This story is inspired by the lovely song "Desert Rose" by Sting, and by an experience my husband had long before we met.
0000
The blistering heat was unbearable. His skin felt scorched; the air was heavy and hot, and he could draw his breath only in short, painful pants. Was he on fire? What had happened? His eyes burned; he forced them open but found himself unable to focus on his surroundings.
Desert. He was in the desert. It was the sun stabbing down on him that made him feel in the focus of a magnifying glass. Afghanistan. Yes, he was in Afghanistan. He tried to move, but the heat speared through the back of his left shoulder and burst out the other side in an exquisite blossom of pain. He gasped in agony, and the hot air seared his lungs. The pain forced him into a clarity of memory he really would have preferred to avoid.
He'd been in a convoy; the lorry in front of his own jeep had hit an IED. He had leaped through the pelting debris of the wreckage to the aid of the injured thrown from the burning vehicle. The heat had been almost more than he could work through, but he had reached one of his comrades, pulled him away from the flaming lorry, and began medical treatment immediately. And then came the sniper fire. He had returned fire and was fairly certain he'd neutralized one of their attackers before succumbing to his own injury.
Injury. Yes, he'd been shot, hadn't he? Was he still at the scene of the attack? He forced himself to focus his eyes and lifted his head to look around. The exploded lorry, his own jeep, his fellow soldiers all were gone, and he was entirely alone on the desert floor in the blazing sun. There was, in fact, a complete lack of sound and movement. His muddled brain could not process it. What had happened? Where was medical support? Where was Evac? Where was Murray, the nurse who had been in the jeep with him?
The effort was too much. Drawing a painful breath, he closed his eyes and let the blackness come. He was bleeding out, that much was obvious. That and the extreme heat would soon do for him. The thirst was overwhelming. He was severely dehydrated. Yes, that would kill him first. He emptied his mind and readied himself for the inevitable. He was ready to die.
A shadow fell over him, and the relief of that sudden shade almost made him whimper. A cool, gentle hand was placed on his forehead, and he felt the temperature of his burning skin lower to an almost bearable degree.
"Stay with me, Captain. That's an order," a woman's voice said, lovingly but firmly. "Don't go to sleep. Come with me."
Captain? He did hold the rank of Captain, but no one called him anything but Doc. He struggled to open his eyes. A young woman was kneeling at his side. Dressed in English civilian clothing, she apparently wasn't Army. And she wasn't a native; her shining blonde hair and bright blue eyes attested to that. Where had she come from? She rose to her feet and took his right hand. Her fingers were slender and gentle, but strong. She pulled him upright and helped him to stand with a strength that seemed impossible considering her short stature and petite figure.
"Come with me, Captain," she said softly, and he felt compelled to obey her. He stumbled through the hot desert landscape in her wake, her hand holding his, trying to understand what was happening to him. The effort was almost too great. It was only the young woman's iron will that kept him going. They reached a high, stone wall and the blonde woman opened the gate and ushered him inside. A lush coolness washed over him in an instant relief from the scorching desert heat. The ancient trees and flowering bushes of an English garden within the sheltering walls were a welcome oasis. And then the rain fell softly down on them. His tortured skin drank it in; he turned his face upward and let the drops run down his face like mercy. The young woman cupped her hands and gathered the falling, life-giving water and offered it to him. He drank from her hands and felt instantly refreshed. He wasn't going to die after all, was he? The rain brought life to him in that garden in the desert.
His rescuer reached up and touched his face with healing hands. Ardently, she whispered to him, her breath caressing his ear. "Time to wake up, Captain. I'm waiting for you. Come home."
000
He awoke in the field hospital, swathed in bandages, listening to the beeps of the machinery that was keeping him alive. He looked around him, but saw only Bill Murray, his nurse, noting the display on the heart monitor and writing on his clipboard.
"Bill," he rasped out. His comrade turned and smiled at him.
"Hey, Doc! Good to see you awake! We thought we'd lost you, there for a bit. Your heart stopped once, and you nearly bled out. You're one lucky bastard, you are!"
"What . . . ?" he croaked. It was all he could manage. Bill lifted his head and helped him to drink a bit of water.
"Remember the explosion? And yourself, running towards it like a bloody hero? You got shot, you reckless bastard! But you rescued one of the boys from the lorry, and you took out one of the snipers that started firing on us, all before you passed out. If you hadn't, I doubt you'd be here. We'd never have survived ourselves if it weren't for you, let alone been able to evacuate you! "
"Damage?"
"Shattered clavicle, lots of muscle and nerve damage. It looks bad, Doc, I won't kid you. We stopped the bleeding and immobilized it, but we'll need to move you to a real hospital to get you the surgery you need. You also took some shrapnel to your leg as you were running to the lorry—bet you didn't even notice it! You never even missed a step. And you got some minor burns from the fire. You were way too close to that burning vehicle, Doc! You'll get a medal for your actions that day, I'll wager."
He waved medals away with a trembling hand, disregarding the IV's attached to it. "That girl. . . ." he mused.
"What girl, Doc? Lt. Johannsen? She flew the Evac helo that brought you here."
He frowned. Lt. Johannsen, the helicopter pilot, was a tall red-head, he recalled. "Blonde, blue-eyed. Short, maybe 5'2". Mid-twenties," he murmured with effort.
Bill laughed. "Nice dream you was havin', Doc," he teased. "No one around here meets that description."
Of course. He should have realized, even in his brain-addled state, that Bill wouldn't have left him alone in the desert. It was all just a dream. Nevertheless, he felt illogically grateful to the young blonde woman, crediting her with pulling him back from certain death. He could still hear her whispering to him, could still feel her breath in his ear. "Don't go to sleep, Captain. Come with me. . . ."
000
The Mediterranean sun was uncharacteristically hot. He lay on the deck of the cruise ship and baked, too lazy to move. Mycroft's generosity in giving him and his new bride a three-week honeymoon cruise to the Greek Isles had been a pleasant surprise. They were having a marvellous time. He knew he was in danger of getting a severe sunburn, and yet he dozed in his lounge chair.
"Don't go to sleep, Captain," she whispered ardently into his ear. "Come with me," she coaxed. "Let's go into the cabin until it cools off a bit."
His eyes flew open. He had not thought of that dream he'd had when he was shot for years. He stared at his wife in astonishment. Her blond hair was shining in the sun, her bright blue eyes twinkled at him. Could it possibly be?
He followed her to the cabin and they collapsed on the bed together.
She curled up against him and rested her head on his shoulder. "Can I tell you something utterly bizarre? Will you promise not to put me into a nut house?" she said softly.
"You can tell me anything," he said earnestly. "I'll only have you committed if I feel you're a danger to society."
"I used to dream about you, years ago," she confessed. "I never saw your face clearly, but I know it was you. You made me feel safe and loved and special. The first time was when I was sixteen and my dad disappeared. You came to me in a dream and told me to hold on, that you would find me one day. After that, whenever things got difficult, I'd dream of you and it gave me courage to go on." She turned her face up to look at him tentatively. "Do you think I'm quite mad?"
"Not a bit," he said, a feeling of awe stealing over him. "Let me tell you why." And he told her of an English garden in a desert place, and of a dream of rain.
000
Sting - Desert Rose Lyrics
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
I dream of fire
Those dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
And in the flames
Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire
This desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
And as she turns
This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
This fire burns
I realize that nothing's as it seems
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
I dream of rain
I lift my gaze to empty skies above
I close my eyes, this rare perfume
Is the sweet intoxication of her love
I dream of rain
I dream of gardens in the desert sand
I wake in pain
I dream of love as time runs through my hand
Sweet desert rose
Each of her veils, a secret promise
This desert flower
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
Sweet desert rose
This memory of Eden haunts us all
This desert flower this rare perfume
Is the sweet intoxication of the fall