"But it was no accident, Holmes."

Watson did not look at me. He remained turned to the window, although his folded arms were pressed tightly against his chest, as though trying to offer the smallest target possible. His chest rose and fell with unusual speed, waiting for my response.

These I observed peripherally. For my part, I felt as though time had paused momentarily and resumed without taking me along. I was keenly aware of the most trivial things: the precise angle of the raindrops on the window; the rough, worn fibers of the seats; the terrible stillness of our compartment after Watson's confession. I could scarcely credit the implications of what I had just heard.

"It was not murder, either," I heard myself say. No matter the story behind it, I believed that implicitly. My Watson was not a murderer.

Once again, Watson spun to face me, anger and anguish etched on his face. "Holmes, I killed him!" he hissed. "Deliberately, intentionally, and not in self-defense! If that's not murder, what is?"

I withdrew, both physically and mentally. The anger surprised me. I did not know why Watson sought my condemnation but I would not offer it. With a calmness I did not feel, I slowly drew out my pipe, filled it, and lit it. "It was not murder," I repeated. Then, as Watson drew breath to retort, I spoke quickly. "As one who has made his livelihood from such matters, I believe I can recognize murder, even when others do not. Tell me why. Tell me why, Watson, and then I shall tell you my verdict."

He was still angry at my denial and I was glad of it. If he could stay angry he could not torture himself with guilt and grief. He put this fury to good use now, barreling into the sordid tale told in staccato sentences. "He was a fellow soldier, wounded, with broken ribs. He couldn't breathe. A rib had punctured one of his lungs. He was in pain but morphine would depress his breathing further. I told him this. He asked for the morphine anyway. And I gave him more than twice the standard dosage." The last sentence was whispered, the weight of it leaving him drained.

I forced myself to remain the objective reasoned. "You did so knowingly?"

"Yes." The word was clipped, stirring the last embers of anger.

"Why?"

Watson swallowed hard. "Because there was nothing else I could do for him but give him a painless death."

"He was dying?"

"Yes."

"He knew this?"

"Yes."

"So he chose death by morphine instead."

"No!" He leaned forward, gaze boring into me, willing me to understand. "Holmes, he asked me to relieve his pain. That is all. It was not his choice. Not once did he ask me to –" Watson faltered and I took advantage of his inability to speak.

"Allow me to clarify. He asked you to hasten his death."

Watson hesitated before muttering, "yes."

"Would he have died without the morphine?"

"Yes, but –"

"It was not murder, Watson. And unless you personally broke his ribs and poked one through his lung, I cannot see that you are responsible for his death at all."

"Damn it, Holmes!" Watson exploded, startling me with the ferocity of his outburst. "I swore an oath to preserve life, not to take it! I swore to 'neither give nor offer a deadly drug to anyone who asks for it' but I did!"

"And you cannot forgive yourself for it," I observed softly. It was all too terribly clear. Watson was too honorable and too empathetic for his own good. For as long as I have known him, he has been a man of his word, never making a promise lightly. He was also a man dedicated to healing. I could not imagine a worse dilemma for him, to be torn between duty and compassion.

"But consider, Watson," I continued, "consider the cost if you had withheld the morphine. What manner of death would he have endured? I am not an expert in such matters but I cannot believe it should be easy or quick. Nor do I believe you would be any less tormented if you had allowed him to die without doing something to alleviate his pain."

Watson gave a start and sank back in his seat. Whatever he had been expecting me to say, it was not that. He sat silently for a time while (I hoped) my words sunk in. "I did not have to give him twice the dosage," he said at last.

"No," I agreed gently, "but given the circumstances, I think you ought to take a more lenient view of your actions." At his skeptical look, I added, "Speaking from experience, forgiving one's self is far harder than forgiving another."

11

When we reached Baker Street after what was a silent cab ride from the train station, I touched lightly on several innocuous subjects and Watson seemed relieved to follow suit. We did not speak of the matter for several weeks, due much in part to a flurry of cases that came our way, including one matter of government so vital that it even drove my brother Mycroft from his usual rails (5). Indeed, the conversation had all but passed from my mind when I happened upon a particular postcard while organizing the mounds of papers that had accumulated during the recent cases.

The postcard's area for messages was blank and unimportant. The front of it, however, was of some interest. The picture was of an iron statue of a snarling lion, black and heavily muscled, frozen mid-stride on a rectangular plinth. I could not recall how the postcard had come into my possession, nor why I had kept it (6).

"That is a picture of the Maiwand Lion," Watson said, peering over my shoulder, able to do so as I was seated on the floor.

"The Maiwand Lion," I repeated. "A monument to the battle, I take it?"

"To the 66th Berkshires who were killed there and at Kandahar, actually. It was erected nine years ago in Reading."

Watson's familiarity with the monument surprised me but a little. "I take it you purchased this postcard when you were at its unveiling."

Watson perched on my chair so I did not have to crane my neck to look at him and smiled. "However did you know that?"

"The yellowing of the card would indicate its age to be about ten years. You have just told me it could be no more than nine years old; therefore, it came into your possession around the same time the monument was unveiled."

"It could have been a gift from an acquaintance who was there in '86," Watson pointed out.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "A statue dedicated to your old regiment, which was virtually obliterated during the same battle in which you were wounded, and you were not there at its unveiling? Really, Watson, you push credibility to its limits."

He merely laughed. "Oh, very well, Holmes. You are correct as usual."

I studied the picture more carefully. The base of the monument was rectangular and although it was hard to tell from the black and white reproduction, there appeared to be small plaques running up and down the sides. Undoubtedly the names of the doomed regiment. I wondered how many of those names Watson knew, how many flesh-and-blood men had known who were now memorialized in iron and stone. How many friends he had lost.

Abruptly I turned and thrust it at him. "I trust you would prefer to keep it yourself rather than lose it amongst the storm of my case notes."

Watson made no move to take it. "Keep it," he said simply. When I hesitated his smile grew kindly. "I am in earnest, Holmes. You may have it, if you wish. I have made my peace with it at last." He clapped a hand on my shoulder and moved from my chair to his desk, probably to write up his account of the recent cases. The postcard itself I placed gently on my chair, away from the mass of papers around me. I would indeed keep it. With a bit of luck, I should learn from it as well.

A week or so later I found Watson standing in front of my side of the bookshelf, silently reading the little cardboard placard next to a small, newly framed picture that sat on the highest shelf. I moved behind him quietly, rereading the inscription from the Maiwand Lion I had written on the placard:

This monument commemorates the names and records the valour and devotion of XI (11) officers and CCCXVIII (318) non-commissioned officers and men of the LXVI (66th) Berkshire Regiment who gave their lives for their country at Girishk Maiwand and Kandahar during the Afghan Campaign MDCCCLXXIX (1878) - MDCCCLXXX (1880) History does not afford any grander or finer instance of gallentry and devotion to Queen and country than that displayed by the LXVI Regiment at the Battle of Maiwand on the XXVII (27th) July MDCCCLXX (1880) Despatch of General Primrose.

Beneath the inscription, I had included: God rest the young British soldiers.

I must have alerted him to my presence inadvertantly for Watson turned abruptly, his expression unreadable, even for me. "Holmes . . ."

"I hope my choice in decorative arts will not be a hardship for you?" I asked, discomfort making my words sound more brusque than I intended. I only hoped he would see past it.

"Of course not, Holmes, but -- "

"Valor and devotion are noble traits, and ought to be honored in all forms," I interrupted. I offered him a quick, uncertain smile. Would Watson understand it was a small tribute to him? That I was acknowledging the trials he had faced and the fortitude he had shown both then and now? And that it was my own reminder of how fortunate I was to have him as a friend?

Watson looked back over his shoulder at the framed postcard with its placard. "I quite agree, Holmes" he said softly, smiling. Then, almost too low for me to hear, he added, "Thank you."

(5) Yup, that would be The Bruce-Partington Plans.

(6) Wikipedia-search "Maiwand Lion" and click on the first source link at the bottom of the page to see the postcard.

Well, folks, that's the end of this ride! I hope you enjoyed the journey[s) as much as I did.