Disclaimer: I've read somewhere that these have to be done so I will do it here, the one time. I don't own Sherlock and make no profit from this. I hope you enjoy :)
Chapter 1 - In which there is War
The first bomb fell from the enemies airship with a screaming whistle. John Watson ignored the scorching air that filled the trench as he tried to staunch the blood that gushed from what was left of a young man's arm. He bit back a scream of frustration as the man shuddered violently and stilled, his glassy eyes staring up at the blackened sky.
He swept a cursory glance around the empty trench and hauled himself out along with his medical bag.
He felt no fear as he ran through the battlefield from body to body. Not because there was an unspoken rule during war that field medics were not to be shot but because he was beyond fear now. Though bullets flew past him and bombs fell from the sky like meteorites, he was not afraid any more. He had been scared; the tremor of his hands, his frantic thoughts of home and a life he would not have were testament to that. After a while though he moved through the fear and found a peaceful state of mind. The blood rushed through his ears, he couldn't hear the bullets any more. His thoughts weren't of a life he might miss but instead of the life the wounded man who now depended on him might miss.
John skidded to a halt beside a groaning soldier, he recognised him. McCarthy. He was eighteen, he had a fiancé waiting for him back in London. John leaned down and assessed him.
"Stay with me!" John shouted as he ripped open the lads shirt. A single bullet wound to the chest. The small hole sucked at air and gurgled bloodily with each breath McCarthy took. John's fingers became slippery as he applied pressure to the wound with one hand while he fumbled in his side pouch for supplies with the other.
Then he was on his back, staring at the sky as it darkened quickly. He took a breath and tried to get back up but pain bolted through every nerve and burrowed deeply into the marrow of his bones. He cried out as more bombs fell from the black sky, they shook the earth silently. Johns heartbeat slowed in his ears, nearly a whisper now, and he felt a prayer escape his lips as unconsciousness claimed him.
"Please God, let me live."
Harsh light filtered through eyelids that were heavy and impossible to open.
John was awash with the tingle of morphine. He felt weightless and pleasant and couldn't, for the life of him, remember where he was.
Snippets of a far away conversation drifted by.
"Didn't think they were using cursed bullets."
"We need a Wizard for this!"
"They were aiming for him, the bastards!"
They sounded so panicked and angry. He was vaguely aware of cold hands over his body, he found them soothing as they caressed his skin and prodded him gently.
Then a voice, that rang clear like a bell at night, broke through the panic.
"How far has it spread?"
After that, all words were lost to him. The caressing continued for a few minutes until the caresses were like nails dragging and pinching and hurting him. The cool hands didn't stave the heat that consumed his flesh, his shoulder was on fire and he screamed in earnest.
His nerves were burning but his veins were starting to freeze and his mind clouded over turning his thoughts simple and primal. The hands pinned him down as he thrashed and growled, he kicked out and bit at the people around him.
Then the bell voice rang clear again and echoed through his being.
The clouds receded from his mind as his body fell limp.
John Watson was unconscious once more.
Ex-army doctor John Watson was lucky to be alive. That's what everyone told him anyway. He would smile and nod when people told him this but he felt numb. The twisted scarring on his shoulder was puckered and ugly but he took solace in the fact he could hide the wound.
He couldn't hide the limp.
The sympathetic stares sent his way made screams of frustration and anger bubble on his tongue, but he would bit down hard and set his jaw. The limp was a by-product of the curse that had been attached to the bullet and seeped into his veins, he wasn't cursed.
He was just a failure.
He would never be the same man again, he was half of what he had been in the war. As he limped onto the airship along with the other invalids being shipped home, he wished he were dead.
A/N: This fanfic is inspired by a lot of stories and ideas but two in particular are used most, they are Howl's Moving Castle by the late great Diana Wynne Jones and The Steadfast Tin Soldier. I have The whole plot mapped out in detail and am already writing chapter 7. I will be posting weekly and would really, really appreciate constructive feedback as no one has read any of this to give me any ideas where I could improve.