The Lazarus Machine

Chapter 8

Sherlock did not appear for the evening meal and Harry just picked at his food, refilling his wine goblet several times before John motioned for the servants to remove it from the room.  Lord Sherrinford had elected to take his supper in his rooms and John was glad for that.  He wasn't sure he wanted to speak to him again so soon, neither something serious nor witheringly dull small talk.  Of course, company with Harry was less fun than a picnic out on the moors in February.

"It's good of you to do this," Harry slurred.  "I'm ever so sorry, John.  That man, he's horrible.  I wish I didn't have to beg you to do this.  There was just so much to pay in debt and taxes when Father died…"  He trailed off.  "And Clara, darling Clara, she hasn't but a ha'penny to her name.  I love her so, John, but we can't be together."

Jesus, Harry was a dismal drunk.  No wonder nothing ever got better if Harry couldn't see his way out of it.

"Maybe after my marriage, when things are looking up and more in control, her family will reconsider your proposal."

Harry went on like he hadn't even heard.

"I could sell the house, the lands, but what happens when that is gone?"  Gets taken away, he means.  Debts, debts to someone, a moneylender perhaps.  "We'll have nothing to live on.  We'll be lucky to eke out some sort of living for ourselves.

"Do you love anyone, John?  Have I, in my disgrace, done you a broken heart?"

"No, brother, worry not."  John had courted girls in his younger years, the happier, brighter years, most recently in his dashing red uniform before heading to the war.  And they had swooned for Captain Watson, charming, vivacious, always ready with a genuine compliment and a request to dance.  But none of them were serious; none of the young girls or young men truly caught his eye.  Too insipid, too flirtatious, too, too much.  Frivolous, he supposed.  There would be plenty of time to settle later, particularly since he was not the heir and did not need to provide children.

Then army life was challenging, too challenging to think of things like love and marriage.  John spent most of his waking hours thinking of his patients, his comrades.  The occasional requirement of an Officer's Ball kept his social skills intact, but he could not help but feel they were a ridiculous waste of time.  They were at war, a seemingly endless war with the rest of the world, and somehow there was time for celebration and jubilee while his men were sometimes starving and cold, injured and dying.

Finally, there was the injury, John's injury.  The one that would keep him from the army, from his career.  At least he'd kept his leg – so many others lost limbs or eyes or scarred so badly they were fearsome to look at even healed.  John had seen so many of these men, it broke his heart.  He'd done his best for each and every soldier he encountered but he was home now.  After Waterloo, most of them were home now.

Once, he'd imagined after the war he'd start up a small practice, but his after-the-war started so abruptly, and his recovery took so much time, and Harry could barely hold things together, well, he'd utterly abandoned those plans.  And now, now John had no real idea what his future held.  He'd be married to a stranger, living, most likely, in London.  His new family was gentry of a much higher caliber than his father, a landed country squire.  His future was a world apart from where he'd ever imagined.

Exposure to maudlin-drunk Harry was apparently contagious.  John pushed away from the table, aware that Harry was still muttering on to himself and had never stopped.

"Good night, Harry."

His brother looked up in surprise, as if not realized he'd been talking to someone this whole time.