Digging, digging, why was he digging? His hands scooped up handful after handful of sandy dirt in rapid, desperate succession. He was frantic; sweat poured from his brow. He was in surrounded by a vast plain of sand and desolation. The wind howled, hot and dry; brushed his dusty, short-cropped hair on his head. He was alone. So alone. Digging and digging and digging, he knelt in the sand. He had no shovel, no tools. Just his hands. His fingers—his nails—they were bleeding. Bleeding so heavily but he didn't feel it. The rough and torn skin was filled with sand- packing the lacerations full. Yet, he still bled; bled onto the yellow sand, like boiling lava. It boiled. It boiled. But he had to keep digging.
Desperation drove him onwards. He didn't know what he was digging for—just knew one thing: he had to keep going. Had to keep burying his hands into the earth and clawing his way deeper into it. Didn't know why but he just did. His ears were sweating and numb. He could feel the wicked heat beating down on him; the cruel dry wind. But he couldn't hear it. His ears felt heavy and hollow. Noises like the wind escaped him. He heard only the nails-on-chalkboard sound of sand grinding below him. He heard only that and an echoing ringing sound. Ringing and ringing and making his heart leap out of his chest with every pulse. It hurt, oh, it hurt, but he had to keep digging.
He was in the desert. The deserts of Afghanistan. The vast sandy, rocky land. He was digging for someone. Someone, someone. But who? It came back to him. Gunshots and pain—blood, so much blood. Blood, and pain. Gunshots, and explosions. The terror and romance of war was nothing to him now. He was mindlessly digging his fingers raw, so raw, so bloody. Blood. He could smell blood. He could smell blood and fire, and chlorine.
"No!" He screamed, digging harder and faster, deeper and more frantically. His heart rate was dangerously high. His veins burned with terror and anxiety and adrenaline all in one punch. One painful punch. He could feel his hands now. He could feel the sticky and wet hotness of the blood on them. He didn't have sand in his raw wounds. They poured blood freely now, making gripping the sand a difficult task. The sand clumped to the moisture, sucking the sour smelling liquid from his veins. Sand. Sand. Glass.
"No!" He screamed louder, a second time. Glass. Glass, buried in his fingers. Under his nails, in his palms. His wrists. His hands were like bizarre sculptures. They were brilliant but painful. So painful. He dug on. Dug into the glass. Glass and glass, shattered into splinters. More and more glass. What the hell was he digging for? The glass protruding from his hands were covered in blood. So much blood, and it burnt. But why did it burn? Glass and metal. Searing hot, warping bits of metal. Metal, so much of it. So much metal and glass and the stench of chlorine was overwhelming. What had happened to the sands of Afghanistan? He dug on.
Sounds slowly crept back into his ears. A faint but eerie wailing, rising and lowering in pitch and intensity. It slowly grew louder, and with it came a dull headache. Every time the sound grew in volume, his brain throbbed. He cold feel blood pour down his face with every pulse of his frantically beating heart. He was blinded by the blood that had now coated over his face, but still kept on digging. The wailing became screeching. His head hurt. Oh God, his head hurt. He felt as if it might explode; as if the pressure of all the noise was going to cave his head in. His mind felt like jello. A sharp noise left a stinging sensation in his temporal lobe. He kept digging. Another sharp, violent sound. Many now, each effecting his headache the same way as the other. Sharp, painful noises, calling him. Calling him. Voices.
He kept digging. God knows why, but he had to keep on. He had no clue why. He was horrified and confused when he finally no longer dug at burning metal, or glass, or sand. He was blinded, but he could feel. His fingers were mutilated beyond repair, but he could still feel.
Oh God. Soft flesh, wet. Sticky. Blood. He felt the figure; let his destroyed hands roam what he had found, what he had been digging for. He felt those lanky limbs, that thin but strong frame. His hands traveled in one direction—upwards. He was blinded, but he could feel that rigid jaw, the pronounced cheekbones. That curly mop of hair. Oh God. Hands, dozens of hands clawed at him. Voices were yelling and shouting at him from all over. He couldn't leave, he couldn't leave! He fell forward onto the soft, fleshy mass below him; pawed frantically at the messy hair; gripped the soaking shirt tightly. Hands still grabbed at him, voices still shouted. He couldn't make out their words. Couldn't see the faces. Couldn't see his face. Oh, but he knew. He knew. He couldn't leave.
"I won't leave him!" He cried with such intensity that it hurt his head and his throat. He clung onto the shirt desperately, but was plucked away by several strong arms. John, the voices all cried. John, John, are you alright? They all asked, frantic. John was dazed. He was hurt. He was crying. He was-
He remembered.
The gun. The bomb. The pool. The explosion. The blood.
"Sherlock!"