This idea has been plaguing me for ages and I just finally had to get it out. It's the classic John has a nightmare story plot but with a slight twist! Takes place before the Blind Banker. Not intended to be slash but if you want to squint a little or put on your goggles then that's fine by me. Also for the sake of the story, Lestrade and the Yard don't know that John was a soldier in Afghanistan.

I also have no knowledge of London except for the obvious so if you see any glaring mistakes that can be fixed, please tell me!

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock

Hope that you enjoy!

It was about three weeks after John had moved into Baker Street with Sherlock and he had just begun to get used to his new lifestyle. The sleepless nights chasing after criminals and making sure that Sherlock didn't get himself killed in the process. The phone calls and texts from Lestrade at random times during the day that meant that they were going out, no exceptions. The deductions that flew from the detective's mouth, coupled with insults to everyone's intelligence. The body parts and other various experiments that were, more often then not, poisonous and were laying around, next to food and plates and other things that didn't generally mix with the stuff Sherlock was interested in. Yes, John had gotten used to his new life.

His time in the Army and the depression that had followed was over and yet he still had a healthy dose of excitement and he know had a purpose to his life. His leg barely twinged and his shoulder was perfectly fine. He still got nightmares, but those had begun to fade away and when they did occur, they didn't stop him from sleeping afterwards. He was piecing his life back together with cement, and it didn't look like it was going to come crumbling down anytime soon.

It was late even by Sherlock's standards and John was tired. Exhausted was more like it. It had been a good thirty hours since the last time he had slept or ate and Sherlock had just continued on like a train. Not once had the consulting detective stopped for breath during the whole case and John hadn't felt so ready to fall asleep there and then since Afghanistan.

It had started as a call from Lestrade. Apparently there was a serial killer on the loose that was killing war veterans who had been invalidated home almost exactly one year ago and were thirty-five years old. So far there had been five deaths. All had been drowned, stripped of their clothes and shot through the heart before they were left lying on a park bench, holding a single rose in their lifeless hands.

This was the first time that Sherlock had been permitted to enter the crime scene and John had been slightly disgusted at the thought of murdering in cold blood a person who had helped to defend their country with their life. He hadn't follow Sherlock to see the veteran in order to give the dead soldier a little bit of respect in the bustling crime scene. Sherlock had come to find him not two minutes later with a lead and that was when the chase had begun. Their killer had been slightly careless and had dropped a business card with the name and address of the most recent victim. Sherlock had immediately gone off to find the business and John had tagged dutifully behind. They found their man and very nearly caught him but he had escaped. The following pursuit had consisted of mad scrambles up walls and flying leaps across alley ways between buildings. In the end, their suspect had gotten away and Sherlock had finally listened to John and had gone home.

There, they were confronted with Lestrade and one of his infamous 'drugs busts'. Sherlock and Lestrade had gotten into a heated argument ending in Sherlock finally giving in and showing them the business card. The Detective Inspector immediately handed it over to forensics and Anderson who had volunteered once again to get on Sherlock's nerves. The flat was once again filled with insults and raised voices and John just tried to ignore it. He couldn't go up to his room, who knew what kind of trouble Sherlock would get up to if John wasn't around to calm him down. The couch wasn't an ideal place, but it was better then the floor and he would be close at hand if he was needed.

John shared a look with Lestrade who looked just as tired as he was and plunked himself down on the couch. Swinging his legs on to the settee, John shifted slightly and felt the gun that Sherlock always kept under the pillows dig into his back. He shifted again. Once in a reasonably comfortable position, John could already feel his eyelids drooping and the sounds of the police force being drowned out by the need to sleep. Before he knew it, the army doctor was out.

Gunshots. All around him, there were people shooting, scrambling, dying. There were explosions echoing in his ears and the shouts of medic rung out from all different directions. A soldier standing next to him fell to his knees clutching at his chest, mouth open in a scream that John couldn't hear over everyone else's. John swiftly followed, hands already opening his medical bag and pulling out bandages as he tried to stem the blood pouring out of the soldier's side. The man's face was already deathly pale and John knew deep inside that he was going to live. The bullet had probably punctured several vital organs and John could do nothing but to end his life as quickly as possible. Pulling out his gun, John made sure it was loaded before firing a shot at his head. The man was killed instantly. John looked away for a moment before whispering an apology to the man he had pretty much murdered.

A grenade blew up not far from where John was crouching and the doctor immediately took stock of his surroundings. Someone shouted out for help and without a second thought, John began to make his way to the fallen soldier's side. He was almost there when he felt something thud in his leg. He looked down to assess the damage and then the pain hit him. He hadn't felt such pain since he had fallen out of a tree when he was seven and broken his arm. The waves of mind blowing agony rolled up his nerves and he barely held himself together. Fighting back tears of pain, John began to fumble with the dressing as he tried to fix up his leg as best he could so that he could get back and help others. He glanced up to make sure that he wasn't in immediate danger and seeing nothing, John turned back to the heavily bleeding gun wound.

For the second time that day, the doctor was taken by surprise. He saw the glint of silver out of the corner of his eye and turned just slightly. Pain filled his senses once again, this time it came from far closer to his head and heart. John wanted so badly to move his left hand to signal for assistance and have someone chase away the unbearable pain that echoed through his leg and shoulder. John knew that there was little chance that he would live and even if he did, he would be sent home. Back to dreary London.

The gun from which the two shots had been fired was moving and John was suddenly filled with a desire to kill the man that was responsible for the ending of his career. Removing his right hand from where he was pressing it down on his leg, John reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. He cocked it and then aimed it at where the man was still crouching. His hand was unsteady and his vision was blurring, but John felt confident enough with his aim.

He pulled the trigger…

John bolted upright, breathing irregular and his vision swimming. He was vaguely aware of the people surrounding him and the smoking gun in his hands but the one thing that really caught his attention was the bullet hole in the wall…

…a mere three inches above Sally Donavan's head.

Hope that you're all intrigued enough to continue reading when the next chapter appears. In the meantime, please REVIEW!