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The warmth of the front hall was a welcome sensation on Sherlock’s cold cheeks. His scarf and turned up collar had only done so much against the cool breeze of this November day. He was looking forward to the hot cup of tea he was going to make when he got upstairs. As he ascended the stairs, he began to hear voices drifting from the living room. Sherlock paused on the landing.
“Was that before or after you met Stamford?” Mrs. Hudson.
“Before.” John. “I met Stamford at Bart’s when I was in med school.”
“Remind me, was that before you were in the Service?”
A pause. “Technically, during. The Army helped offset some of the cost of my tuition.”
“They paid for it,” Mrs. Hudson clarified. “Is that why you joined up?”
Though he couldn’t see him, Sherlock could feel John processing the question, taking a moment to parse the meaning behind the words.
“No,” John said. “I think I’d have joined up anyway, but it was a good incentive.” Another pause while Mrs. Hudson undoubtedly smiled. “Never thought I’d ever see a war, though.”
“Neither did I,” Mrs. Hudson answered.
Sherlock’s breath caught silently in his throat. It had never truly occurred to him that his landlady would have experienced the hell that was the early 1940's - the rations, the food shortages, and the Blitz.
“That's right,” John spoke, his voice echoing Sherlock’s realization about the woman who was no doubt sitting in Sherlock’s chair, an empty cup of tea sitting on the table next to her. “You’d have only been a girl when the war broke out.”
“I was five when the war started,” Mrs. Hudson said. “We were living in Stepney at the time.”
Sherlock grimaced. He knew the history.
“Oof,” John winced. “That was one of the hardest hit areas, wasn't it?”
“It was,” Mrs. Hudson said. “At first, the Germans targeted industrial areas, harbours, transportation routes. That changed a bit as the war progressed. They didn’t care much about collateral. I still hear the bombs sometimes.”
“As do I,” John answered with melancholic nostalgia.
Sherlock closed his eyes. Two different people, two different wars, two different experiences; two very similar memories.
“There was one type of bomb they used in 1944,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “We called them doodlebugs, buzz bombs because of the sound they made when they flew overhead. As long as you heard the buzzing, you were safe. When the buzzing cut out, you had about ten to twelve seconds to find cover before they found their target and, well, you know.”
Oh, Sherlock knew quite well what Mrs. Hudson was unable to say aloud. Had she personally heard the V-1 rockets? Had she witnessed them hit their targets? How many people had she lost in those six awful years of her life? Acquaintances, neighbours, friends, family?
“I remember one day,” Mrs. Hudson went on. “Mother and I had gone to get our allotment of food for the week, and we were on our way back home when one of those doodlebugs went by. The engine cut out about six streets away.”
“My God…” John whispered.
“We were alright,” Mrs. Hudson said. “A bit dusty, and we had to wash everything when we got home, but do you know what the one thing is that I remember most about that day – about the war as a whole, really?”
Sherlock braced himself for the answer as John encouraged her to continue with a simple, “Hmm?”
“The smell.”
Sherlock didn’t have to be in the same room to know that John was nodding, slowly and fully, his lips nothing more than a thin line on his face.
“Yeah.” John’s voice was tight. “The gunpowder, the sulphur, the dust…”
“The flesh,” Mrs. Hudson finished.
Sherlock’s heart ached. How dare life hand her the gruesome experiences she had been given. How dare life hand anyone those experiences? He was well aware that John had chosen a life of war and war-related duties while Mrs. Hudson hadn't chosen any of it when she was born in London’s East End, but neither of them deserved to witness the death and destruction they had. They didn’t deserve the hardships war had served them. The food shortages, the rations, the fear, the injuries – real or psychosomatic –, the trauma relived in sights, sounds, and smells, relived in nightmares.
A sharp intake of air told Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson’s words had struck a painful chord with John.
“Oh, John. I'm sorry,” Mrs. Hudson spoke. “All of this talk must be bringing back horrible memories for you.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. H,” John answered. “Sometimes it’s good to talk about these things. Especially with someone who understands. Our exact experiences are vastly different, but we both know what it’s like to hear the bombs fall, we know what the aftermath smells like. Hell, we even know what it’s like to eat rations.” There was a small smile in his voice at the mention of eating rations. “Don’t apologize for sharing your stories, Mrs. Hudson. They deserve to be shared, and they deserve to be listened to. Even if they are painful.”
“Thank you, John,” Mrs. Hudson said. There was a small pause, a quiet inhale, and then, “Do you know the one thing I found remarkable during that awful time?”
“What’s that?” John asked.
“Those bombs, those doodlebugs, the Blitz. They cut off food supplies, they severed transportation lines, they destroyed factories and homes, they broke bones… But they never, never broke our spirit. Every day, people got up, went to work, came home, had dinner – such as it was –, went to the cinema, went shopping. After a while, many of us even stopped ducking for cover. Despite everything, we kept living our lives as normal – or as close to normal as we could get. My mother kept her head held high, even when letters home from my father were few and far between, even when friends a few streets down lost their homes. We just rallied together and kept plodding on.”
A short exhale told Sherlock that John was smiling a smile that could tell anyone he knew exactly what they were talking about.
“It was very much like that in Afghanistan, as well,” he said. “They laid their roadside bombs and their IEDs, and did everything they could to break us. But in the end, even though we, technically, lost that war, they couldn't really keep us down. There were certainly times when all I wanted to do was go home, I wanted it all to stop – we all did. But, every day, we simply picked up our rifles, and got back to work. Just kept soldiering on.”
And you’re still soldiering on, John, Sherlock thought. You still live that hell.
“Do you ever miss it?” Mrs. Hudson asked.
“The war?” John asked, a tinge of shock in his voice.
Even Sherlock was taken aback by the question. He knew the answer, but would Mrs. Hudson appreciate it? Would John tell her the truth?
“Sometimes,” John spoke eventually. “I don’t miss getting shot, but I miss the adrenaline sometimes. I miss the feeling of a job well done, I miss my comrades, the camaraderie. Hell, I even miss working alongside our allies, the Americans and the Canadians. They had some remarkably brave soldiers. There was one Canadian soldier who held his post long after his comrades had been killed, and he’d been severely injured.” [*]
“Oh, the poor chap,” Mrs. Hudson mused. “I hope he survived.”
“He did, somehow,” John answered. “But that’s what I miss. The bravery, the all for one and one for all mentality, the spirit. That’s the one thing that couldn’t be taken away, no matter how hard they tried. What about you? Is there anything you miss, as awful as it was?”
“Some things,” Mrs. Hudson answered after a moment. “I certainly don’t miss the bombs or the bodies, but I miss the little things. Watching my mother come up with as fancy a Sunday dinner as she could muster with the rations we were given. I miss helping in the allotment gardens, I miss hearing my mother read the letters my father wrote home. I miss the warmth of sharing a bed with my mother and sister. And I miss… the hugs. My mother wasn’t a particularly affectionate woman, but during those years, her hugs were everything.”
Sherlock smiled sadly. He wouldn’t count himself among the most affectionate of people, but he could allow himself to offer up a few more hugs. Especially if Mrs. Hudson was on the receiving end.
“You know,” Mrs. Hudson continued. “I think finding joy and beauty in the chaos is what I miss most of all. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think I do,” John said. “When I was in Afghanistan, one of our patrols took us by a field of poppies. A few of us might have picked some of them, myself included. We held onto them through the rest of the war. I still have mine, actually.”
The sound of denim and cotton against the fabric of John’s armchair indicated to Sherlock that John was retrieving something out of one of his pockets. Mrs. Hudson gasped a moment later.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said.
“It’s a reminder,” John explained, “not just of the friends I lost and their sacrifice, but that despite all the blood and the death and the chaos, there was still joy and beauty to be found. And it kept me going.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I’m glad you kept it.”
Sherlock’s curiosity was piqued. He knew what poppies looked like, but this one of John’s was extra special, and Sherlock wanted to have a look too. He silently ascended the last section of the stairs and quietly moved to stand in the doorway, careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards. Within moments, Sherlock’s eyes found their prize.
In John’s hand atop a small piece of white card stock was a pressed flower with red petals and a black centre. A poppy indigenous not to Flanders Fields where Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae would write his famous poem, but to the same theatre of war where Captain John Watson would lose friends and comrades and see himself become a casualty of war. A simple flower it was, the poppy, but it represented so much – the blood, sweat, and tears of the fallen; the memories of those who made it home; the pain of sacrifice on the warfront and at home; and even peace amidst the chaos. Peace that no one could ever take away. Suddenly, this simple flower in John’s hand became the most beautiful flower Sherlock had ever seen.
“Thank you for your service, John,” Mrs. Hudson spoke. Her eyes were wet with tears threatening to fall.
John wrapped a tender arm around Mrs. Hudson’s shoulders. “Thank you for your support, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Thank you both,” Sherlock said gently, only now making his presence known.
Mrs. Hudson and John both turned around with a start. John nearly dropped the poppy in his hand.
“Sherlock,” John said, “how much of that did you hear?”
“Enough,” Sherlock answered. He closed the distance between him and them, taking a breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say, for every word was the truth. “I never truly appreciated the two of you and the lives you led before I came along. I often get so caught up in my own life that I seldom stop to think about the lives and experiences of those around me, and for that, I apologize.”
Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “There’s no need to apologize, Sherlock. And you yourself have seen things akin to war.”
Mrs. Hudson was right, and Sherlock had the scars to prove it. But that wasn’t the point Sherlock was trying to make. This moment wasn’t about himself. It was about the two people standing in front of him.
“Yes, I know, and thank you, but that’s not what’s important right now,” Sherlock said. “What is important is, I should be more appreciative than I have been, and I apologize for not doing so. What I’m trying to say is, thank you. Thank you for your sacrifices. Both of you.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson’s arms were around Sherlock’s torso in an instant, warm and firm. Supportive and grateful.
Sherlock kept Mrs. Hudson close, quickly deciding he would only let go once she did. When she did, he whispered another, “thank you” into her ear, and then turned to John, whose eyes were also now wet with threatening tears. The poppy had been put away, no doubt tucked safely near John’s heart.
Sherlock wasn’t sure if a hug or a handshake would be more appropriate, but a moment later, John made the decision for him. John pulled him into a quick, but solid hug.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said quietly before withdrawing from the embrace.
The three of them stood there in silence, thoughts and feelings of gratitude moving between them until Mrs. Hudson made a move toward the kitchen.
“How about a spot of tea?” she asked.
“That sounds lovely, yes,” John agreed.
Sherlock was at the kettle before Mrs. Hudson was through the doorway.
“You sit down, Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “Allow me. It’s the least I can do.”
And it was. It was the very least he could do after overhearing their war stories, especially on this day, the eleventh of November. As he watched the boiling water bubble in the kettle, Sherlock knew there was so much more they deserved, them and the countless others like them. But what could he offer them? He, Sherlock Holmes, genius consulting detective who was often caught up in his own goings on to even remotely think about others. What could he possibly do to repay everything they had done?
The question ruminated in his brain while he poured the tea and made each cup to its drinker’s specifications. As he handed the cups to their owners, two lines of a Laurence Binyon poem echoed in his mind.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them. [**]
Of course! If he could remember how John and Mrs. Hudson took their tea, he could certainly remember the sacrifices they endured, not only in times of war, but for him as well. He could remember. And he would remember.
Always.