Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Tom. :)
A single gunshot echoes throughout the silent building.
No. John's head whips around. No.
He starts running, even as his heart plummets. Even though he knows its pointless.
Not again. Please not again.
This had happened before. In Afghanistan.
Gunfire erupted around them, causing John to duck down and crouch over the young soldier next to him. The boy had been shot in the stomach only a few moments before. Luckily, the bullet hadn't hit any major organs, so if John could just get him back to the base . . . .
"What's your name?" he asked the gasping soldier while searching frantically for some help.
"T-Tom," he stuttered weakly, and John couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. He was much too young to be on the battlefield.
Suddenly he caught sight of another soldier a few meters away, lying flat on his stomach. He cast a quick glance at Tom, who looked okay, for the most part. Despite the fact that there was a gaping hole in his stomach with blood pouring out of it. "Tom, I'm gonna be right back," he promised the boy, who only nodded weakly.
He sprints down the stairs, adrenaline flooding through his veins.
Making sure another round of gunfire wasn't about to erupt around him, he dashed toward the unconscious man. He dove down next to him, instantly feeling for a pulse.
There was none.
He hears footsteps far behind him. Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion he has.
He mentally cursed to himself. He left Tom to go help a dead body! He turned back to face the younger man just in time to see an enemy soldier point a gun at Tom's head and fire. "No!" he shouted.
He runs down the hall and comes to a stop. Right or left?
Without even pausing to think, he whipped his pistol from his belt and quickly shot at the man. He fell to the ground, a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead oozing blood.
Left.
He dashed over to Tom's side, completely ignoring the body next to him. The boy's sightless eyes stared up at the sky, his mouth open in a silent scream.
The room he left her in is right in front of him.
He lowered his head, his fists clenched tightly. "I'm sorry, Tom."
He bursts through the door, his gun out and ready, even though he knows he probably won't be needing it.
He walks slowly around the desk, hoping, hoping . . . .
A pale arm, laying limply on the floor, an origami flower resting in its unmoving hand is all he needs to see before he knows.
He's failed someone again.
He's abandoned someone again.
Because of him, someone has died again.
"I'm sorry," he whispers in a broken voice.
"Sorry" doesn't cut it. Never has.
Next time, he vows silently, unshed tears burning in his bright blue eyes, I'll be paying the price for my actions. No one else will die because of me.
Never again.