This was a preferable state of affairs to returning to my solitary flat and letting my imagination run mad with thoughts of what my absent spouse was enduring at that moment. All I knew was that Watson was at one of the Casualty Clearing Stations in France, far too near the front for my liking. Our correspondence was sparse and the letters far apart, taking weeks or months to find their destinations.
So when I tended to one new patient and saw his arm, I almost collapsed across the man; I managed to change my reaction to a less-than-elegant slump to the floor even though I retained consciousness. Reassuring the anxious young soldier that I was merely very tired, I asked about his recollection of the aid station where he'd first been treated before being shipped home. Yes, an older doctor had tended him, Pvt. Wilkes told me, an older fellow with a moustache. He'd been as worn and tired-looking as myself, but otherwise well and whole. I expressed my gratitude for the information and continued to change Wilkes' dressing. Inside, I was buoyed up as with a dose of cocaine.
The man I loved was safe and well as of two days ago. And John Watson still favoured that particular style of mattress stitch for lacerations.