Just who the hell did Sherlock Holmes think he was claiming that heroes didn't exist? From personal experience, John Watson knew better.
The memory returned, a waking nightmare.
An aid convoy on a hot, dusty road in Afghanistan. The blinding flash from the roadside explosion. Screams for help from the damaged trucks up ahead. He'd checked a driver. Legs gone. Bled out. Nothing he could do.
He moved on looking for someone he could help. Searing pain in his shoulder, the force of the round driving him back and down. Blood soaking the blouse of his fatigues. Safety a few yards away behind an overturned Jeep, but any movement drew fire. Small gouts of sand and dirt close to his head. Please God, let me live!
"Hold on, Doc. I'm coming for you." Patrick's voice. The sound of a round hitting bone. Blood and brain spattered on Watson's face.
"Anybody see where that came from?"
"Over there. Pile of rocks at 2 o'clock."
"Cover me! I'm going for the doc." Malcolm's voice.
No! Yes! No! Please God, let me live!"
Assault weapons opening up. Long bursts. Full automatic. Strong hands grabbing his arm, pulling at him, dragging him back. Overwhelming pain. A scream. Blackout.
Heroes existed, both Malcolm who'd saved him and Pat who'd tried, else he'd be buried in Brookwood.