Sherlock - fic - Shameless Souls, PG-13, 2/3
Title - Shameless Souls
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John, Lestrade, OFC
Rating - PG-13 aka 12
Warning - war trauma, 1914 to the present day
Length - 1075 words
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Summary - “If he’s killing soldiers, he’s not going to be much of anything by the time Sherlock, John and I have finished with him, believe me,” Lestrade promises.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Shameless Souls Part 1
Shameless Souls
by Laura
Part 2
Lestrade and Sergeant Fitzgerald watch Sherlock leave. Sara raises her eyebrows at him, and Lestrade laughs, despite himself.
“Yeah, love, I know.”
She pushes her pad across the table; Lestrade picks it up, takes another look at her drawing. Maybe they could take her on as a crime scene artist - she’s certainly far better than their current bloke. She taps a couple of fingers against his wrist, and he hands the pad back.
Not military. MI6? she writes, after flipping to a blank page.
“Possibly. If he’s killing soldiers, he’s not going to be much of anything by the time Sherlock, John and I have finished with him, believe me,” Lestrade promises. “Now, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you about the incident in your flat.”
“And then?” Sergeant Fitzgerald mouths, noticing what he isn’t saying, like any good nurse should.
So Lestrade smiles as he says, “And then you can tell me why you drew that heart when Sherlock mentioned John, so I’m one up on him, for once in my bloody life.”
***
“Tell me, John,” Sherlock calls, the second he steps into the flat, removing his coat, hanging it up in the wardrobe. “Copycats, you said.”
Sitting in his arm chair, John looks up from The Lancet. “Hang on, just let me finish this, first, Sherlock.”
“Very well.”
He flops noisily onto the sofa; John ignores the theatrics, and just reads on, completing the blood analysis article without further interruption. He goes to make tea for them both, sits next to Sherlock, and waits for him to speak.
“Copycats?”
“Yes, copycats. I’m sure of it. Private Ioan Davies, Peter Jacobs, ex-SAS, 2nd Lieutenant Matthew Black, Rifleman Cameron Radcliffe, Sergeant Joshua Morgan were all killed because they were suffering from war-related PTSD.”
“Sergeant Sara Fitzgerald may well also be killed because she too is suffering from war-related PTSD, along with what you told us was once called hysterical mutism. And if you know this man, John, then there is every possibility that an attempt on your life may also be made.”
“Yes, I think I know that, thanks. Will you let me explain, now, then?”
“Of course.”
John has to take a deep breath before he starts. His laptop’s sitting on the coffee table; he’ll need it for this, so he pulls it towards him. “Does ‘shot at dawn’, in the context of the First World War mean anything to you, Sherlock?”
“I may have heard the phrase in a programme on BBC2, once, I think.”
“That’s good. I was picturing myself in September 1916, earlier. As an officer, sent home from the Somme, I’d have been dispatched to a proper shell shock hospital. Craiglockhart, in Edinburgh, maybe. I’d have been all right, I’d most probably have had Rivers as my doctor.”
“Rivers?” Sherlock asks.
“Dr WHR Rivers, Siegfried Sassoon’s doctor.”
“Oh, one of the war poets,” Sherlock drags from the depths of his hard drive, finally.
“Yes, one of the war poets,” John replies, with a sigh, resolving to buy and leave somewhere obvious a book of said poems, in the hope that Sherlock might possibly read them, after this case. “Anyway, I’d have had him, too. They’d have given me a desk job for the rest of the war, eventually.”
“Sounds a bit dull,” Sherlock says, with a wry grin.
“Yeah,” John allows, his expression matching his friend’s. Gallows humour really was the only option, sometimes. The smile then goes, and he continues, “The rank and file, though, the kids who’d signed up because all their mates had, they’d have been patched up, and sent straight back to the trenches as soon possible. Even if they weren’t quite ready to fight again.
“So, you’ve got already scared young men forced back into a frightening situation. Would have hardly been surprising when war then got the better of them, again, and the shell-shock that hadn’t been treated came back. Sorry, no, the ‘cowardice’ that hadn’t left them. Mentally traumatised kids, and they’re executed by their own side, at dawn, for being so. The very worst possible betrayal. There were other things that apparently merited being shot, but shell-shock or ‘cowardice’ was definitely the worst.”
“The ability of people to lie to themselves about so many things never ceases to amaze me, John.”
Well, that’s a little more sympathetic than he was actually expecting. “I know, Sherlock. I bloody know. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, it’ll all be over by Christmas, and all the other lines they fed the poor bastards. Thankfully, the Army abandoned the death penalty in 1930, and they were better prepared to deal with shell-shock in the Second World War.”
“So Lestrade told me.”
“Lestrade?”
“His grandfather was in the Coldstream Guards. Now, we have five men who were shot between the eyes, because their mental faculties had been compromised, and a woman who would have had a bullet to the jaw, for loss of voice, instead. And you think these incidents have been motivated by reasoning from an earlier time?”
“Yes. Some sick, twisted bastards at the MoD, with accomplices at MI6 and possibly CO19, seem to have decided to apply First World War thinking to today’s shell-shocked soldiers. They’ve done it five times, and I don’t have a bloody clue why. Did this really slip under Mycroft’s radar, Sherlock?”
“Apparently so, John.”
“Good for them, then. Well, no, not really, obviously, but you know what I mean.”
“Indeed. They must be commended for managing to avoid his gaze.”
“How the hell did they manage that?”
“By being very secretive and very clever. As a group, though. It’s rather difficult to outwit Mycroft alone. Now, who’s the man your very talented friend Fitz drew, the MI6 part of the puzzle?”
***
“Adam Swinburn,” John tells him, “But I don’t know if that’s his real name or a legend.”
“When did you meet him?”
“He was in this group of MI6 officers that visited Camp Bastion in April 2009.”
“So he’d know that you have military experience -”
“-- And that it sent me home, physically and mentally injured.”
“Which, as I said, makes you a potential target, John.”
“He’s not bloody coming here, Sherlock. And he’s not killing Fitz, either. She’ll find her voice again. We need to speak to the police and Mycroft, and stop this bunch of idiots.”
“Indeed, John,” Sherlock replies, smiling.
He is so very lucky to have this man as his friend.
Shameless Souls Part 3
Author - laurab1
Characters - Sherlock, John, Lestrade, OFC
Rating - PG-13 aka 12
Warning - war trauma, 1914 to the present day
Length - 1075 words
Spoilers - S1 of Sherlock
Summary - “If he’s killing soldiers, he’s not going to be much of anything by the time Sherlock, John and I have finished with him, believe me,” Lestrade promises.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Shameless Souls Part 1
Shameless Souls
by Laura
Part 2
Lestrade and Sergeant Fitzgerald watch Sherlock leave. Sara raises her eyebrows at him, and Lestrade laughs, despite himself.
“Yeah, love, I know.”
She pushes her pad across the table; Lestrade picks it up, takes another look at her drawing. Maybe they could take her on as a crime scene artist - she’s certainly far better than their current bloke. She taps a couple of fingers against his wrist, and he hands the pad back.
Not military. MI6? she writes, after flipping to a blank page.
“Possibly. If he’s killing soldiers, he’s not going to be much of anything by the time Sherlock, John and I have finished with him, believe me,” Lestrade promises. “Now, I’m sorry, but I need to ask you about the incident in your flat.”
“And then?” Sergeant Fitzgerald mouths, noticing what he isn’t saying, like any good nurse should.
So Lestrade smiles as he says, “And then you can tell me why you drew that heart when Sherlock mentioned John, so I’m one up on him, for once in my bloody life.”
***
“Tell me, John,” Sherlock calls, the second he steps into the flat, removing his coat, hanging it up in the wardrobe. “Copycats, you said.”
Sitting in his arm chair, John looks up from The Lancet. “Hang on, just let me finish this, first, Sherlock.”
“Very well.”
He flops noisily onto the sofa; John ignores the theatrics, and just reads on, completing the blood analysis article without further interruption. He goes to make tea for them both, sits next to Sherlock, and waits for him to speak.
“Copycats?”
“Yes, copycats. I’m sure of it. Private Ioan Davies, Peter Jacobs, ex-SAS, 2nd Lieutenant Matthew Black, Rifleman Cameron Radcliffe, Sergeant Joshua Morgan were all killed because they were suffering from war-related PTSD.”
“Sergeant Sara Fitzgerald may well also be killed because she too is suffering from war-related PTSD, along with what you told us was once called hysterical mutism. And if you know this man, John, then there is every possibility that an attempt on your life may also be made.”
“Yes, I think I know that, thanks. Will you let me explain, now, then?”
“Of course.”
John has to take a deep breath before he starts. His laptop’s sitting on the coffee table; he’ll need it for this, so he pulls it towards him. “Does ‘shot at dawn’, in the context of the First World War mean anything to you, Sherlock?”
“I may have heard the phrase in a programme on BBC2, once, I think.”
“That’s good. I was picturing myself in September 1916, earlier. As an officer, sent home from the Somme, I’d have been dispatched to a proper shell shock hospital. Craiglockhart, in Edinburgh, maybe. I’d have been all right, I’d most probably have had Rivers as my doctor.”
“Rivers?” Sherlock asks.
“Dr WHR Rivers, Siegfried Sassoon’s doctor.”
“Oh, one of the war poets,” Sherlock drags from the depths of his hard drive, finally.
“Yes, one of the war poets,” John replies, with a sigh, resolving to buy and leave somewhere obvious a book of said poems, in the hope that Sherlock might possibly read them, after this case. “Anyway, I’d have had him, too. They’d have given me a desk job for the rest of the war, eventually.”
“Sounds a bit dull,” Sherlock says, with a wry grin.
“Yeah,” John allows, his expression matching his friend’s. Gallows humour really was the only option, sometimes. The smile then goes, and he continues, “The rank and file, though, the kids who’d signed up because all their mates had, they’d have been patched up, and sent straight back to the trenches as soon possible. Even if they weren’t quite ready to fight again.
“So, you’ve got already scared young men forced back into a frightening situation. Would have hardly been surprising when war then got the better of them, again, and the shell-shock that hadn’t been treated came back. Sorry, no, the ‘cowardice’ that hadn’t left them. Mentally traumatised kids, and they’re executed by their own side, at dawn, for being so. The very worst possible betrayal. There were other things that apparently merited being shot, but shell-shock or ‘cowardice’ was definitely the worst.”
“The ability of people to lie to themselves about so many things never ceases to amaze me, John.”
Well, that’s a little more sympathetic than he was actually expecting. “I know, Sherlock. I bloody know. Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, it’ll all be over by Christmas, and all the other lines they fed the poor bastards. Thankfully, the Army abandoned the death penalty in 1930, and they were better prepared to deal with shell-shock in the Second World War.”
“So Lestrade told me.”
“Lestrade?”
“His grandfather was in the Coldstream Guards. Now, we have five men who were shot between the eyes, because their mental faculties had been compromised, and a woman who would have had a bullet to the jaw, for loss of voice, instead. And you think these incidents have been motivated by reasoning from an earlier time?”
“Yes. Some sick, twisted bastards at the MoD, with accomplices at MI6 and possibly CO19, seem to have decided to apply First World War thinking to today’s shell-shocked soldiers. They’ve done it five times, and I don’t have a bloody clue why. Did this really slip under Mycroft’s radar, Sherlock?”
“Apparently so, John.”
“Good for them, then. Well, no, not really, obviously, but you know what I mean.”
“Indeed. They must be commended for managing to avoid his gaze.”
“How the hell did they manage that?”
“By being very secretive and very clever. As a group, though. It’s rather difficult to outwit Mycroft alone. Now, who’s the man your very talented friend Fitz drew, the MI6 part of the puzzle?”
***
“Adam Swinburn,” John tells him, “But I don’t know if that’s his real name or a legend.”
“When did you meet him?”
“He was in this group of MI6 officers that visited Camp Bastion in April 2009.”
“So he’d know that you have military experience -”
“-- And that it sent me home, physically and mentally injured.”
“Which, as I said, makes you a potential target, John.”
“He’s not bloody coming here, Sherlock. And he’s not killing Fitz, either. She’ll find her voice again. We need to speak to the police and Mycroft, and stop this bunch of idiots.”
“Indeed, John,” Sherlock replies, smiling.
He is so very lucky to have this man as his friend.
Shameless Souls Part 3