Reporting In

The General let the smile curl at his lips again.

"It does not take a genius, Mister Sharpe, to work out why a lowly sergeant brings a general cash for a four hundred guinea horse when a note of hand would have sufficed; or why a certain other sergeant was so eager to have you in his custody."

Sharpe's jaw dropped. He'd practically forgotten about buying Aeolus for Colonel McCandless. If he were honest, he'd have thought Sir Arthur would have forgotten as well. What else did the General know about him?

"Did you ever tell Colonel McCandless?" he asked, curious. Maybe he shouldn't ask, but they were alone, in the General's office. And Wellesley had let the mask slip earlier.

India. If it weren't for India, Sharpe wouldn't be here, now, wearing an officer's sash. And he certainly wouldn't be asking a question like that.

"No," said Wellesley. "But only because there was no reason to. The jewels were considered long gone and I later discovered that McCandles knew anyway. Besides, I had been trying to get rid of that horse for ages; I was not about to refuse your offer."

He wasn't sure he was entirely comfortable with knowing that Sir Arthur knew about the Tippoo's jewels. But, if it had to be anyone, he'd rather it was Sir Arthur than anyone else. It was part of the... whatever it was, that they shared. Along with the memories.

"Is...is there anything else, sir?" he said. He couldn't bring himself to meet the blue eyes above that hooked nose, and gazed instead over the other man's left ear in the way he'd learned to do all those years ago.

Back to the old game again of sergeant and officer. Wellesley inwardly sighed, feeling the disappointment keenly. Only moments ago they had been on as intimate speaking terms as it was possible to get, and then he had panicked and ruined it once more.

"No, there is not. Go home, lieutenant, and take some care of yourself. I want you fit for the march, not to find you invalided due to carelessness."

"Yes, sir," Sharpe said. Somehow he felt that it was his fault that Sir Arthur had withdrawn behind that cold gaze again. If he'd said something different, maybe...

Maybe nothing. There was something there, something that didn't need words, and Sir Arthur had felt it, and he'd felt it and they'd both felt more comfortable without it. He stepped out into the hallway, closed the door and leaned back against it briefly, closing his eyes. Why was it always so hard, meeting the General?

He wanted the man to like him, and feared he never would. The only thing left was to somehow, somehow, gain his respect. And the only way to do that was fight. To show he was a good soldier. His hand rested briefly on the telescope as he pushed away from the door.

Why did he always set himself impossible challenges?

The door closed behind Sharpe and the General put his glass down on the desk with unsteady fingers. They had not stopped trembling since he had handed back the telescope. He crossed over to the window, resting his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes. Why did he feel as if he had just charged through a battery of French artillery? He felt shattered; that was the word, shattered, and he was not sure why.

It had been the telescope that undid him. Talking about poor Grace to Sharpe had been awkward enough, but at the sight of the telescope, at the feel of the wood and brass in his hands a lump had risen in his throat and a choking sensation in his breast - not unlike how one felt before crying. Perhaps that was why he had withdrawn; because he feared he might weep? But no, he did not think he would have wept - but he was at a loss to know what else he should have done, and that had unsettled him deeply.

Now what Sharpe would think of him he did not know. He so wanted the rifleman to like him - he surprised himself by the admission. But it was true; he admired the tall, surly man's abilities, his stubborness and his pride, and wanted... he didn't know whether 'friendship' was the right word or even appropriate, but he wanted them to be able to get along.

Even Sharpe not looking like he'd prefer to run a mile every time he set eyes on him would be enough...