He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it but he is running. He doesn't like it but he is running and there is no way for him to stop. There is no way that things will stop falling around him and he doesn't know what to do. Running is the only thing he can do at this moment, but it isn't what he thinks is right.
Army Doctor John Watson. He is not a man for running; he is a man for standing around and drinking tea while making people around him happy. He can't do this when there are people around him dying, he can't do this when things fall from the sky and explode around him. He can help what is happening and he wants to.
He writhes around in his sweaty skin, uncomfortable with everything that is around him at this moment in time. But life has chosen this course for him at this moment and so that is what he is doing.
Running, endless running. One foot after the other foot and nothing else. There is only the sound of raining fire and screams that can be heard around him. He cannot turn his head; he can do nothing but run because that is his fate. He must run against his will away from the fire of the sun and the screams of the wounded.
If John Watson could have as he wished he would make sure that everyone around him is safe, he would make sure that they are all happy. He would heal the wounded and treat the sick; he would hug the lonely and bless the dying. He likes the idea of helping others above him. The bombs and the raining shells do not scare Dr Watson.
It is not the scene that scares him. It is not the sight, nor the sound, nor is it the blood that is upon his hands. It is simply the fact that he is running and he has to keep running. There is nothing but running away, nothing but fear when he wants to be brave for others. He doesn't want to be a coward and he doesn't want to be running.
But still he is running.
If comes out of the blue and he is no longer running. He is no longer running because his legs can't carry him, he doesn't want them to carry him on further. And now they won't.
The searing pain begins to catch up with him, the falling and the pain is all he knows.
The pain is blinding, like the blood and the dirt in his eyes, the ringing of the sound and the slimy grime and sweat that is upon him.
He begs for nothing more than to die in that moment, to die so that he is no longer forced to live. He would have to keep running. He would rather stop running all together than be forced to stop doing what he loves forever.
He closes his eyes and lets the searing take his mind, he lets it take his brain in a way that is glad. He is glad that it is taking over, covering all the holes of things he wanted to do in the past and he is glad it is here now.
He doesn't have to keep running any longer, and that seems to suit
Have you ever been doing something that you didn't want to be doing? Have you ever been running when you would rather stand and fight? Have you ever had your morals fall from your hands and your brains begin to slip from your fingers?
Everything in his mind is slipping, everything around him is slipping and there is nothing he can do about it. There is no way of holding himself here, he doesn't understand how this al works, nothing computes and there is no logic behind his failing mind and his flailing limbs.
Every day he does this. Every night he is running, running past the shells and the blood. Feeling the sting of the pain and dirt and the blinding pain of the fall, he is startled awake.
This morning he wakes up in a very familiar sheen of sweat and the searing pain is still there.
It is the only thing he knows is constant and it is the biggest pain he has ever known.
There is nothing he would want more than to be dead. To be with others, and to help them. He wants to feel the sun without the feeling inside his heart that he could be saving others, but right now all he can do is keep running on with his life and pray that it will return to him. He would do anything to go back out to the fields to save lives.
John Watson is no longer and army doctor, he is not a man who lives alone, with no money, no job and nothing to do because he isn't well enough. He wants the fright of war to make his hands steady again. He wants to stand and fight rather than limp as he runs away from his dreams.
The cod sheen of sweat that wakes him is the worst thing in his life, it is because he wakes up, because he is hopeless and he is unable to do anything for anyone else either.
The day that he met a mysterious, tall, dark haired man was the best day of his life; he loved every minute of it. There is nothing he would change in the world about the way that they met, or the way they held themselves around each other.
Now he can run to help people. He can heal the wounded, treat the sick, hug the lonely, and bless the dying. He can do things now that he had never thought he was able to do. He can now do all that he had ever dreamed about doing, he can do anything, and people benefit from it.
He can stand in the flight of the bullets and know that he is doing something for others around him. He knows that he is helping. Taking a bullet now wouldn't hurt him, because it would be for someone else.
John Watson knows he has healed a heart; he has helped someone from being sick. He has stopped the loneliness from taking over and he has blessed a man that wanted to die. He has made a difference to the world.
John Watson now feels like he is alright again.
The warm and comforting arms that they gave each other were the things that kept them both going.
The warm hugs in the cold mornings.
The hot tea after a cold shower in the rain.
The silence held in comfort.
The exclamation of victory when the answer was found.
The smiles and the joy.
The comfort that Sherlock gave Watson when he was sad, or when he woke up in sheen of sweat because he had been remembering the worst time of his life.
Sherlock didn't talk about feelings much; he learned them all from John. He learned that when he was upset the Doctor just needed someone to sit with him and smile at all the nice things they had done for him. It worked just fine.
Sherlock learned this when John comforted him, when john helped him through cases, and as John helped him fight off the addiction. He would sit with him, not speak a word, he would just smile in awe of him, or wrap his arms around his shoulders and tell him that it was ok. That is how he loved Sherlock, and so Sherlock did that to show his love for Watson.
In the end he was running again. He was running and he could not stop. His legs were carrying him and he couldn't bring himself to stop running. He wished that he could stop and help the fallen but he couldn't. The sounds and the sirens were the worst.
He kept running to him and it seems to never end. It was like every nightmare he had ever had before, it was like they had al joined together just so that they could create a reality to hurt him.
There was nothing for him to do but to keep on running like his night mare. He could keep on running as everything he began to fall around him. That which he had built up, was suddenly plummeting to the ground.
It hurt him, and it stung him like a bullet wound to the back.
It hurt and he fell.
He fell like his love fell.
John Watson always seemed to fail. There was always something that would send him right back to being unhappy. There was always something he wanted to do, but he couldn't do, because he was too busy.
It used to be that he wanted to help other people from dying, but he couldn't because there was a war going on, but now it has changed.
It is now because he wished he could have told Sherlock he loved him, but now he has fallen. He stands alone now.
The running soldier that always falls.