(no subject)
He wanted water; gallons of it pouring over his head and down his throat, so that he could feel it soaking every fiber of his body. He wanted to drink until he burst. John Watson closed his eyes for a moment, visualizing a cool blue stream in the hopes of banishing the parched feeling at the back of his throat but a sudden wave of dizziness caught him by surprise. Watson’s eyes popped open as his hand shot out to catch hold of the sturdy wooden seatback in front of him. All around him voices droned like the buzz of lazy bees in the interminable heat. He swallowed and willed himself to stay upright. He had made it through Afghanistan’s deserts; he could make it through this bloody ceremony.
His gaze wandered restlessly to the sky outside the Rose window where clouds moved slowly, casting shadows over the colored glass like rocks in a colorful lake. Somewhere out there he belonged, away from the desert heat and the screams of the dying. A hand nudged his side and Watson looked over at the man beside him. Scarred, haunted, his fellow soldier nodded towards the dais and crisply uniformed men standing there. With a slow, painful struggle Watson got to his feet and limped towards them. He could feel surges of sorrow and pride radiating him from the pews he had just left as clearly as he could hear the shuffle of restless feet. These men were his peers, they knew the heat of battle, they too had been forged in the same fire.
Another wave of thirst hit Watson, causing sweat to form between his shoulder blades and trickle down his back. The desert had been brutal, burning through men like they were kindling, leaving those not consumed charred and brittle lumps abandoned without purpose in civilian life. He could still feel the heat, it burned up from his knee and thigh, through his hip and lower back almost every moment of the day. He longed for the cool, quenching water that would wash it all away.
“Dr. John Watson.” The sound of his name broke through the haze which had taken up residence around his thoughts. Watson blinked up at his commanding officer, watching the heavily whiskered chin wag over his heroic actions reminded of the camels he had seen chewing endlessly. It seemed to drag on for an eternity, the thirst and ache building around him like kindling set at his feet until, in a gesture no Samaritan could have ever equaled, the old solider thrust something into his grasp, something instinct alone, dictated Watson receive with both hands.
It’s cool, polished and welcoming surface bathed his fingers and palms, spreading a balm that washed through his body like the water he craved. He could feel it soothing the ache that he carried with every step, with every moment he held his back straight and his shoulders squared. It fit his grip as if made for him alone. Black as a winter night crowned with moonlight silver and tipped in a waning slice of the same, the walking stick was a thing of beauty. More than that, it suited him. It suited him perfectly, a symbol of his strength, his proud bearing, the honor that had sent him to war. Watson held it for a moment, admiring the gleam of light along its exotic shank. In that moment he felt that the part of life that he had thought withered away in the war had bloomed once again. This walking stick had given it back to him, it allowed him to hold himself with a soldier’s bearing, and it imparted a gentleman’s flair to his gait.
Watson turned, his part in the ceremony finished, his steps echoing through the chapel as he made his way out into the sun. The tip of his new cane flashed, not like artillery fire over the desert, but like the pure white lightning that can accompany a summer’s cloudless day. Watson paused, face turned up towards that blue sky and for the first time in longer than he could remember he felt quenched down to his very soul.