Fields
Title: Fields
Author(s): Jenny Starseed
Rating: G
Character(s): John Watson, Sherlock Holmes. (ACD Universe)
Summary: Holmes and Watson never fought in the Great War, but they know those who did.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 790
Author's Notes: Written for Watson’ Woe’s miniwrimo picture Prompt #11: In Flanders’s Fields. Nervous about posting a fic about Remembrance/Veteran’s Day. Historical Information is from Thomas W. Laqueur’s piece “Memory and Naming in the Great War” that was compiled in a book called “The Politics of National Identity,” published by Princeton University Press. I’ve set the fic in 1920.
Unbeta-ed, so comments and (polite) concrit is welcomed. None of the Characters are mine.
Holmes and Watson moved through the field of crosses, identical white crosses were lined neatly on the green grass. Watson grimly watched the grieving families, particularly the mothers, who placed their flowers at their son’s gravesites with grief etched on their face while their husbands stoically stood beside them. Watson often thought that if Mary had lived and had children, he would be part of one of these families. Watson doesn’t know the grief of a child’s death, he idly wondered if that was a blessing in disguise before he berated himself for such insensitive thoughts.
Holmes knew many of the men who died and were buried here. Many of them were part of the Baker Street irregulars that Holmes paid shillings at a time for information and favours. He remembers each of them fondly and was visibly distraught each time he laid flowers at each one of their graves. Holmes fought hard to have each of his irregulars found and buried. It was a difficult task since almost all of the irregulars were orphaned street urchins, who with no kin to speak of, were often a low priority to be found and buried. There was a backlog at the Graves Registration Commission, who was severely overwhelmed by the task of finding and identifying bodies. There was a never such a large scale war that anonymous and mass graves were deemed unacceptable by the people of Britain. It was through sheer determination that Holmes found many of his deceased irregulars but he feared that many more were forever lost to him.
“That’s Emerson, a wonderful lad,” Holmes reminisced. He set the flowers by his gravesite. “He followed that odious Johnston fellow for a full three days, giving me important information that helped me uncover the Bradbury smuggling ring. He had an excellent memory and was a faithful irregular, I imagine he was a very faithful and determined soldier. May he rest in peace.”
Later that evening, Holmes invited Watson to stay the night at his small farm in the Sussex Downs. They shared a brandy in front of the fire after a satisfying cold dinner. It was here, in his home away from the grief and the families that Holmes thought about his friend’s war service and thought to ask his opinion on a delicate matter.
“Watson, I do not mean to be insensitive...” Holmes began with uncertainty, his hand played nervously with his glass. Watson had rarely ever seen Holmes so reticent to ask a question.
“Holmes, we are long time friends,” reassured Watson. “Believe me when I say that there is nothing you can say to me that will vex me enough to discontinue our friendship. If I were a lesser man, you would have said them all and I wouldn’t have been walking those fields with you this afternoon.”
“Alright. I will put this as delicately and sensitively as possible, please understand that I don’t mean to offend when I ask...,” Holmes began haltingly. He put his glass down and faced Watson. “Do you ever wonder that it was a bit unjust that the men you fought with were never properly buried in the manner of the poor soldiers we saw today? If I remember correctly, there was only ever a single marker for a Major Blackwood on the burial site of those who died at Maiwand. Does it really take such a mass carnage for Great Britain to give due respect to its soldiers?”
“It’s a new kind of war, Holmes,” explained Watson. “Never had England had fatalities in such a large number. Europe is devastated. I think it’s tragic that it took the Great War to motivate our Government to commemorate and give proper burial to our dead soldiers. Those ordinary soldiers who were not noble Aristocratic Generals and Majors, but ordinary young men and some of them were your irregulars. I was sad for a long time that I had no proper place to pay my respects to each my friends who died in Maiwand, I can only be glad that such places exist for grieving families now.”
Holmes looked into the fire, deep in thought. “Yes, I suppose on this occasion, one should look forward to not make the same mistakes of the past by remembrance.”
“I agree,” replied Watson. After a thoughtful moment, he added, “I should also add that I do not think that the new war memorial in London and those all over Europe is a remembrance for solely those who died in the Great War, but for all those who lost their lives in wars past. And that includes my fellow army medics and soldiers who died during the Afghan war. War is horrid. Let us never forget that.”
Author(s): Jenny Starseed
Rating: G
Character(s): John Watson, Sherlock Holmes. (ACD Universe)
Summary: Holmes and Watson never fought in the Great War, but they know those who did.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 790
Author's Notes: Written for Watson’ Woe’s miniwrimo picture Prompt #11: In Flanders’s Fields. Nervous about posting a fic about Remembrance/Veteran’s Day. Historical Information is from Thomas W. Laqueur’s piece “Memory and Naming in the Great War” that was compiled in a book called “The Politics of National Identity,” published by Princeton University Press. I’ve set the fic in 1920.
Unbeta-ed, so comments and (polite) concrit is welcomed. None of the Characters are mine.
Holmes and Watson moved through the field of crosses, identical white crosses were lined neatly on the green grass. Watson grimly watched the grieving families, particularly the mothers, who placed their flowers at their son’s gravesites with grief etched on their face while their husbands stoically stood beside them. Watson often thought that if Mary had lived and had children, he would be part of one of these families. Watson doesn’t know the grief of a child’s death, he idly wondered if that was a blessing in disguise before he berated himself for such insensitive thoughts.
Holmes knew many of the men who died and were buried here. Many of them were part of the Baker Street irregulars that Holmes paid shillings at a time for information and favours. He remembers each of them fondly and was visibly distraught each time he laid flowers at each one of their graves. Holmes fought hard to have each of his irregulars found and buried. It was a difficult task since almost all of the irregulars were orphaned street urchins, who with no kin to speak of, were often a low priority to be found and buried. There was a backlog at the Graves Registration Commission, who was severely overwhelmed by the task of finding and identifying bodies. There was a never such a large scale war that anonymous and mass graves were deemed unacceptable by the people of Britain. It was through sheer determination that Holmes found many of his deceased irregulars but he feared that many more were forever lost to him.
“That’s Emerson, a wonderful lad,” Holmes reminisced. He set the flowers by his gravesite. “He followed that odious Johnston fellow for a full three days, giving me important information that helped me uncover the Bradbury smuggling ring. He had an excellent memory and was a faithful irregular, I imagine he was a very faithful and determined soldier. May he rest in peace.”
Later that evening, Holmes invited Watson to stay the night at his small farm in the Sussex Downs. They shared a brandy in front of the fire after a satisfying cold dinner. It was here, in his home away from the grief and the families that Holmes thought about his friend’s war service and thought to ask his opinion on a delicate matter.
“Watson, I do not mean to be insensitive...” Holmes began with uncertainty, his hand played nervously with his glass. Watson had rarely ever seen Holmes so reticent to ask a question.
“Holmes, we are long time friends,” reassured Watson. “Believe me when I say that there is nothing you can say to me that will vex me enough to discontinue our friendship. If I were a lesser man, you would have said them all and I wouldn’t have been walking those fields with you this afternoon.”
“Alright. I will put this as delicately and sensitively as possible, please understand that I don’t mean to offend when I ask...,” Holmes began haltingly. He put his glass down and faced Watson. “Do you ever wonder that it was a bit unjust that the men you fought with were never properly buried in the manner of the poor soldiers we saw today? If I remember correctly, there was only ever a single marker for a Major Blackwood on the burial site of those who died at Maiwand. Does it really take such a mass carnage for Great Britain to give due respect to its soldiers?”
“It’s a new kind of war, Holmes,” explained Watson. “Never had England had fatalities in such a large number. Europe is devastated. I think it’s tragic that it took the Great War to motivate our Government to commemorate and give proper burial to our dead soldiers. Those ordinary soldiers who were not noble Aristocratic Generals and Majors, but ordinary young men and some of them were your irregulars. I was sad for a long time that I had no proper place to pay my respects to each my friends who died in Maiwand, I can only be glad that such places exist for grieving families now.”
Holmes looked into the fire, deep in thought. “Yes, I suppose on this occasion, one should look forward to not make the same mistakes of the past by remembrance.”
“I agree,” replied Watson. After a thoughtful moment, he added, “I should also add that I do not think that the new war memorial in London and those all over Europe is a remembrance for solely those who died in the Great War, but for all those who lost their lives in wars past. And that includes my fellow army medics and soldiers who died during the Afghan war. War is horrid. Let us never forget that.”