![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gardnerhill posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmes_minorTitle: March of Time
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Mary Morstan Watson, Constable Rance
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: Across three Marches.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor March 2019 prompt: March
***
1892
"Mrs. Watson, your husband is here."
Pride filled him at the defiant, unrepentant look on Mary's face as she stood and walked to the opened cell door, still wearing her rumpled VOTES FOR WOMEN sash over her mud- and tomato-soiled dress.
"'March for equality,' my eye. Shouting in the streets and creating a public nuisance." The grizzle-haired policeman smirked. "Might want to teach her the error of her ways tonight, sir." In other words: Give her a good beating and show her who's boss.
"I'll give that all the consideration it's due, Constable Rance. It is still 'constable' after all these years? Sherlock Holmes was quite right, you'll retire a constable." Watson walked out, Mary on his arm, past the red-faced man.
In the cab back to Kensington, she laid a hand on his. "Darling. This is the first time you've mentioned him without choking."
He blinked. "Dear God. You're right."
***
1893
All he knew was cold and wet, and breathing, and voices. Everything seemed distant, shrouded in heavy grey. His arms were trapped.
"Threw himself in the Thames, Inspector. Good thing one of the new lads was walking his beat in earshot and blew his whistle straightaway. Got a squad of men to drag him out." He'd heard that voice before, a few times.
"Get that lad's name for me, he's saved this man's life." Lestrade. Why did Lestrade sound so sad and bleak? He had a wife still, and friends.
"Chap won't thank him for it. He was screaming 'they're all dead, I killed them all' and fought the blokes who saved 'im. Mad as a March hare."
"Shut your fool mouth, Rance. His wife dies of the 'flu and takes their first babe with her? How'd you think a doctor would act?"
"…Yessir. Leave the straightjacket on him?"
"Yes. I promised… someone… that I'd help keep him safe. He's not hanging himself in my cell tonight."
***
1894
March. Keep marching. March through dust, rain, mud, snow, tears, grief, emptiness. March.
The plod of a soldier took over his mind, swathed him like the canvas jacket Lestrade had removed the morning after the last time he'd tried to feel anything. It felt almost like peace. It kept his mind quiet with duty and routine so that he resembled living people once again.
Marching was simple, rhythmic, hypnotic. March his rounds, march home. March to the churchyard, march home. March to the charity hospital, march home.
The daffodils were fading and the primroses were beginning to show. Soon he would end his year of wearing full mourning, marking nearly three full years of wearing black in one form or another, for one death or another.
Death. Strange death of a young noble.
Not a march this time, a walk to the house. His old life, past life, in that house of death.
Walk toward Constable Rance at the scene, his old life stirring awake like a crocus uncurling from the snow.
A bump, a stumble, spilled books.
Halt.
Author: gardnerhill
Form/Wordcount: 500
Characters/Pairings: John Watson, Mary Morstan Watson, Constable Rance
Rating: G
Warnings/Content: None
Summary: Across three Marches.
Author’s Notes: For the Holmes Minor March 2019 prompt: March
***
1892
"Mrs. Watson, your husband is here."
Pride filled him at the defiant, unrepentant look on Mary's face as she stood and walked to the opened cell door, still wearing her rumpled VOTES FOR WOMEN sash over her mud- and tomato-soiled dress.
"'March for equality,' my eye. Shouting in the streets and creating a public nuisance." The grizzle-haired policeman smirked. "Might want to teach her the error of her ways tonight, sir." In other words: Give her a good beating and show her who's boss.
"I'll give that all the consideration it's due, Constable Rance. It is still 'constable' after all these years? Sherlock Holmes was quite right, you'll retire a constable." Watson walked out, Mary on his arm, past the red-faced man.
In the cab back to Kensington, she laid a hand on his. "Darling. This is the first time you've mentioned him without choking."
He blinked. "Dear God. You're right."
***
1893
All he knew was cold and wet, and breathing, and voices. Everything seemed distant, shrouded in heavy grey. His arms were trapped.
"Threw himself in the Thames, Inspector. Good thing one of the new lads was walking his beat in earshot and blew his whistle straightaway. Got a squad of men to drag him out." He'd heard that voice before, a few times.
"Get that lad's name for me, he's saved this man's life." Lestrade. Why did Lestrade sound so sad and bleak? He had a wife still, and friends.
"Chap won't thank him for it. He was screaming 'they're all dead, I killed them all' and fought the blokes who saved 'im. Mad as a March hare."
"Shut your fool mouth, Rance. His wife dies of the 'flu and takes their first babe with her? How'd you think a doctor would act?"
"…Yessir. Leave the straightjacket on him?"
"Yes. I promised… someone… that I'd help keep him safe. He's not hanging himself in my cell tonight."
***
1894
March. Keep marching. March through dust, rain, mud, snow, tears, grief, emptiness. March.
The plod of a soldier took over his mind, swathed him like the canvas jacket Lestrade had removed the morning after the last time he'd tried to feel anything. It felt almost like peace. It kept his mind quiet with duty and routine so that he resembled living people once again.
Marching was simple, rhythmic, hypnotic. March his rounds, march home. March to the churchyard, march home. March to the charity hospital, march home.
The daffodils were fading and the primroses were beginning to show. Soon he would end his year of wearing full mourning, marking nearly three full years of wearing black in one form or another, for one death or another.
Death. Strange death of a young noble.
Not a march this time, a walk to the house. His old life, past life, in that house of death.
Walk toward Constable Rance at the scene, his old life stirring awake like a crocus uncurling from the snow.
A bump, a stumble, spilled books.
Halt.
