Sherlock Holmes and the case of the Blind Duchess

Chapter 1

     When John Watson put his head down to rest, he did so expecting the worst and lately the nights had not failed him yet. They would always start off the same, going back to better times when he was studying to become a doctor, much to the pride of his loving parents. Yet things would change all because of a single letter that carried the word his mother had feared: conscription. According to the military, being in medical school wasn't enough to avoid being drafted into the war. This meant John was one of many, many young men who ended up being shipped off to the brutal front lines of northern France to fight the Germans. From there Watson's dreams would routinely replay the worst moments of his time during the war, reminding him of all the people lost and even those he murdered with his bare hands in defense of King and country. The night would always end the same, with John almost leaping out of bed, covered in so much sweat that Mrs. Hudson had to wash his bedsheets every afternoon and sneak them back into his bed without the doctor noticing. Despite his best efforts to keep his nightmares to himself, Watson knew that Holmes was too wise and sharp for the details to be so carelessly missed. And yet the flamboyant detective said nothing, and never seemed to pry about such matters, respecting the young doctor's privacy which was not the reaction Watson was expecting from his flatmate. Yet he didn't dare ask Holmes why out of fear that it might nudge Sherlock into inquiring about his terrible dreams which was the last thing Watson wanted.

     It was a brisk autumn morning at 221B Baker Street, and while sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, casting a warm glow upon the cluttered sitting room, there was still a chill in the air that made the room rather pleasant to Holmes. As usual, Doctor John Watson awoke from his slumber with a start, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, as the remnants of his most recent nightmare had haunted his sleep yet again. The echoes of distant gunfire, and the agonized cries of wounded comrades still reverberated deep in his mind. A haunting melody that refused to release its grip on John's consciousness. Watson slowly sat up and rubbing his eyes wearily. The Great War they called it, that monstrous specter that continued to cast its dark shadow over Watson's nights, continued to visit him in dream. John took a deep breath, attempting to shake off the lingering thoughts, but the taste of fear and even the scent of blood seemed to cling to the very fabric of his being. It still never stopped him from getting out of bed and starting his day, as Watson was eager to never let that war beat him. He had survived and will continue to do so not only for himself, but for the comrades that were not lucky enough to get out of the trenches alive. As he descended the stairs to the second floor, Watson could hear the faint strains of Sherlock's violin emanating from their living room. Melancholic notes being by the skilled hands of his enigmatic flatmate, Master Sherlock Holmes. The consulting detective stood by the window and watched the people outside his flat while he continued to play as if the workers wandering by were his audience.

     "Morning, Watson," Holmes called out to him without even looking up from his violin. Holmes could always tell who was entering the room just based on the hygiene products the young doctor used to mask the musk of his manliness.

     "Good morning, Holmes," Watson replied, his voice tinged with a hint of weariness.

     Holmes continued to play, as his eyes focused on the bow dancing across the strings. "Nightmares again, I presume?"

     "I'm afraid so," Watson conceded, surprised he even brought it up.

     "I'm terribly sorry to hear that," Holmes replied, "I can assure you that experiencing trauma once is often one time too many. I assume your trauma comes from the trenches?"

     "Yes, the war," Watson confirmed, "It refuses to let me be."

     Sherlock lowered the violin, finally turning his attention to face his companion.