Title: A War Worth Fighting
Author: D.R. Ward
Date: 2-6-14
Age: 14
Warnings For This Chapter: Mildly graphic bullet removal, lot of gun action. Burn-concealing treatment. Yeah. xD I PULL THE TREATMENTS AND AILMENTS AND BULLET REMOVAL PROCEDURES OUT OF MY IMAGINATIVE ASS. I HAVE NO IDEA HOW IT REALLY HAPPENS. BUT THIS IS HOW I IMAGINE IT TO.
Summary: John Watson was known to many as a medical doctor. He has a vast knowledge for that world – the world of healing. In Afghanistan, that was needed with a great ferocity. Now, insert Sherlock Holmes, who was not only an excellent sniper but a brilliant fighter and genius. John didn't know what he would be getting into when he accepted for Sherlock to be his apprentice, but he would soon find out.
A\N: Okay, well, here it is. xD There's gonna be a lot of OC soldiers here just for the sake of having them, because, y'know, John doesn't talk much about his friends in the army in BBC Sherlock. xD This story will mostly revolve around Sherlock and John learning how to work together and a whole lot of Afghanistan stuff blah blah blah I know I type a lot. xD Anyway, the only realistic OC in this story will be Brandon Ward, who will be pretty good friends with John and Sherlock. In real life, Brandon's my brother, and I love him to pieces.
Not to mentions he was a badass wrestler and applied for the National Guard. But yeah, he's awesome. Freaking amazing.
Other than that, I don't think there's much to know about this story until you read it. xD So, thanks fer stoppin' buy anyhow!
A War Worth Fighting
(Introduction) Chapter One: Two Patients and an Ambush
~oOo~
Third Person Omniscient
John Watson dropped the lifeless body onto the floor, not bothering to kick the lump of flesh out of the way as he stepped over him. With a small, unconcerned scowl, the blonde moved towards the last two guys advancing on him, eyes shadowed with a calm, cold feeling that would rattle the minds of the toughest men. With the advancement of the men, John quickly slipped to the side while as one man tried to lunge at him, and the soldier managed to grasp the taller figures lower arm and spiraling him off balance and into the wall of his medical station.
The other man lunged at the doctor with a fist already angled for his jaw. John, figuring this both unnecessary and extremely annoying, twirled out of the way so he didn't get hit. The dark, bald, clad-in-black man tumbled to the side with about as much grace as a hippo on steroids.
Basically, the man seemed intoxicated.
Everything peeled out in slow motion. The man that had previously been thrown to the side came at him again, while the other, this time, tumbled into the wall. The blonde turned sideways and inclined his elbow upwards just enough for the man to run clearly into the bone. Blood spurted in the direction of the hit as the man stumbled into unconsciousness. The other attacker slid up the wall with a muttered groan, which John promptly ignored.
Watson interfered with the others blatant moment of blankness as he took a few quick steps over and knocked the man unconscious with his foot curving along a cheekbone in a kick. A satisfying crack resonated through his room.
"I hate intruders," John muttered more to himself as he took another few prompt steps to reach for one of his many towels laying around. Absently, he wiped the blood off of his knuckles, getting as much warmth off of his skin possible. "Are you okay?" He asked his patient, who was sitting on the other side of the tent cradling his dislocated arm in on himself and staring, his half burnt face being expressionless.
The patient smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Captain Watson. Remind me to never get on your bad side." The dark-haired male laughed and shook his head affectionately.
"And remember that, Lieutenant Tom. Anyway, as I was saying before, your burns will not heal quickly I'm afraid, but you've dislocated your arm enough times to know the drill, right?" The doctor questioned as he made his way over to the man again, the only thing on his mind being to get the man back on the field as soon as he could, before a new patient arose.
"Yeah. I think you've caused me more pain than the enemy by now, mate." Tom teased with a grin, from which John grinned in reply. It was probably true. The main reason him and Tom had become friends was because of the fact that the man had been in the medical tent more often than not.
Deciding not to further continue this conversation, John opted for moving to the right of left of his propped up patient, his left hand moving to cradle right under Tom's protruding shoulder blade to keep him balanced. The right palm that he owned pressed up against the dark-haired man's extremely muscular shoulder, ready to push back to set the alignment of the dislocated appendage. John could feel the man's muscles tense underneath his firm grip.
"On the –," John said quietly. So he didn't have to count on three, he stopped there abruptly and opted for shoving the appendage back in place. A loud, crackling howl resonated from the doctor's tent, and John couldn't help but feel the goose bumps rise on his skin to the sound.
Peeling away from his friend and underling, Doctor Watson dropped his hands to the side and nodded. "I'll need to coat your skin with mud to keep it moist due to the fact we haven't had our shipment of medical supplies in so long, and I've run out of the necessary treatments."
The Lieutenant nodded in understanding. "Do you know why?" John's friend made small talk as John moved to one of his clean bowls of dirt, next to a smaller bowl of water. A pair of light brown eyes tracked John's movements as the man took ahold of what looked like a blunt log and the corner of the water bowl, pouring the clear substance into the dirt without much care.
Doctor Watson shrugged and lowered the bowl, leaving a good portion of water still in the wooden contraption. While he replied, the shorter figure began to smash, grind, and push the dirt around, slowly turning it into a liquefied dirt. "I'm not entirely sure," John said after a moment, "but I'm aware that we haven't gotten the proper food shipments either. There's a possibility the ailments were interfered with while they were on their way here by the offending group, but unlikely. Either that, or the government just gave up on moving their pawns around."
Tom scoffed, along with John, in disgust. It was no secret that they didn't particularly care for a government that had abandoned them numerous times when they were most needed. British people didn't like getting their hands dirty. While their sections were off getting tortured, the rest of the government was probably sitting down in a group for their evening tea deciding how to make more money for themselves.
Oh, or maybe they spent hard-earned tax dollars on a new tea factory instead of trying to feed the soldiers that are fighting for their country. John wasn't necessarily a soldier, but he had received more than one medal for his show of courage in tough, hard situations. That's technically why he is still considered a Captain of both his soldiers and his medical unit - and that gave him the time to listen to their stories on how hard it was to get by without food while exerting so much sweat and stamina.
It really was a shame. No one particularly cared for the soldiers.
One reason why John loved his job.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Tom replied with a sour tone, "but we're going to run out of preservatives soon. It's bad enough we have a groups of our best trained soldiers out hunting in the woods for a type of animal. Hell, we've even stationed cooks."
John laughed. "Yeah, terrible, isn't it?" The blonde finished up the organic treatment and moved back to stand in front of a fellow soldier. "Angle your head to the left." Tom did so instantly, his non-singed part of his lip curling down as he grunted. John shot him a sympathetic look.
John applied the mud silently, watching as his friend's face slowly relaxed into the wetness that was seeping into his pores. John knew what kind of relief this was like; he had a similar wound to his friend on his right back upper thigh, right under the curve of his bum. No one knew about it but him and the man who had taken care of him, who had passed away in the army and furthermore left John in his place.
The wound still stretched uncomfortably, and John knew that Tom's confidence would decrease drastically with the kind of injury that he had, but he would do his best to keep him going. After all, that's what Doctors did. Sugarcoat the injury while as telling your patient how utterly terrible it was. Always say someone had it worse, because then they didn't feel as bad.
Watson finished applying his quick remedy with record speed. He could hear the gunshots getting closer; there were more people coming. He and Tom needed to be ready to back up an infiltration of the medical tent – which is always one of the first hit areas because of its importance. Putting the now mostly empty bowl down, he stepped back for the Lieutenant to drop off of where he was sitting.
John and Tom got their guns swiftly, making sure that they were in fact loaded. Deeming their finds successful, they nodded to each other, and took opposite sides of the opening flaps of the tent. Now all they had to do was wait.
"By the way, I heard you're getting a soldier who wants to apprentice you. They say we need more medical attention and you need more back-up. If we survive, he'll be shipped here by sunrise tomorrow," Tom informed his friend. John looked at the dark-haired man with a frown.
"I can take perfectly good care of myself," John grunted out, feeling his manliness was just insulted. Tom laughed.
"And none of us doubt it. We're talking about a whole mess of people. Like back in Isthma Base 2, where you almost, y'know, kicked it. If it weren't for Jim you wouldn't be here." Tom explained quietly and John nodded, knowing what the other was talking about.
It was a dreaded experience, Isthma. It was an ambush and almost everyone had died or been captured. John, Jim, Tom, Jeff, Bill and Brandon were the only lucky ones. Brandon especially. John himself had retrieved his best friend from capture. The blonde had treated the male for his multiple torture wounds – none of them imminently seriously but all painful and extremely jolting to his conscious.
Brandon Ward was a five foot seven inch male who, as a teenager, had a difficult time getting in the right crowd. John remembered being the one good friend Brandon had, and the only reason Brandon had enlisted with him was he was afraid to go back to old habits. John loved Brandon like a brother; he would do almost anything for a man.
Right now Brandon was on a temporary leave for his one-month list out. John was happy that he really didn't have to worry about the kid getting shot at on a daily basis, but, y'know, things could still happen at home and stuff.
John shook his head. He would worry about Brandon later. "You know who the soldier is?" John asked conversationally, judging that the soldiers were being pushed back and that the enemy was advancing on them slowly but surely. By now they were only about six-hundred yards away from their tent.
"Guy named Sherlock Holmes. He's an excellent sniper. Total asshole though, from what I've heard. Super genius. He's twenty-six and went to Uni when he was sixteen. People say he's super tall and lanky, but can beat the brawniest of men because he's like, super slick." Tom praised the man. John raised a delicate blonde eyebrow and took a quick look outside, seeing four soldier standing guard.
John nodded to himself and peeked his head back inside, feeling better about the amount of back-up they had. "What, like some sort of high-class ninja?" Watson said, kind of intrigued that the man had gotten inside the forces deployed in his position. Guy must be really good, because John knew first-hand that they frowned upon people that aren't a certain height or body mass.
"Yeah!" Tom exclaimed. The man loved to gossip. From the shout, however, Tom had grunted and hissed from the stretch of pain. John snorted.
"Yeah mate, that's going to hurt for a little while. Best not get too excited." Tom rolled his eyes. He ignored his friend and continued.
"Whatever man. Anyway, some people call him Deadshot, because he never misses. To be honest I still don't know why he'd give up a sniper position to come down here with you – no offense. He's just not that kind of person. Thinks more of himself than he does others."
John grinned. "Look mate, I joined the medical port because it was interesting, not because I wanted to help people. Even if that's the reason why I do it now, it wasn't the initial one. I love my job, and I'm sure he's not completely devoid of emotion."
"Tell that to the people who have talked to him."
"Seriously, listen to Tom, John!" One of the soldiers called from outside. John huffed as he realized the four were probably snooping in on their conversation. "I've met him and his brother, Mycroft. They're both child prodigy's. Seriously thought, mate, Mycroft is like, the head of the British Government and they're both super rich – not to mention Sherlock's obvious talent."
"Deduction, right?" Tom piped in while the soldier spoke to the two of them outside. "I heard he reads everyone he meets."
"Damn right. When I met him he told me my wife was cheating on me because I had two different scents of cologne on me, not because I was sleeping with two women but because she recently changed it to fit the needs of another man. He said he knew I wouldn't because my ring hadn't been taken off in six years, proceeded to tell me I've just been deported out from Temlar because the soul is the richest there, something about the stuff on my boots, and that I was an excellent close combat but pretty bad with guns." The soldier outside explained.
John raised both eyebrows and shared a glance with Tom. Of course, the man had to be making something like that up, because John knew that wasn't physically capable with any man. Being extremely smart himself, a knack for battle plans and vast medical knowledge, he had met a few geniuses in his time. None of them knew how to do that. He was sure this Sherlock couldn't either.
"You've gotta be over-reacting," Tom spoke from inside while he checked his gun again, just to make sure everything was good.
"You've no idea, mate. Wait 'til you meet 'em."
"Well, I won't be able to. Lucky John over here has to deal with him, but I'm being shipped back out by tomorrow." Tom pouted. "It's not like I get any of the fun, anyways. Stupid Major Gillian, he –."
"Incoming!" One of the soldiers shouted from the inside, who had moved to the side. John heard footsteps retreat and with a quick, pointed eye, John saw a grenade get thrown in his tent with a good precision. Keeping himself calm but letting his heart rage inside of him, John quickly moved to gather up the grenade and toss it back.
One step. One second. Four more seconds left. Two seconds were used in the flight of the grenade.
Two steps. Three seconds.
Bending over. One second pass. Two more seconds.
Thrown back out. Last second. John heard the grenade explode mid-air.
Picking up the gun John hadn't know he dropped, he let out a deep breath, and managed to get a peek on the outside. The soldiers that were once standing to attention outside were now fighting, and Tom had uncurled from his sheltered position they were taught to take when there was a grenade. John rolled his eyes and huffed out a sigh.
"Never cease to amaze me," Tom grunted with a look of awe. John sent a glare towards his friend's way. "Seriously – who the hell picks up a grenade? You must be bloody insane."
"Shut up," John groaned. He paused to stick his gun out of the flaps and shoot one of the men that was straddling his comrade and putting a beating on him. He heard a shout of thanks and John peeled back in, out of sight from the intruders. "I just saved your bloody life, Tom. Be grateful. There's six seconds to a grenades release, two of which were in the air. Two steps, bending over. Three seconds. Throw, one second. It exploded mid-air."
"Smartass."
"When am I not?"
"When you're not fighting."
"Blame it on adrenaline."
"Well, you have a pretty good-lookin' –."
"Don't hit on me right now."
"– SA80. Your gun." Tom finished with a cheeky grin, from which John only rolled his eyes.
"Take top." John said quickly when he heard a few more close gunshots going off. Tom, knowing what he meant, nodded, and curved out of the brown tent with his eye trained to shoot. At the first sound of a shot, John crouched under Tom and also stuck himself out to shoot at the opposing force. They hit their marks perfectly, the five men that were heading stealthily towards their tent being pushed back from the force of the shot and falling to the ground.
Tom took right and John took left, quick-scoping the area around them for any more colors that weren't there's. Seeing none, Tom and John pulled back inside with tense shoulders and guns to their chest. "I'll never get tired of this," Tom grinned as he felt the familiar rush of need course through him.
John felt quite the same. He nodded. "Yeah. Don't think we'll be able to go into society anytime soon, though. Imagine the look's we're gonna get." John replied hastily. To be honest, he was scared of going back. Being twenty-nine, he had a good five years left of his immediate contract, and anything after that was up in the air. He only stayed if they needed him. It was a little bit different to be a doctor, so he was pretty sure he would be able to maintain his position – but judging from this Sherlock figure it seemed the man was a genius.
He would probably take John's place. Not that John was opposed to that. He didn't mind – when he trained Sherlock properly he was sure the guy would be better than he was, and he would be able to save more people. It paid to be a sniper in the medical tent because it was more than likely you would defend it by shooting the oncoming invaders, not the invaders that were already crammed down your throat.
Tom, upon hearing some more footsteps on the outside through the mass sound of fray, stuck his own State's originated gun – a sharpshooter rifle – outside to snag the two on-comers out.
"Oi! John, another one coming your way! Med's, now!" A soldier shouted from outside, and John leapt into action. His gun now hanging limply over his chest with the strap holding it there, John hastily made preparations as a man was thrown into his tent. "Bullet wound, right thigh! Quick removal, patch, bind, 'n go!" John nodded at the information.
Tome continued to stay at the door, the good side of his face positioned closest to the flap to be able to see better. His gun continued to stay in his hands properly and John hurried to help the man that was limping over.
"Okay, I need you to sit on that table. Tom and two others are covering us." John spoke rapidly as he gathered the necessary materials.
His hands shot out in random places.
To the left, the fleet of the only set of bandages that weren't contaminated with some sort of thing that would get into the wound.
Set next to the thigh.
The man grunted and tore open the cloth that was covering the wound, and John realized that it wasn't the first time for this man. Good. John nodded. This was good. He didn't have to bother explaining anything then. And the man was even making it easier.
"You know what you're doing. Okay. Good." John muttered to himself.
Second. Gauze. To the right. He set it next to the bandages.
Back-up numbing injection. Already sterilized.
John heard gunshots from the back of him, but he kept himself mainly based on his task at hand. He reached for his scalpel and placed that next to the other two objects, and then for the large, heavy set of blunt tweezers that he uses to get objects out now because the proper equipment was withheld from him.
Without warning John took the needle and jammed it in the area around the wound, not having time to worry about the necessary place to put it. He had done it enough to know that there was no danger to the toxins being injected and that it would only numb the area. Waiting a few seconds as he threw the now-contaminated needle down to the floor, rendering it useless, he reached for the scalpel.
Quick and easy, John twirled the metal device in the right position in his left hand – being left-handed – and moved to bend closer to the man's knee. The numbing medication wouldn't have made its way to the nerves yet, but the numbing wasn't for the removal, it was for getting back out afterwards.
The opening slice took seconds. John put the scalpel back down and picked up the large metal tweezers, before bending back down to get a closer look at the shot wound. His guess was it was in three inches, angled to the left, because the bullet insertion wasn't a perfect shot. Part of the bullet had entered before the rest.
Finding the general area, John spoke. "Use your hand to clench my shoulder, and don't scream."
"Not like I w-would." The man grunted out as John inserted the point of the tweezers into the bloody flesh. On a better day he would have cleaned the wound properly, but they had no time for such things.
More shots rang out from behind him. Tom again.
"Blood hell." The man muttered as he gripped on John's shoulder tightly. John grunted in pain himself as he squeezed his eyes close together, narrowing them just enough to pinpoint a piece of metal protruding from the battered and torn flesh. The doctor dug around for a second or two more before the tweezers latched on the needed assessment. "Pulling out." John stated, not bothering to think of how dirty that sounded.
The bullet took another few seconds to dislodge form the skin. The soldier grunted again, his jaw tense and his teeth gritting, but John hurriedly pulled the object form the flesh. A relieved sigh was heard as he dropped the bullet inside a nearby metal platter.
"Okay. Disinfectant." John muttered as he took three quick steps to his bag, which was riddled with miscellaneous drugs and ailments and common elixirs. He jolted the back around a few moments before he found what he was looking for. The bottle he found was a good 90% alcohol, which would burn the skin severely but it would get rid of all the signs of infection.
"Hold on again." He told his patient as he unscrewed the cap. This time the man held on tighter, probably knowing this was going to be the most painful.
The liquid was dropped on him and the man grunted loudly, but still refrained from screaming. His whole leg jolted and hammered with pain, twitching annoyingly, but John held it down, feeling sympathetic. He knew what that felt like, and it certainly wasn't good. Sometimes he really hated his job. Causing pain to heal.
But still.
John ran to his left quickly to gather one of his many sets of prepared and laced needles, ready to tie up the man's wound. John came back and stitched it together in record time, his hands flying over and pulling the clear string and inserting the needle in the positions needed.
When he was done he tied the knot.
"Can you wrap yourself up?" John asked quickly as he put the needle with the other things that would need to be disinfected.
"Yes, Doc. I'm good. Back up Tom."
Does everyone know Tom?
"Alright."
John took his gun and proceeded to stand to the left of the opening, where Tom was already out shooting. He took the same position as before, under the dark-haired man standing, and shot at the hip and middle-regions of the few intruders left.
Tom nailed a few to John's left and John a few to Tom's right, the enemies dropping like flies. More grenades were thrown, but none near them, and they had to watch out of the corner of their eyes as some of their friends were blown to pieces. Knowing this was simply what happened in war, they didn't flinch. It happened all the time.
They wouldn't forget them though. Really. They wouldn't.
John focused his gaze on the remaining thirty men who were occasionally shooting and being shot at. John nailed three more with his gun, which was still wrapped around his chest, and Tom two more.
"Okay, I think the rest can handle them," Tom finally sighed out as he listening to the continuing gunshots. John nodded and pulled back, glancing at the man who was finishing up his impressive wrappings.
"You good?" John asked his patient, who he had now finally gotten a good look at. The danger was amiss and now he had a lot more time to think like a normal guy. The first thing he say was the dust of sandy blonde hair, much like his own, that was cut in the classic military fashion that all of them were trimmed to. The next was the light grey eyes, which he briefly looked at. The man was tall and wide-set, like many soldiers here were.
"Jace. Jace Emerson. Yeah, I'm good. Record time there, too." The soldier praised with a grin, from which John returned.
"At least you didn't scream and draw attention to yourself."
"Been there, done that. Gets everyone in worse situations."
"Don't I know it. Well, that's Tom Bekkit, and I'm –,"
"Three-Continents-Watson. Trust me, I know. Nice t'meetcha, John. I was originally supposed to be here tomorrow morning, bringing a new apprentice of yours, but we were brought into action by the ambush. Sherlock won't be able to get here until morning still, but he knows I'm here and where we are." The soldier informed John, who simply nodded.
"Alright. Nothing too strenuous on the leg – even though that's impossible to tell to a soldier – and go back to your tent. We're going to need to get some repairs done."
"Yes, sir. I will check tomorrow to see that Sherlock had arrived safe. Other than that, thank you, Captain. And nice shooting, Tom." Jace praised with a grin, and Tom shook his head with a similar one of his own. Men and their ego. John rolled his eyes and wiped the blood off of him from a towel nearby.
"'Til sunrise, Soldier."
"Yes, sir!"
Jace had left the medical center with a grin and hopefully a new friend, leaving John and Tom to fix their mess in the med's center and furthermore pass out for their few hours of sleep. John briefly wondered what this Sherlock would be like when he met him, but he decided not to dwell too much on it. After all, he would meet him in a bit.
Tom passed out because he was too tired. John rolled his eyes. Guy must've skimped on sleep again.
Great, another kid to take care of.
Little did John know, he had no idea what taking care of a kid would be like.
Well, until he met Sherlock.
OKAI. Well. I usually keep my chapters at around 3k words when I write them, but as an intro I might as well make it a bit longer. Super lot of action in this one, and the action will slowly regress and progress within the next ten or so chapters, before it gets really hot and heavy. Anyway, this was the first chapter of my new Johnlock Afghanistan station fic.
I hope by the end of this fic John and Sherlock will be in 221B, retired, and all that shaz. John and Sherlock will eventually fight crime in 221B, but I think I'll end it up there.
But for now, this is the main point of the whole shindig.
I really hoped you like and didn't think this chapter was super boring because of all the non-Johnlock action. xD There won't be any for a bit, but they'll get to know each other and all.
Please read and review! X3 I would appreciate it greatly!