Falling Apart

A Sherlock fanfiction written by Admin Regulus

Before this story begins I would like to thank every soldier who has, is or will be fighting for their country to assure peace, freedom and safety.
May God protect you from danger and harm, may he help you to look pass the fear and dark times you might experience and may you never run out of the tiny bit of soldier's luck.
Take care and thank you for your service.

It was a day like every other one.

The kitchen table was covered in pictures of Sherlock's latest case (apparently a veteran trying to revenge his fallen friend, John had decided to stay out of it) and of notices in an almost undecipherable handwriting of the world's one and only Consulting Detective.

John was careful to move the photographs merely for a few inches to find some space for his cup of tea, which was quite hot. He frowned inner side as Sherlock suddenly clapped in his hands, hardly suppressing a chuckle "Brilliant, oh it's Christmas!"

"I thought you'd dislike Christmas," said John looking at his flatmate, raising a lonely eyebrow. "There's a lot of sentiment, after all."

Sherlock, however, just ignored his words and grabbed his coat and scarf, leaving the 221B running. Sighing quietly John looked after him and took a draught of his tea, burning his mouth. Congrats, John, he thought cynically. Just then his mobile rang; an unknown number appeared on the screen. "Watson."

"Jamie Cooper speaking, John," said a calm voice of a man on the other end.

Almost instantly John straightened his shoulders as he recognised the caller; putting his cup back onto the table he stood up and walked over to the window, glancing down Baker Street which was as busy as ever. Calm down John, no one is planning an ambush on you. It's silly, isn't it? After all those months you spent miles away from the war you still cannot forget the violence and the abyss of human nature that you've seen.

A pleasant familiar warmth spread through his entire body coming out from his heart. "You're still alive..." he whispered unable to held back those words, barely believing that he was actually speaking with a friend though he had experienced many unbelievable things during the last year he had been living with Sherlock.

"Indeed, yes I am." John could hear a bitter laughter. "More or less."

"What do you mean?" asked John, clenching the hand which was not holding the mobile to a fist. In his mind he could see images of a young, dark-haired man being shot by a sniper. And as he looked down at his hand he thought for a moment the blood of those who he had been unable to safe and of the man calling him was still on his hands.
He shook his head violently to get rid of these thoughts.

"John, calm down mate," said Jamie warily. "I'm currently in London on leave for a few weeks and will be promoted a Lieutenant by the end of this week." There was a tiny trace of pride in the voice.
And John found himself speechless for a few seconds, and then he said, after swallowing hard "Congratulations, Jamie."

But he knew this was not truly the reason why his friend had called him, so he waited and Jamie took the silence on the other end of the line as a request to continue.

"As you might know my family can't- won't be able to attend. And I was wondering whether you-"
"Have time?" helped John with a small smile on his face. He could still remember how they first met in the Tube somewhere near Tottenham Court Road.

It had been late autumn and the rain and wind was almost unbearable to endure. The people were all hurrying to their destinations and ignoring the boy, maybe about seventeen, leaning against the wall. "Excuse me, sir. You don't have a penny to lend for a hot drink, by any chance?" he boy had called after John, who had been the only one to look at him for longer than all the other and had been, as it was his duty as a doctor, checking for illnesses or other signs of injuries.

The shabby clothes of the boy were soaking wet and he was barely holding back his shivering.

"I'm afraid you won't get a hot drink for just a penny," he had replied calmly. John had seen the flash of shame and resignation in the boy's eyes. "I'm a doctor," he said in the same quiet and soothing voice. "And as a doctor I'd advise you to change your clothes otherwise you'll get the flu and die eventually out here, so come along."

Shrugging the boy had picked up his bag and followed John, his eyes always observing his surroundings as they went up the stairs. And John could not blame him for that- the world was a cruel place to be left alone in.

"I'm Jamie, by the way. Jamie Cooper," the boy had introduced himself, uncertain whether he should offer his dirty hand to John. But John had taken it anyway, "John Watson at your service."

They had visited a small café. There John had been in his flat right above the bar and had gotten some of the clothes which he did not fit in anymore for Jamie to change into. As Jamie returned, the owner and friend of John had brought hot drinks and a proper meal for the boy.

John had glanced at the boy, frowning slightly: the shirt hung loosely around Jamie's abdomen and he needed a belt to keep the jeans from slipping down his hips.

"So, why are you living on the streets?" John had asked after Jamie had finished eating.

Slowly Jamie placed his hands which were still red due the cold around the cup filled with hot chocolate. He had shifted warily under John's gaze and had become almost imperceptible paler.
"I- Father kicked me... out?" he had said in a small voice and it sounded more like a question than like a statement. John had heard the underlying fear in his voice. "But I've finished school with A-levels, so it's fine... I guess."

"Which courses did you take?" had John asked still in his calm manner, though he wanted to tell the father of this boy quite a story! How could a parent possibly abandon their own child?
This world was really going to the dogs.

"Biology, English Literature, Law, Drama and Psychology," Jamie had answered after a long pause. His voice had been very quiet and had been shaking like hell. He had shrieked back with unhidden angst in his eyes as John had dared to reach out for his hand to support him. A whimper had escaped his pale lips and John had instantly withdrawn his hand.

"I won't hurt you," he had said reassuringly. He had felt his subconscious trying to convince him to take the boy in with him, but he knew it was impossible as he would soon leave for his first tour to Afghanistan.

Jamie had looked away and had whispered "Don't. In the end everyone does, and all words are nothing but empty."

After they had been talking for long hours and John had persuaded Jamie that he had nothing evil in mind and would not hurt him ever, Jamie eventually had moved in with John and enlisted himself to the Royal Army, which granted him a good education in the field of medical treatment and helped to re-build his self-esteem.

One day in November, just weeks before John would leave to Afghanistan and Jamie to Medical School, latter had returned home with a signed document that stated he was now legally under John's guardianship. The document also had the signature of his birth-father and John did not ask how exactly Jamie had succeed to get it, but he had nevertheless treated the bruises on Jamie's face and neck, following the Don't-ask-don't-tell policy.

John could still see the happy smile on Jamie's face clearly before his eyes as Jamie said "Well, yes. I mean, I can totally understand if you have got better things to do and can't come either. I'm sorry. I- I shouldn't have called. I-"

"Shut up, idiot!" John cut in. "This is the first time I heard anything of you in a few years and I've told you before not to apologise for your bloody decisions, understood?"

"Yes, sir." Jamie laughed quietly and soon John joined in.

"Do you think you're ready for this, Jamie?" asked John getting serious again.

They both knew what he meant by that: Are you ready to lead your friends and brothers in arms to their death? Will you be able to be in charge of a hopeless mission doomed to fail? Do you believe you'll be able to cope with your men dying right in front of you because you did not manage to finish off hostile snipers in time? And it will be your very own fault. You might fail them, and you will never be even able to apologise because the dead do not tend to hear.

"I do not know," was the sincere reply after some moments of utter silence.

"How have you found out my number anyway?"

Laughter erupted on the other end. "Oh, I was kidnapped by a man called Mycroft Holmes and he gave it to me along with some files for his brother, concerning some high-ranking military guy."
John smirked. "Alright, I'll bring Sherlock with me."

"Drag him if you have to," said Jamie. "Listen, I got to go. My boyfriend and I'll be meeting in thirty minutes. Let's say on Friday where we first met around eleven o'clock to check things?"

John nodded, but then he remembered that Jamie could neither see nor hear his nod and he hurried to say "Yes, yeah, I'll see you there."

As the line died he stared at the mobile in his hand, not believing what just happened. This had been... unforeseen.

A smile appeared on John's face and he returned to his cup of tea, which was cool by now, thinking that Friday would be in two days and that he should better inform Sherlock not to take a case until Monday, so that he would have time to accompany him to the promotion.

He decided not to ask Mycroft how exactly he had found out about his relation to Jamie. This man knew everything and probably even knew what blacked out missions of the Royal Army had been about, not to mention that he would be most likely involved when it would come to stop the Third World War from happening.

As he was done with surgery for this week and had nothing to write about on his blog he turned on the television, not really watching. His mind was far away and not aware whether the Doctor defeated the Master or not. Taking a deep breath John felt the unmistakably hot, burning and sandy air of the damned desert entering his lungs.

The last time he had seen Jamie was as he himself was lying on the hot sand in the middle on the desert, slowly but for certain bleeding out to death. Dust was blinding him, pushing the furniture of 221B out of his perception until he was not sure anymore about what was real and what was not.
The fighting had not stopped around him, but the noise of battle had become much quieter, it sounded so far away. If John had not felt such an immense, agonising pain in this moment as he had pressed his hand with all strength he could gather onto the gaping wound in his shoulder, he would have laughed at the irony.

He was supposed to fix the injured, not the other way round! A doctor tended by his own kind. How laughable.

It had taken him so much discipline not to close his eyes.

With a thud someone fell down next to him, maybe two metres away. Though John had been barely able to breathe anymore he got up, crawled over to his comrade and began to check for the vitals. His vision had blurred a few times but he was somehow able to blend the throbbing pain in his shoulder out of focus as he made sure the solider under his hands would be able to live beyond today.

The shouts and explosions around them, the bullets buzzing through the air and the fast heartbeat pounding in his ears had seemed so unearthly.

Soon his hands and clothes had been drenched in blood, some of it his own, and he had panted for breath as the weight on his shoulders and the tiredness he felt had increased drastically.

A hand had been placed gently on his right shoulder. "Captain Watson..." a voice had said, trying to get his attention. "Stay with us, sir."

His hands had gotten numb.

"John!" He had felt someone tending his wounds and his eyes flattered open. "Don't you fucking dare to die on me," had growled a young medic. And some part of John's detached mind had recognised him as his ward. He had looked down at himself and all he saw was blood.
Red, dark blood. His leg was covered in it, but strangely enough he did not felt any pain.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw how the puddle of blood around him got bigger.

To lose more than forty percent of his total body blood is to be considered fatal and life-threatening; John had remembered the words of his professor vague.
He had never been aware how much blood was actually within himself. Why didn't it stop?

"Murray, I can't- it doesn't stop..." John had heard the desperation in the voice, but he genuinely had not known where this emotion had come from.

He had not felt a thing. There had been only pure emptiness and a hole in his chest. A dark, deep hole. It had been freezing, so damn cold. And it had felt like his life was vanishing through this very hole, vanishing into nothingness.

"It's alright, laddie. Just have a look at Williams. I'm taking care of the Captain..."

He had been shaken softly and someone had grabbed his wrist like to get hold of his pulse, which had gotten weaker and weaker any moment. Please God, let me live.


Gun shots rang out and John's eyes snapped open as he heard cries and pleas. His hand instantly reached for the gun in his belt and he pointed it right at the direction from where the shots had come, before he became aware that it was merely something happening on telly. Right, he was in London. UK. At 221B Baker Street, alive and safe and everything was fine.

His British Army Browning L9A1 slipped through his cold fingers and fell to the floor.

Before he knew he was burying his face in his hands, curled up on the sofa Sherlock used to sulk on. No, he was not crying. To be honest, John was not even sure whether he had still tears left to shed. Soldiers did not cry.

Somehow he must have fallen asleep while rocking back and forth, shoulders shaking, because as he woke up it was already semi-dark outside and he felt someone watching; no, gazing intently at him with those piercing grey eyes.

John sat up straight, wincing as pain shot through his body. His bad shoulder was stiff as hell and his fingertips felt numb.

Sherlock's eyes clearly showed interest and curiosity, but John simply had no nerve to deal with the genius and brilliant flatmate of his right now.

Not like he hasn't deduced everything by now yet, he thought.

"Good news?" Sherlock stated, though he was eager to let it sound like a question for the sake of his friend's sanity.

John, however, just stood up and headed to the kitchen to make himself some tea (Tea was able to solve everything, at least in John's perception though only when you were able to forget about the actual problem.) as he realised his RAMC cup saying "In Arduis Fidelis" was standing on the table next to the sofa. It was still steaming and after a questioning glance at Sherlock, who made a prompting gesture towards it, he turned sharp and picked the cup up, taking a draught of it he said "Well, yes. Good news, thanks God."

"Concerning someone you knew in the army, I take it?" Sherlock muttered, suddenly appearing next to John who had to fight back the urge to give his friend a hook.

"Sherlock!" exclaimed John and moved to the end of the sofa furthest away from Sherlock. "I would have told you eventually, you bloody git. There's no need to interrogate me."

"Bloody git?" teased Sherlock. "I really thought you as a former soldier and doctor would know more and better words to insult someone..."

A smirk flashed over his thin lips, but John knew his friend was bored and his behaviour would just get worse with each minute he spent unoccupied.

It was quite surprising Sherlock had let him sleep on the sofa until he woke up by himself anyway.
"'Course I do. But I wasn't certain whether you'd be appreciate being called things you don't understand," gave John back, smiling.

Sherlock crossed his arms and would not say a word for the next hour or so.

"When you're done pouting," John said, after checking his e-mails and looking up the latest military news from Afghanistan and Iraq as well as from Kosovo and Kabul. His friends were all somewhere down there and John, pulled back by Jamie's call into the time at the troops, prayed they were all safe and alive. "I would like to ask you not to take any case till the end of this week."

Immediately Sherlock's head shot up. "Why- what- no!"

"Oh yes, you won't. A very close... friend, more like member of my family, is currently on leave and has some information for you about this guy from last week, what was his name again? Never mind-"

"Christopher Evans," growled Sherlock, he was looking like a child who had been taken away its favourite toy.

"And I would actually like to spend some time with him before he goes back to the war zone," John clarified, ignoring Sherlock's "I don't need you to solve a case." Damn, this hurt. Sherlock was clearly jealous.

"Also I want you to meet him..." he added after a while. He looked at Sherlock, who wore an unreadable mask on his pale face.

"He is important to you and was with you the day you were shot," said Sherlock finally.

"How do you-"

"It's obvious John." And Sherlock gave him The Look.