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It was the sound, so unexpected and out of place in England that caused it. A sound forever linked with the terrors of war for me. Even now safe at my desk in Baker Street the very memory of that sound has the power to make me shiver and breath rapidly. Holmes and I were taking what was supposed to have been a quiet walk in the early morning before our train left for London when from behind us came that infernal rumbling, I recognised it at once and may have let slip a profanity for Holmes swung his head so sharply to look at me I feared he would injure himself. I had no time to check his condition though because over the low crest of a ridge came that which the sound had warned me of, a mass of charging horses.
I am ashamed to confess even to this most private record that my mind snapped back into the past and over the approaching herd was laid every desperate cavalry charge I have withstood or seen go forward and over the ground before us the typical aftermath of such actions, piles of severed and trampled limbs, crushed and hacked bodies. My ears were convinced they caught again the groaning of the still living wounded buried under the dead. It was every nigh terror and fever dream I have ever had rolled into on package, fear took me then and I cast about for some place of refuge from the on coming horror, a short way off there was a thin strand of trees, not much cover from the four footed mass of death and destruction but I considered that if I pushed Holmes in as deep as I could and shielded him with my body he might survive.
He was looking at me oddly lips poised to frame a question but I gave him no time to ask, grabbing him by the wrist I dragged him in to the meagre shelter crowding him in to it's densest part and bracing myself for the impacts I would have sworn on the bible where about to rain down on us. I felt Holmes hands wind themselves into my coat drawing me closer and in my confusion I thought he had worked out the danger and my intentions, he was speaking to me I heard the low drown of his voice in my ear but could not make out words. Then with all the suddenness for which the cavalry is known and feared the mass of horse flesh was upon us and I felt the heat and grit of the Afghan desert and smelt the baked dry air and the copper tang of blood.
Time lost all meaning for me and I clung to Holmes and the stubborn determination that he should survive, after a while I realized that I could no longer hear the thudding of hooves or the calls of riders only Holmes steady voice commenting on the finer points of wood ash identification. He realised of course the second I came back to myself and his smile was one of pure relief, I began to stammer apologies and explanations but he simply laid a long finger on my lips to quiet me.
"My dear Watson," He said in a voice that held no scorn or pity "the fault is mine, I should have known better than to risk a walk with a veteran such as yourself along a track known to be used by racing stables to exercise their horses."
And with no further words and allowing me none either he turned us around and soon had me firmly ensconced in a station tea room with a strong pot of tea and a light breakfast. Any other man would have asked question after question about what had happened both earlier and in my past to trigger such reactions but Holmes did no such thing, our conversation consisted almost entirely of him deducing the flow of rail passengers and staff and idle speculation on what matters might await us in London. The result of all this quite extraordinary tact and concern on my friends part was that by the time we boarded our train my nerves had settled and my mind was clear and present again. I expected to find that all the questions and theories he surely had about the whole affair to come pouring out now we where alone together but not a word did he utter on the subject then or since and I can only find myself in turns amazed, humbled and grateful to have found such an understanding and forbearing friend as Sherlock Holmes has proved himself to be in this matter.