A/N: This is my first fic. Hope you enjoy, reviews are welcome :) I don't own anything Sherlock related, sadly.
The thunderous noise engulfed his senses and thrust him to the ground. His breath hitched in his throat as if someone was grasping his lungs with full vengeance, restricting every breath. His mouth barren, like a desert, struggling to gulp down some air. He tried calling out the names of his fellow men, but only a feeble groan escaped his dehydrated mouth. He gripped the arid ground in search of the familiar chill of gunmetal, but to no avail. He steadied his spinning head and forced his eyes to open. He sat up and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. He had expected the sweltering glare of sunlight, but no. He realised then, as fear filled his mind, that he had been kidnapped. "Oh God", he thought. By now, the panic was rising in his gut, making his nostrils quiver as his breathing grew ragged. He tried to compose himself, not wanting to blow his cover but he quickly remembered, as he stared up at the khaki canvas that was arched above him, that it was a bit late for that.
He buried his face into his hands and tried to take deep breaths. Waves of nausea swept over him as he suddenly felt a pang in his stomach, as if something bad was going to happen. As if on queue, he felt a tense grip on his shoulder. He turned his head and was greeted unexpectedly with the blunt butt of a gun. His jaw cracked as the chair he was bound to, toppled backwards and as his head ricocheted against the floor, he gasped. He knew from the way his jaw hung from his face that it was broken.
He let out a low whimper and tried to fight back the tears in his eyes, but they came regardless. Leaving streaky marks on his dust covered face. The hot tears spilled down and cleared his eyes of the debris. His head was spinning and hazy colours flashed before his tear-filled eyes. His eyes flickered, trying to force them to close. He knew he had to stay awake but thinking is much easier than doing. As a soldier, his mind was equipped for endurance. But after a rather forceful meeting with the ground, he was struggling. Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, he repeated over and over in his mind. His mouth was now dry again as his jaw hung limply from his face. He tried to swallow, sending a burning pain through his jaw and the side of his face. He slumped his head to the side, trying to remain alert and to look out for any more danger.
His eyes remained fixed on an arch of the canvas that seemed to be an entrance. He fought to keep his focus. "I have to vary the view if I'm going to keep myself awake" he thought and focused intently on the structure of the tent roof. He went through the procedure of pitching a tent over and over in his head to keep his brain alert. His fixed gaze was quickly broken when he found a man with a balaclava standing above him, hands clasped around a gun. His gun. It contained ammunition this morning. He tried to focus at the man holding the gun above him but he couldn't help but focus on the barrel. The rim had been singed. It had been used. Probably checked for ammunition or used for target practice. His mind began to race again. His heart thudded against his ribcage and he looked up once more. The assassin's cheeks rose as if to give a menacing grin. He squeezed his eyes shut as the gun was aimed and fired.
His eyes flew open, pupils blown wide with pain. His heart racing, he gulped down the air. He reached under his quilt still breathing erratically and felt the scars on his shoulder. He sat up, the pain fading with the view of the light through the dull Venetian blinds. It still haunted him, but at least he was alive.