AN: As usual, you recognize it, I don't own it. Also, I know very little about war, so apologies if this is terribly inaccurate.

War Wounds

"One thing still confuses me" Sherlock announced to John, as they stood by the counter, waiting for their order.

"Confuses you? Really? What's that then?" John asked amicably, still on a high from the action that night.

"You were invalided home because you were shot in the shoulder, not the leg. And I did know that, because of your bearing. But the injury to your leg definitely happened during the war, hence the psychosomatic limp, but if you weren't getting over it, why didn't they send you home then? Why wait until you get shot?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alight with curiosity.

John looked down at his shoes. He didn't really like talking about it, hence why he never corrected anyone when they assumed it was his leg that got shot. When it came down to it he knew his therapist was right; it was a trust issue, not wanting people to know how weak he'd been.

Then he thought back to Mycroft's words to him, when they had met previously.

"Could it be that you have chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people."

It was strange, but Mycroft was right. After barely a day he was ready to follow this man anywhere. To kill for him even, as the night's events had proved. And Sherlock had accepted that trust, not telling the police, even though he knew John was the shooter. If they were going to be living and working together from now on, John decided it would be best to tell him.

"Because I was getting over it. Was over it in fact. But then... I got shot and... It's complicated." John started to explain, but then trailed off. It couldn't be explained so simply. It was all or nothing.

"Start from the beginning." Sherlock prompted him, accepting their takeaway bags from the man behind the counter, and passing some notes over, letting them keep the change and turning to go, holding the door open for John as they stepped out into the cold night.

John took a big breath of London air.

"We were just outside of Kabul, doing a routine patrol..."

Three Snatch 2 Land Rovers made their way along the bumpy dirt track that made up most of their patrol route. John sat in the front passenger seat, relatively at ease. As patrol routes went it was an easy one, and they were yet to see trouble on it. Until tonight it seemed. If anything was going to happen anywhere along their route, it was here; the dunes and rocky outcroppings along one side of the track making the ideal cover for an ambush. John saw the flicker of movement as a hand tossed an object out from behind cover towards their vehicle, but there was no time for him to do anything about it, but shout a warning and brace himself for what was about to happen.

Beneath the Land Rover, the grenade exploded, throwing it into the air. Even braced as he was, John was thrown about, his world a disorientated mess of flailing limbs, blazing fire and terrified screams as the SUV spun through the air and crunched down on its side, on his side, bringing with it agonising pain.

John's head swam, as he tried to regain his bearings. His ears both rang and roared with silence from the loud explosion, though the sound of gunfire and shouting outside the Land Rover were slowly seeping in to his consciousness. The light streaming down from the afternoon sun, through the driver's side window, was almost blinding. And then there was his legs.

Pain shot up from his calf, his legs trapped in the distorted and crushed metal that had once been the front of the SUV. He was pretty sure some of the shrapnel had pierced the soft flesh of his right leg, and the bone was more than definitely broken, if not shattered. Getting it out would be a painful and difficult task, if it were even possible. His mind balked at the idea of amputation, and so he refused to dwell on it, turning his mind to his duty, to his men. Hearing vomiting from the back of the car he knew there was at least one still alive, but he still needed to do a full assessment.

Shielding his eyes against the harsh light, he turned to the driver of their vehicle, Second Lieutenant Randal, to check his condition. His first glance of the twisted, bloodied and unconscious form beside him was enough to make his own injury seem insignificant. He reached over and took a pulse anyway, even though he was fairly certain of what the result would be.

"Second Lieutenant David Randal, killed on impact." He murmured to himself, making a mental note for his report with great sadness. At least it had been quick.

"Mitch… Private Danes is dead too, sir." Came a shaky voice from the back of the truck. Cadet Jasper Green. The youngest in the vehicle; it was his first tour.

"Just you and me then." John sighed, putting on a strong front for the scared cadet. "What's your status? Can you move?"

The cadet's ragged breathing hitched even more. "I'm… I'm afraid not, sir." He said, his voice thick with fear and pain. John turned as best he could in his sideways seat, wincing slightly as it pulled his injured leg, but needing to get a better look at the other man. As his eyes met the scared cadet's he tried to keep them neutral, calming, even as he took in the severity of the young man's situation. A large chunk of shrapnel had impaled the man's shoulder, pinning him to his seat, hanging on his side. Blood blossomed around the wound, soaking through his shirt. There was no way they could remove it, not without risking a fatal amount of blood loss. He was trapped, like John, until help came. And as bullets pinged off the SUV's undercarriage, John couldn't help but feel like a sitting duck.

"Well that makes two of us." John confessed. "Looks like we'll just have to sit tight until help comes."

The young cadet made a sound halfway between agreement and a whimper.

"How long have you been out here now, Jasper? 6 weeks?" John asked kindly, trying to make conversation to keep the young man's mind off his injury.

"That's right, sir."

"So this is probably the first real action you've seen?" John guessed.

"Yes, sir."

"You scared?" Of course John knew the answer, it was clear in Cadet Green's voice and breathing pattern. He was testing to see how the cadet would respond. His answer didn't surprise him.

"No, Sir."

"Either you're lying, or you have no sense of self-preservation what-so-ever. Which is it?"

There was an ashamed pause from the cadet. "Lying, sir" He finally admitted, before perking up "What about you, sir? You've seen a lot of action?"

John's mind flicked back over the tenser moments of the past few years. "A fair bit, yeah."

"Is that why you're not scared?"

John laughed softly. "I am scared. Would be something wrong with me if I weren't."

"You don't sound scared, sir." Cadet Green commented.

"I feel the fear, but I don't let it overwhelm me. Fear is a bunch of chemical reactions in the brain, and a lot of useful ones at that." John told him, "Regulates your heart rate and metabolism. Releases extra energy. Keeps you alert and ready for action. You can learn to use the fear constructively. And this is where you learn how."

There was a few seconds pause as the cadet took this in, his breathing becoming less jerky as he got better control over himself.

"Thank you, sir." He said, his voice steadier now.

"Don't mention it. Now where's the radio? I need to find out what's happening out there." John said, more to himself as he carefully rummaged through the wreckage before him, searching for the radio, praying it would still work. The sounds of a firefight still resounded outside. There were some shots fired from close by, and John assumed at least one soldier was using their overturned SUV for cover. He found the cable and pulled the radio up by it, relieved to see it still attached at least. He breathed a sigh of relief as he held down the button and heard the buzz of static, meaning it was still working.

"This is Captain Watson of patrol Echo Zero Nine. Echo Zero Nine, do you read me? Over."

There was an anxious pause, before the radio crackled to life in response.

"Captain Watson! Boy is it good to hear your voice, we thought you were a goner. What's your status? Any other survivors in there?" John's second in command, Lieutenant Barker responded.

"Two dead, Randal and Danes. Myself and Green are injured and immobilised. What's it looking like out there?"

"We were attacked by a small group of rebels, roughly 9 tangos. When your SUV was hit we all disembarked pretty quickly to engage them and haven't suffered any more losses yet. A few minor injuries, nothing for you to worry about. We've already called in for backup, though you know how it is. By the time they get here it'll all be over."

"Sounds about right." John agreed. "Carry on, and keep my men safe until they arrive, Lieutenant. Over and out." He put down the radio, leaning his head back for a second and taking another deep breath. He risked a glance down at his leg and saw nothing but crushed metal and blood, soaking up the trouser leg where it emerged. He should have known better than to have looked, it always makes the pain worse. He gritted his teeth, sucking in another breath, slowly in and out trying to get the pain back under control. It wouldn't do to let the cadet see him wavering.

"How you holding on back there?" He asked.

"Not too good, sir. Everything's getting a bit… fuzzy. I'm so tired."

John's head snapped round, training his most commanding stare on the young man.

"You listen to me Cadet Green, you hold on, and you keep fighting alright? For as long as you can. Help is on its way, you just need to hang in there until it arrives. I am not losing you." John barked at him. He knew it was futile. With the blood loss it was only a matter of time before the cadet lost consciousness; it was quite something that he hadn't already. John wished he could do something, but his medical pack had been in the foot well, and he had no idea where it was now, and he couldn't reach the cadet with his leg stuck. All he could do was encourage the young man to keep fighting, and keep strong himself. With some effort he removed the belt from around his waist, threading it around his injured leg instead and tightening it, as a makeshift tourniquet. He should have done it before now, but it had been easier to ignore his own pain when focussing on others. Now though there was nothing to do but wait, helplessly, listen to the fighting outside and bark the occasional reassurance at his companion.

Finally the sound of firing came to an abrupt stop. There was still shouting, but from inside the mangled SUV he couldn't make out the exact voices. All he knew was they were approaching the Land Rover. From what Barker had told him it seemed likely to be his guys, but when in such a vulnerable position it never hurt to take precautions. His own gun had come out of his holster in the crash, and he had no idea where it was now, but Randal's was still hanging out of its holster beside him, and since he wouldn't be needing it anymore, John felt little guilt in taking it. He flipped off the safety and aimed at the shadows he could now see outside the windscreen, waiting for them to make themselves known as friend or foe.

"Captain? Captain Watson, are you still with us?" Barker's voice came through the radio, causing John to sigh in relief and lower his weapon.

"Just about. Green too. Has the threat been neutralised?"

"Yes, sir, and we have an ETA of 5 minutes on backup, coming to clean up. We want to try and right the SUV so it can be towed back to base, but don't want to risk further injury to you or Cadet Green. What's your opinion, Doctor?"

John looked down at his leg with a big breath, then back at the pale cadet, trying to assess the situation. It would probably hurt as the SUV shifted, but didn't seem likely the cause further damage, and being upright would surely be better for Green, enabling him to support his weight better.

"Do it, but as gently as you boys can manage. Lower it, don't let it drop.

"Understood."

The SUV started to shift under him, and he could hear the groans of effort from those outside. He supressed a groan of his own, screwing his eyes shut and biting his lip against the pain as the movement sent stabs of pain up his leg. He heard Green's pained gasps from the back as the movement pulled at his injury, until eventually, with a thankfully small jolt, the SUV's tyres touched down, once again the right way up. Both men let out large breaths they had been holding, panting as though they had lifted the SUV themselves. John turned to look out the smashed out window beside him at the concerned faces of his men, nodding to them and trying to get his breathing back under control.

"Thank you. Good work men." He panted out.

"Easy now Captain," Barker told him, stepping closer, close enough for John to see the specks of blood on his uniform. A tear in his sleeve was the source, but even in his current state John could see that the bullet had merely grazed him "We're going to try and get you out of there."

John shook his head, even as the doors that could be were wrenched open, giving his men a better view, and wrenching curses and gasps from some of them. "No use, you'll need a full medical team and equipment, possibly a transfusion ready for when you pull that shrapnel out of Green, or he'll bleed out in minutes, and it'll take a lot of work to cut my legs out, if it doesn't come down to cutting them off."

"You really think it'll come down to that?" Barker asked, his eyes wide with alarm.

"I hope not, but I can't say for sure at this stage. Can't see a damn thing down there, and it certainly hurts like hell. Anyway, your best bet is to tow us back like this, and let them handle it back at the base."

"Yes, Sir. Back-up has just arrived, I'd better go let them know what we're dealing with."

"As you were." John sighed, leaning his head back against the rest and closing his eyes, as the Lieutenant shut the door as gently as his could beside him. It was going to be a bumpy ride back to base.

John leaned back in his armchair, while Sherlock retrieved forks and unpackaged their food, still listening intently.

"It took them 2 hours to gradually cut away the metal surrounding my legs and free me. Green was already stabilised by the time they got me to medical, which was a good thing, because I was a bit of a mess. My left leg wasn't all that bad, just a little superficial damage, a fair few scrapes and a lot of bruising. But the right… I had a compound fracture, a bit of comminute fracturing, a fair bit of shrapnel to remove and a fairly substantial blood loss. Not as bad as it could have been, but a far cry from good."

"How long did it take to recover?" Sherlock asked curiously, passing him his takeaway and sitting down opposite him, digging into his dim sum.

"3 months, and a lot of physical therapy. It still wasn't 100% when they sent me back into the field, but I knew it would be a long time before it was, if ever, and I felt ready."

"So what happened to your shoulder? They must be related somehow." Sherlock asked, still looking uncomfortably uncertain.

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there. The shoulder was about 4 months after that. I was stationed nearer to Kunduz, there was a lot of conflict in that area at the time…"

This time, John was the Cavalry. A call had come in from one of the small villages just outside of Kunduz; a patrol had been attacked there by a group of rebels. They were under heavy fire and requesting backup and urgent medical assistance. That was where John came in. He and Private McKenzie, also of the RAMC, who had been training under him since his return, sat in the back of the Land Rover with the other soldiers going in as backup, listening to the sounds of gunfire getting closer as they approached their destination.

They left the SUV outside the village, rushing in on foot past sheltering locals who looked as scared of them as they were of the gunfire and explosions that had them taking refuge in the outskirts. Soon enough they reached the heart of the skirmish, taking shelter behind a building, as the enemy took shots at them from their scattered cover across the street. They could see those they were here to help sheltered behind another building, some still standing but bloodied, returning fire, while others merely lay back further behind the shelter, clearly too wounded to be of any use in the firefight. John tried not to look at those sprawled out in the open, killed before they could reach cover. The same open 30 meters that separated the Doctors from their patients. There was no other way, while the rest of the backup could do their job from here, John and McKenzie would have to cross to get to the wounded they were here to help.

"We're going to need cover fire to get across." John told Second Lieutenant Jones, who was leading the backup.

"Not a problem, Sir, though I can't guarantee you'll have much time, you'll have to move fast and keep low."

"I'm aware of that," John smirked at him, before becoming serious once again "On my mark."

He waited until the Lieutenant's men were in position and he had signalled their allies on the other side to be ready, before giving the signal. He held back his partner for a second, until the cover fire had its affect and the shots in their direction lessened, before dashing out across the open.

Almost as soon as they started moving, John noticed his previously injured leg becoming stiffer than usual, the muscles not co-operating and moving as quickly as he'd have liked them to. Private McKenzie was nearly to cover, but he was seriously lagging behind, barely halfway across. Time seemed to move in slow motion, the sounds all around him out of focus, like a dream. The kind of dream where you feel like you're trying to run, but are stuck in quicksand. It certainly felt that way with his stiff leg moving more and more awkwardly the harder he tried to increase his speed.

He was less than 10 meters from safety when time sped up again, as something hit his shoulder hard, knocking him off his feet in a spray of blood and burst of pain. He knew straight away that he had been shot, and instinctively his hand came up to his shoulder as he fell, putting pressure on the wound the second he hit the floor.

"Captain Watson!" He heard Private McKenzie yell, and turned his head in time to see the young man about to dash out of cover to retrieve him.

"Stay where you are Private!" John shouted.

"But Sir…" McKenzie tried again, poking his head round looking round for an opportunity.

"That's an Order. See to the other wounded, it's down to you to help them now."

Dismayed, McKenzie turned away. John flinched as bullets whizzed over him, but none were aimed at him. He knew since he was down, he was no longer considered a threat. Slowly, so as not to attract attention, he moved his free hand down to hover by his gun. To shoot would immediately make him a target, and exposed as he was, he would be torn to pieces by the return fire. But he wanted to be ready, just in case.

How long he lay there, with the battle raging over him, and his arm weakening as it tried to keep pressure on the wound, he didn't know. But finally almost all their assailants were down. All but one. John had watched and knew why this one was the one still standing. He was fast, and he was a sharp shooter, only popping out of cover momentarily, but still hitting his target. He had hit two of John's men since John lay here, one dead one merely injured, and John wondered if he was the one who had hit him. Or if he was the reason for the bodies of the other fallen comrades near him.

Fast and accurate as he was though, the man knew he was outnumbered. He started to slip away, strategically choosing his route to keep himself out of sight from the men using the buildings for cover. But not out of John's sight. From where John was he had a perfect shot. His shaking hand steadied as he finally pulled his gun put of his holster, quickly taking aim and firing before the man could get out of range.

As the man fell down, so did the gun, slipping out of John's weakening hand. Since no shots were fired in return, he could only assume he was right, that it was all clear. He rolled his head to the side, looking back at his men.

"Clear. Approach with caution." He panted out. While some of the men made their way out to do some recon, McKenzie immediately rushed to John.

"What happened, sir? I thought you were right behind me." He asked, gently pulling John's hand away from his shoulder so he could treat it.

"My leg…. It was slowing me down." John told him distantly, feeling darkness creeping in from the side of his vision.

"Captain? John, stay with me…" he heard McKenzie calling him futilely as he slipped out of consciousness.

"And that was your first major combative situation since your leg injury, right?" Sherlock asked.

"I'd been involved in a few small skirmishes before then, but yeah, I guess you could say it was the first big one." John confirmed.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes slightly distant as he thought about John's story. "Makes sense. The gunfire, the heightened adrenaline of real battle, having a younger man under your care, all made the situation similar enough to the incident with your leg, and along with fact you knew your life depended on moving quickly would make you subconsciously be wary of your leg wound. Your first psychosomatic episode. You couldn't let go of the psychosomatic problem because you needed to believe there was still a real problem with it that you could blame for your getting shot."

"Something like that, yeah." John said, a little uncomfortable.

Sherlock's eyes refocused on him, simply staring for a few seconds, before he said;

"Thank you for sharing that with me, John. It has been most… insightful.