Hey guys, here's the promised second half of Christmas Promise. I hope you enjoy it.
P.S. The first scene is the exact same as the first scene in Christmas Promis, but I just wanted to put it here just so that I can remind everyone when John made the promise.
"You better be careful John," Sherlock said sternly as his kissed his husband.
"I'm always careful," John replied with one of his confident grins.
"That's what I'm worried about," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're idiotic brain doesn't know the meaning of being careful."
John full out laughed at that. "I'm more careful than you've ever been," he pointed out with a grin.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed readily, "but I have you to take care of me then."
"Don't worry about it Sherlock," John's smile turned reassuring. "I'll be careful and I'll have a whole army behind me."
"Daddy." Both men looked down as their son, Hamish, inserted himself between them and tugged on his dad's pants leg. "When will you be back?"
John smiled and reached down to scoop his son up in his arms. "I should be back for Christmas," he replied.
"Do you promise?" Hamish asked with his trademark pout. John couldn't help but remember once again that Hamish's pouts looked so much like his papa's when he was sulking. It was always funny for John when Sherlock went into a sulk because Hamish loved to copy one or both of his fathers so he would always sit right next to Sherlock and pull of the exact same look. Needless to say, Sherlock's sulks never lasted long these days.
"I promise," John agreed readily.
"And you'll bring back presents right?" Hamish asked immediately.
"So demanding," John said playfully. "I'll see what I can do."
"They're boarding now captain," a man cut through their moment and John nodded at him before turning back to his husband and his son.
"I've got to go Sherlock," he said. "You be good." Then he turned to his son. "You make sure that papa behaves alright."
"I will," Hamish said determinedly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but he couldn't keep the grin from his face. "You be safe," he said once more as he gave his husband one last kiss and took his son in his own arms.
"I will," John nodded and, with one last wave at his family and anyone else who had shown up to send him off, he headed towards the plane.
John sighed as he pulled out a piece of paper to begin writing his final letter. It had become a habit of his to write it on the plane trip to wherever he was stationed at the time and he always looked forward to burning it when he was on the plane trips back. He hoped that this time wouldn't be any different.
None of the other men spoke to him on the plane trips. Some of them were quiet in their contemplation of what they were flying into and others were laughing loudly with each other and boasting about all the good things that they were going to do on this deployment, but they all knew not to bother their captain during this ritual unless something really important happened. It was the only amount of solitude John got with his men during the whole deployment because he was the head doctor and he relished the feeling of it.
This time always seemed to be so short and getting shorter and shorter every time he had to leave. It almost seemed like he got on the plane only to sit down for half an hour and get off it again. He was barely able to seal his letter before he and the rest of the men were filing off in order to get in jeeps where they would be taken to their assigned camp.
The moment they were in the camp and shown to there cots, John took out the letter and placed it on the desk beside his bed. Anyone who knew him, knew not to touch, and anyone who didn't, wouldn't get the courage to ask so it would be left there until it was time for him to go home at the end of his tour or otherwise.
"Captain," Bill Murray greeted him as he started putting his stuff away. "It's good to see you again. How was your leave?"
"It's getting harder and harder to leave them these days," John sighed.
"Yea well," Bill grinned. "You're coming to the end of your tour soon anyways. Have you told Sherlock that you're getting out after this one?"
"I want to surprise him," John shook his head. "It's so rare that I get to surprise him."
"Yea, well, the way you talk about him makes me understand that."
"He might know already, though," John continued. "The only thing that makes me think that he doesn't is the fact that Sherlock tries his very hardest not to stick his nose into any of my work-related business. I don't think he's even met any of the other military spouses before."
"That's probably a good thing," Bill laughed. "You'll have to tell me about your leave some time."
"You too," John nodded. "How's the wife doing anyway? You said she was pregnant last time I saw you. Was it a boy or a girl?"
"A girl," Bill lit up almost immediately as he pulled out a picture of his new little princess and started telling John all about her even as the two of them went to report for duty.
It had been months since John boarded the plane to come back to Afghanistan. John found himself almost constantly busy tending to people in the field and back at the camp. The days that he only had to treat several minor injuries were few and the days where he had no new patients at all was even fewer. Those were the days that he rushed to the phone as fast as he could. The men almost always gave their phone privileges to him whenever he had time because they respected him and knew that he didn't have any time when it was actually his turn to do so.
John knew that Sherlock never let the phone leave his grip when he was away so the phone was almost always picked up immediately after the first ring. John had sometimes even caught them at the middle of the night, but Sherlock always woke Hamish so that he could talk to the both of them. John wanted to tell Sherlock that it wasn't necessary to wake Hamish, but he also knew that Hamish would be upset if he missed talking to his daddy so John allowed it.
Any other short moment that John was able to catch between patients was used to write letters. Sometimes to the whole family and sometimes to just Sherlock. He even sometimes wrote to Mrs. Hudson, but that was very rare and she understood why. The most recent letters that he wrote, a love letter to Sherlock and a plain letter to him and Hamish, John was able to send home in the coat of Bill Murray who was just starting his own leave.
John was happy to see Bill get some time off; one of his daughters' birthdays was coming up. Apparently he was going to surprise her since he had previously thought that he wouldn't be able to get the time off until after her birthday. The only problem was that it left John with a rookie that was still getting used to working on the battlefield. The boy was good and he always followed John's word to the letter, but John had seen him a few times outside of the medical tent and he had been shaking. He was clearly not meant for this type of thing. He probably only signed up to pay for medical school like John had when he first started. Hopefully he would make it long enough that he would be able to get out.
It was only a week after Bill had left, and the day of Bill's daughter's birthday, that they went to go visit a village nearby and found themselves being ambushed. John only had a moment to think "Thank God Bill's not here," and "Please God let me make it through this," before the jeep he rode in was being tossed like a ragdoll from an explosion. John, who had been in the front passenger's seat, was ejected and then pinned to the ground with a jeep on top of his right leg.
The searing pain was unbearable and John had to bite his lip until it bled in order to stop himself from screaming out. His foot was crushed, he knew, and there would probably be only a slight chance of saving it if they weren't currently under attack. Since they were under attack, however, John knew that his only chance of surviving was to amputate it.
John looked around for Bill's replacement to help him with the amputation, a procedure he'd rather not have to perform on himself, but the boy was no use to him shot dead near the other destroyed jeep. He would have to do it on his own.
John pulled the medical bag that he always kept strapped to his chest when they were in the jeeps off and dug through it until he found what he needed. Then he took the belt from his waist and lean down to wrap it as tightly as he could around his leg. It hurt like hell and John knew that he really should have taken stronger painkillers since he was going to be removing his own leg, but he couldn't afford to compromise his medical abilities, so he pressed on with only minor pain pills.
When it came to actually sawing off his leg, John found himself biting down on the gag he made out of some cloth to stop himself from screaming as well as to stop himself from blacking out. He wanted more than anything to stop and take a break, but he knew that if he did he might not be able to start again. He had to press on no matter the pain.
Soldiers were being shot down from all around him. They had seen what he was doing and were doing their best to protect him, but he was in the middle of the battle zone and they couldn't get to him without putting themselves in harms way. Even without them getting to him, they were still being killed. Their enemies were coming from all directions so there was no real cover for anyone.
By the time John was free of the jeep and his leg, things had started to get deathly silent. There was only one or two soldiers left on his side that were fighting it out, but they were quickly running out of bullets and blood from their injuries. Even if John could drag himself over to them once he was finished bandaging his leg, he still wouldn't be able to save them. They knew this and that made them reckless. They wanted to take as many of the enemy out as they could.
When John had finally finished bandaging his leg to his satisfaction, the only people around him were the enemy. For a moment he couldn't help but to curse himself. Why did he try so hard and cut off his leg when the enemy was going to kill him anyway? The enemy had different plans, however. Apparently they had seen the way that he had treated himself and decided that he would be better use to them alive rather than dead. Instead of a shot to the head, as John was expecting, he received the butt of a gun to the head and was knocked out cold.
John woke up to find himself in a damp room all by himself. He knew it wasn't any sort of medical area, so he could only assume that he was of prisoner of war. It was better than the death that he was expecting, but not by much.
He took a moment to just sit in his spot and rest his head against the wall. He could try to think of escape routes, but with his leg as it was there was no way that he was going to get very far even if he could slip past the guard. The only way that he was going to escape was by taking a gun from one of the guards and killing every last one of the enemies that remained at this camp. That was a suicide mission and, if there was one thing that John wasn't willing to do, he didn't want to die. He could use it as a last resort if he had no other choice, but for now he was going to just have to sit through it and see what the enemies' plans were.
Next, John knew that he was going to have to check his leg. He should really redo the bandages at this point, but there was nothing that he could use and it was better to keep the ones on for now instead of trying to replace them with something like his dirty t-shirt. Hopefully, the wound would heal enough that he wouldn't get an infection before he came to that point, but it was doubtful. He would survive this, though, he thought decidedly. He wanted to go home and see his family and he had a promise to keep. Even if he were late for this Christmas, and even the next one, he would make it to one of them no matter what he'd have to overcome.
John lost track of how much time he spent in captivity. He had a special set of skills that made it so that the army didn't even try to get anything for him. Instead, they had him work on their own men. John was ashamed the whole time he was doing it for two reasons. He was helping the enemy, but worst of all was that he wasn't doing everything that he could to save them. He was saving their lives, of course, but he was also taking limbs when it wasn't necessary. None of his enemy realized what he was doing and they couldn't really communicate so no one asked him. He felt ashamed that he was doing that, but he was also proud that he was helping to get rid of the enemies without having to kill them.
There were also times that he lost some time and patients due to illness. He wasn't kept in the best of conditions and, at first, his leg got infected, but he was able to stop the infection by stealing some of the medicine that they gave him for his patients. Then he just kept getting sick because his system couldn't handle the stress. They kept him well fed when he got sick, but this was the only time that they did so.
It was during one of these times of illness that he noticed a commotion that he hadn't heard in a while. There were gunshots and screaming in both the language of the enemy and his own. He was so relieved that he tried to stand, forgetting about his leg and immediately fell over onto said leg. His scream of pain reverberated through the building that he was being kept in and only a moment later the heavy door opened. For a moment John thought that it might be the enemy coming to dispose of him and he scrambled back to get away, but than a voice that he recognized very well called out to him.
"John!?" It was Bill Murray. "I need some help over here!" Bill called out of the building before quickly making his way to John to examine his wounds. "What did they do to you?" he asked when he saw that John was missing a leg. Of course, he should have already known that since John's leg had been the only thing that they found of him, but just the shock of looking at it was too much.
"The truck pinned me," John said only somewhat lucidly. "I had to get out. I had to save them."
"You cut off your own leg?!" Bill gasped. Before John had disappeared, he and the others had always joked that John would do anything to treat his patients, but they never thought he would go to the extent of cutting off his own leg just to do so. Bill was actually surprised that he didn't go into shock from the pain of it.
"What do you need us to do?" someone said from behind Bill. John hadn't even noticed the two men come in, but they spoke English and Bill trusted them so he felt safe enough to trust them when one of them came forward and sling him over their shoulder. Bill probably would've done it himself, John would think in the future, but he was needed as one of the medics for the team so John was taken by a person he had never met before. Still, though, this soldier was a brother to him just like all the rest.
That's why, when a shot rang out that took the soldier down that was carrying him, John was knocked into enough consciousness to drag himself back to his comrade and check his wound. It wasn't fatal, just a shot to the leg, but while John was checking it he failed to realize that he was in full view of any enemies and he got shot in the shoulder for his troubles.
After a moment of searing pain, John knew no more.
Over the next few days, John continually woke up in different forms of hallucinations and delirium. Not once did he even realize that he was no longer in the enemy camp and he often had to be subdued so he wouldn't struggle against those that were trying to help him. This, of course, didn't really help with his delirium and just made him want to struggle even more.
It was because of these bouts that when John finally awoke after several days with a clear head and the knowledge that he was no longer in captivity, he found a medic hovering nearby, waiting for him to need to be subdued. "Water," was all that needed to be said to send the medic off only for him to return with the requested item. "Where's Bill?"
"He's off duty right now," the medic replied. "I sent someone to go get him, though. He made us promise to call him when you were lucid." No sooner had he said the words then that very man came rushing into the medical tent.
"John!" he said with an excited smile once he got close enough not to bother any of the other patients. "How are you feeling?"
"A lot better now," John replied. He got a look from Bill for not giving anything helpful, but it was just in John's character to not worry about his own health. "How are Sherlock and Hamish?"
Bill frowned thoughtfully, but he waved off the other medic and turned back to John with the determination in his eyes that told him that something bad was about to be said.
"Sherlock's not injured is he?" John gasped. "Hamish?"
"No, no," Bill shook his head quickly. "The last time I saw them, they were both well. What I have to say is actually about you."
"What about me?"
"You were labeled as KIA." Well that explained why no one had made any attempt to save him. "They found your leg and they just assumed the rest of you was destroyed in the bombing. They've already had your funeral."
"They think I'm dead?" John's eyes widened when the realization that his own husband and son thought that he was dead hit him. "I have to get home." John sat up with a wince before Bill could stop him and tried to get up with only his good leg, but Bill wouldn't let him.
"We've already got a medical envoy heading out in about an hour. You were supposed to go on it whether you were conscious or not. From there, you'll be sent to a hospital where they will check over your wounds and then you can go home."
"When will I get home?" John asked with a sigh, knowing that that was his only choice.
"Probably sometime on Christmas Eve," Bill shrugged.
"Christmas Eve?!" he didn't know he was in captivity for that long. He would have to hurry if he wanted to make his promise.
"I'm glad you're going to be able to fulfill your promise," Bill smiled. "Hamish couldn't stop talking about it throughout the funeral. I think he was trying to make everyone feel better, but it wasn't really working. Apparently he was right, though."
"That's my boys," John laughed giddily. It was awkward talking about himself like this, but neither of them really had experience in these types of situations so he figured they could be excused for it.
That long hour was excruciating for John. Sure he felt a nonstop pain as he refused the good drugs in favor of giving them to someone who would be staying there longer than he was, but that's not where the torture was coming from. He just couldn't stop thinking about what might have happened to Sherlock and his son while they thought that he was dead. For a moment the thought even crossed his mind that Sherlock might have started taking drugs again, but that was immediately shot down with the thought that Sherlock would never do that to their son.
Then he thought that they might've moved on without him. He was "dead" for less than a year and Sherlock didn't really seem like he would be able to just up and get another man if John ever really did die, but it wasn't for lack of other men trying. Sherlock just found most of them to be dull. John had no doubt that the moment Sherlock found someone of interest, he would move on to be with them. It gave him comfort in most situations because he didn't want Sherlock to have to feel the constant pain of losing a loved one, but this was not one of those times. All's he could hope for was that Sherlock hadn't found such a man yet and that he and his son would welcome him back without too much of a fuss.
The plane ride was even worse than that, though. This time because of his wounds. The ride was jerky and bumpy and John often felt himself knocking against the people next to him despite their attempts to keep him as still as possible. He was regretting not taking the painkillers that Bill tried to force down his throat before he got on the plane, but it was too late now and he was just going to have to deal with it for the rest of the ride.
When they finally arrived, John couldn't help but sigh in relief. They wheeled him out of the plane first to be greeted by several army men standing at attention and saluting at him. He couldn't stand, but he sat as straight as he could with his own salute as a thank you to all of them. He noticed that there were no family members around, but he also knew that most of the men on the return journey were being sent immediately to the hospitals, so there really wouldn't have been a point anyway.
At the hospital, they checked his wounds, which were healing relatively well for all that he had been through, and then sent him on his way with crutches and an appointment for getting a prosthetic limb. They would have sent him with a wheel chair since his shoulder was wounded as well, but John was determined not to be put in any such contraption for any longer than he already had been, so he leaned heavily on his right crutch to make up for the missing right leg. It was an awkward sort of walk that was also very uncomfortable, but John clenched his teeth and pressed on.
That is, until he came to the lobby and found none other than his brother-in-law.
"My brother seems to be unreachable at the moment," Mycroft said when John gave him a questioning look. "I figured I could pick you up in his stead."
"How's he doing?" John asked, limping towards the other man.
"He's holding it together for Hamish's sake," Mycroft said plainly. "Really John, why aren't you in a wheel chair right now?"
"I refused one." He would have shrugged, but his right shoulder was currently holding most of his weight and his left was being held immobile so that it would heal better.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything else. He did, however, signal to one of the men behind him who immediately stepped forward and took John's crutch only to slip into its place. John would've protested, but Mycroft timed his next words perfectly to stop him. "Come, I'm sure Sherlock and Hamish will be ecstatic to see you."
It was almost midnight by the time John, with the help of one of Mycroft's men, finally settled on the couch in 221B Baker St. If anyone had asked him at the time, he would've said that it was the best feeling in his whole life, but no one did so he won't say it.
"Would you like me to go wake them up?" Mycroft's man asked him.
"No," John shook his head. He would actually really like to see them at that very moment, but he was so tired and he didn't think that he would be able to withstand something that exciting right after returning home. He just wanted to sit there in the silence and soak up the fact that he was home again. "I'm sure we all just need some rest. Go enjoy your Christmas." Mycroft's man gave a curt nod before taking his leave.
John sighed and lay down on the couch. He would've liked to go and crawl into bed with Sherlock, but that would bring on the same problem that bringing them out to him would. Besides, they probably needed their rest just as much as he did. Mycroft informed him that Sherlock had had a rough time after he had "died" and that the party that they had gone to earlier that evening really hadn't helped matters at all.
He would see them in the morning, John yawned and pulled a blanket over himself, and then everything will be well again.
"Daddy!" was what John woke up to the next morning. Hamish wasn't even in the room yet and he was already calling for him. For a moment he wondered if his son had a sixth sense or something, but when Hamish ran into the room with the most hopeful look on his face, he knew that the boy had only wanted him to be there since he promised he would be. Apparently, everyone had been correct, Hamish had never lost faith in that promise. "Daddy!" Hamish's face was so delighted when he noticed John struggling to sit himself up with only one arm to aid him. He ran over to jump on his lap, but stopped when he saw John wince. "Daddy?"
"Sorry Hamish," John smiled at his son. "I'm injured right now, so you can't go jumping on me for a while, okay?"
"Okay," Hamish's smile never wavered. "Can I have a hug, though?"
"Of course," John replied once he had finally gotten himself in a proper sitting position that allowed him to lean over without falling over. He reached out his right arm and pulled Hamish into the tightest hug he could manage. "I missed you so much," he whispered into his son ear.
"I missed you too daddy," Hamish replied sweetly. His excitement soon got the better of him, though, as he jumped away from his dad and ran to their room without another word.
John heard Hamish trying to wake Sherlock up, rather unsuccessfully as per usual of Sherlock in the early morning without a case, and then Hamish was rushing back into the room and talking a mile a minute about all the things that he and his father had done while John was away.
"I told everyone that you would come back for Christmas," Hamish was saying, "and nobody believed me, but I knew you wouldn't break your promise."
"I'm sorry to worry you and your papa," John replied sincerely. The only thing that he had thought of during his captivity was Sherlock and Hamish and the knowledge that they had to be very concerned for him. Now he knew that wasn't the case, but what they did feel in his absence was even worse.
The next thing John knew, Sherlock was in the living room with them, staring at him with that deducing look that he gave all his most interesting subjects. John let him, knowing that Sherlock needed this as much to calm down as to know exactly what had happened. "You were a prisoner of war," was Sherlock's very blunt conclusion, "but you escaped."
John only smiled and reached his good arm out to Sherlock from where he sat on the couch. "I'm sorry, love," he said. "I did everything that I could to get back to you as soon as possible." Which wasn't much, as evident by the fact that it took him so long to do so.
"Oh god." Sherlock was in John's lap with his arms wrapped tightly around the other before John even saw him move. It was excruciating, and John tensed in response to the pain, but he didn't push Sherlock off since he needed this just as much as his husband did.
"Papa," Hamish spoke up, "daddy said that we couldn't sit in his lap because it would worry his injuries." John smiled at Hamish's use of the word worry. His love of books mixed with Sherlock's proper grammar made him say some of the cutest and funniest phrases that had long since disappeared from normal society.
"Sorry!" Sherlock gasped as he quickly moved to the side with the uninjured arm, but he didn't allow himself to stop touching his husband as he wrapped the other's uninjured arm in his own. John was grateful for that, he didn't realize that he needed that touch to ground him, but now that he had it he didn't know if he would handle losing it so soon. John only smiled and gave Sherlock a kiss before turning back to Hamish and giving him permission to start opening presents.