This Place Seemed Safe, or Boomerangs Always Come Back

An original BBC Sherlock fan fiction by CowMow.

A/N: Dear Reader,

Welcome to this story.

It takes place in the North-East of Vietnam, with Chapter 1 starting at January 19th, 1968. Baker Hill is a fictional place, but many of the things that happen in this story have happened for real. I did my research, but if I made any mistakes, please tell me, and I will change them. I also took some liberties. John would probably not have been a doctor/medic so soon, but oh well... it's only fiction.

I am Dutch myself – my own country didn't fight in Vietnam – but this story is dedicated to all the (American) soldiers and civilians who died during this often forgotten war.

…

Many heartfelt thanks to my favorite girls:

- Lexie, aka MrsCumberbatch, my awesome JohnLockian-in-crime across the globe; for helping me by being my wonderful, funny friend, fantastic idea-giver and enthusiastic motivator. If there is ever sex in a Huey, my darling readers, you must blame her. In fact, blame her for this whole story, because without her I would probably never have written this in the first place.

- Jessy, my American, brilliant, evil twin sister; for making me look more critically at this story, for making this story ten times better, for not being afraid to drastically cut stupid sentences or expressions, for killing my clichés, and for forcing me to really think about what I was trying to say. At least now I know how to spell riffles. I mean riffles. Riffles. Fuck.

Disclaimer:

- I own none of the recognisable characters; these belong either to Mofftiss or ACD.

- Nor do I own the chapter titles. I took them all (except the prologue) from songs that have something to do with the Vietnam War (mostly protest songs). Feel free to look them up on YouTube.

…-…

Prologue: Boomerangs Always Come Back

For notes, see end of chapter.

May 15th, 1968

"I don't want you to go on your own, Sherlock." John had his arms folded across his chest as he firmly stood his ground. "Can't you take someone with you?" His face was clouded like the grey sky outside. It wasn't time for the monsoons yet, but they were coming, everyone could feel it in the humid air. Everyone dreaded it, when the time came that it was simply impossible to keep your socks dry and your body warm. There, that was another reason why he didn't want Sherlock to go on his own. What if a storm came that would mess up his navigation and radio contact, or rain that would blind his view? Strong wind could come and blow him off his course, and even John knew there wasn't room for a long detour with those small fuel tanks.

Sherlock took a deep breath and slouched down on his bunk, pressing his back against the wooden wall of his small barrack. "I always fly better when I am on my own." He didn't give a shrug, but the eye-roll was almost audible in the dusty dark of his one-roomed home.

"You can never watch everything. Charlie* is everywhere now, Sherlock, surely you see that too!" John's voice was high and desperate, and a dreadful fear had settled nicely in the pit of his stomach. Why wouldn't Sherlock listen?

Sherlock smiled fondly, closed his eyes and shook his head. "I will be fine, Doc, don't worry about me. I just have to go to Troop Delta to pick up a new radio. What can possibly go wrong?" He opened his eyes, bright grey staring back in troubled blue. Sherlock's jaw had set, and John saw that Sherlock's shoulders were rolled back.

Sherlock always did that when he thought he was being right.

In John's eyes, the pilot was just being stupidly stubborn. Again.

"It's just a radio, John. One hour there and one hour back again, at the most. I will be able to survive two hours on my own."

In the background, on the soaked sandy fields ploughed by countless pairs of feet, sergeants were shouting commands at privates, but for Sherlock and John the world had narrowed down to a damp, moldy barrack.

"Yeah!?" John snapped, harsher than he meant to. He sank down to the floor in front of Sherlock, resting his hands on the pilot's knees in an attempt to reason with him. "That will be two hours, on your bloody own, over VC*-swarmed area! Why won't you take me with you? You need a door gunner."

But Sherlock had decided on this matter, and he wouldn't change his mind. "They need you here, John." He knelt down next to John on the floor, his knees hitting the wooden floorboards. It must hurt but the Briton didn't seem to notice or care. He gently caught John's lips with his own, coaxing John into sweet surrender. Their lips were still close together when Sherlock mumbled, "Only one trip on my own, on the next you can join me again." He stroked John's tanned, stubble-covered cheek with his calloused thumb, trying to comfort the distressed young man. No matter how good John was with a gun, no matter how much he loved the handsome blond soldier, he worked better alone. He couldn't risk being distracted from his task. Not now.

His efforts were effective. John nodded slowly and let himself be helped to his feet.

"Just be careful," he pleaded as he watched Sherlock pick up his moss-green helmet with built-in microphone. Sherlock's impeccable black leather jacket, lined with warm, wooly white fabric which Sherlock always claimed to be true sheepskin, was put on; the tight leather stretched nicely over his chest and shoulders. John's eyes, as always, were drawn to the ridiculously appropriate 191st Assault Helicopter Company insigne that graced both Sherlock's helm and his jacket; a fiery, bright green helicopter with bared teeth.

He looked back up at Sherlock, his plea obvious. "Just be careful, and come back to me, Posh Guy."

Sherlock smirked at his lover in the half-dark of the shed; the barrack couldn't be called more than that. Without saying another word, the tall pilot opened the door, nodding briskly to some other soldier, perhaps Greg, probably Helmet. All the others they once knew were gone, just like that. One snap of Fate's fingers had removed them from existence, all nine of them. New faces had appeared under the same helmets. Other, younger, voices joked about the same things because they were all too scared to face the same truth. Everyone was. Everyone had been.

John stood in the doorway as he watched Sherlock walk away. The pilot neared the corner of the Baker Hill hangar on his way to grab the supplies that Troop Delta had asked for in return for the radio. Just before he rounded, he turned around, facing John. He raised his hand in the air, grabbing something out of the air neither could see, curled his fingers around it and pressed it against his temple in a half-salute.

"Of course I'll come back to you, Doc. Boomerangs always come back!*" He accompanied his shouted words with a fat wink, and that small piece of mental film would be very unwilling to leave John's retina in the days, weeks, months, years to follow.

Sherlock did another one-eighty, and disappeared around the corner. It left his spot painfully empty. John hung his head and grimaced. It was only a two-hour flight. Sherlock had proved multiple times in the past that he was the best pilot around here, and besides, Viet Cong guns were trash.

John lifted his head again, staring up at the empty, grey expanse of Vietnamese sky.

Sherlock had said so himself: boomerangs always come back.

John's boomerang would come back to him too.

…-…

Notes for the Prologue.

*Charlie is slang for the Viet Cong, the Vietnam Liberation front. They were the main enemies of the Americans during this war.

*VC=Abbreviation of Viet Cong

*Members of the 191st Assault Helicopter Company were called Boomerangs. Their motto was "Boomerangs Always Come Back."

...

A/N: This will be the largest thing I've ever written, and I am currently halfway. It will contain smutty times, love, first times, a large amount of history and a healthy dose of angst. But I kinda got stuck, so I thought, perhaps this work? Leave a review what you think and if you like it, perhaps that will help my motivation. Love, CM.