Running around like rabbits they were picked off one after another. One man dying, then another, then another; this was the life of John Watson. He'd try to stitch them up again, but it was no use. They would just breathe in airless gulps until they went limp in his arms.
John would radio the other Medical Corps behind his group that there would be another fallen soldier. He'd sit and wait in the hot Afghanistan sun until they'd arrive to take the body back to base, where it would eventually return home to a distressed family in mourning.
However this mission would be the mission that almost ended John's life.
It was like any other day. Hot, dusty, and dry; polar opposite to the cold, muggy, wet London weather back home. Their mission was to talk to some local villagers to see if they knew any Taliban forces located around the area. It was supposed to be a rather safe mission: in and out before supper.
At high noon it turned for the worse. One shot after another, the men were snipped down outside of the town by the Taliban. John realized that this might be the end for him. The end of everything.
Bang. Another man fell. Bang. John started running. Bang. The sun was shining even brighter than before.
Bang. John fell to the ground. Bang. He saw a dark figure hovering over him, blocking out the sun like a solar eclipse.
And then everything went black.
. . . . . .
John awoke with a start, sweat dripping down his back like a friendly reminder that he was alive. He scanned the room, taking in the surroundings. A flat in London, drab, dreary, nothing out of the ordinary. He recalled that after he was shot, he was sent back to the base where he rested until he was deemed well enough to make the trip back home. Honorary discharge, what a bloody joke. He was not fit enough to be sent out again to the front lines, so they just sent home a broken man to heal himself while on a small pension. John clenched his fist, fighting back tears as thoughts raced around his head about the war.
Deciding it was time to get up, John picked up his cane; PTSD causing the pain in his stupid leg apparently. Hobbling towards the desk in the tiny room, he sat down, flipped open his computer and stared at the loading screen.
Tapping his fingers impatiently, the broken man opened the drawer, locking his eyes on his Sig Sauer P226R. Chuckling, he casually picked up the gun, fiddling with it between his hands. He knew if the military knew that he had it that they would send him to a Psychiatric Ward due to his unstable nature. Hell, even his therapist deemed unstable currently and requested him to stay with family or friends.
But who would want him? Who would want to spend time with a broken man, a man that's been scarred and destroyed from the war?
John stared at the gun, feeling the weight of the metal seep into his fingertips. Taking out the magazine, John inspected how many bullets were left in it. One. That was enough to end this god awful life.
Before John could proceed however, he got a phone call. Checking the caller display, he could see that it was his sister.
Sighing, John picked up the phone, muttering a quick 'hello'.
"Hey John," Harry started off, a tone of sympathy in her voice. John bit his tongue however, not wanting to snap off at his sister. "I was just wondering if you wanted to go for coffee."
John paused, thinking for a brief moment on whether to decline the offer or not. "Sure." John started, "Where did you want to meet?"
"I was thinking the Café in the Gardens," Harry chirped, "We could meet there at, say, eleven?"
John glanced at the clock on the computer monitor. Quarter after ten. He would have enough time to get ready and on the tube. "Sound good. I'll text you when I'm there."
"Sounds good! See you then!" Harry beamed, before ending the call.
John stared at the phone, then at the gun. He put the magazine back into the gun, and stored the weapon in the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind John chanted.
. . . . . .
Text Message
Today 10:49
From: Harry Watson
Hey John! Sorry something came up and I can't make it to see you. :( IOU a coffee date.
Sighing, John pocketed his phone. Hobbling up to the counter of the café, he ordered an Earl Grey to go. Looking at his watch, he decided that he might as well sit and bird watch while the weather is nice out. It's not like he had any plans for today.
As John was walking in the park with Earl Grey in one hand and his cane in another, he saw a rather large figure walk up towards him. Furrowing his eyebrows, he finally noticed who it was.
"John!" the man beamed, "It's so nice to see you! Say, how's your shoulder doing?" he asked, not even bothering asking about the leg.
"It's sore at times, but getting slowly better." John gave a half-smile, "I'm sorry your name is-?"
"Mike. Mike Stamford." The larger man stated, "Say, let's sit down and have a catch-up shall we?"
So John agreed, feeling that it would be better to be with someone right now than to go home and just mope around for the rest of the day. They chatted about everything: from the weather, to politics, to the university life they once had. Eventually the topic of John wanting to move came up.
"How come you want to move out of your current flat?" Mike asked.
"Well for starters, it's really hard for me to commute everywhere from that location." John sighed, "It's a good ten minute walk to the station. Second, I can't afford to live in London on a pension, and I don't want to move in with Harry since she has her own problems to deal with."
"I know someone that's looking for a flatmate."
"Really?" John sounded skeptical.
"Really," Mike nodded, "I can introduce you two if you want?"
"Um… Sounds alright."
. . . . . .
After a few quick messages, Mike and John took the tube to Chancery Lane and walked the rest of the way to St. Bart's. It had been quite some time since John was here, him being here last in his student days.
Walking into one of the several chemical research labs, John saw a young, slender man hunched over a set of tubes filled with various chemicals. Perhaps researching something, John noted.
"Sherlock Holmes," Mike walked over to the slender man, "So nice to see you! Glad you got my texts!"
The man sat up, his pale blue eyes focused in on John, "Glad you could find a flatmate for me Mike." He stood up, striding over to John. John felt himself tense up, the air growing cold around him.
John tightened the grip on his cane, feeling uneasy at this moment. "Name is John Watson."
Sherlock smiled a devilish smile, "You're actually a Doctor. Army doctor I presume? Were you deployed in Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I beg your pardon?" John stammered, while Mike watched on.
Sherlock walked over and grabbed Mike's cell phone, "Needing to borrow this as my phone is dying. Anyways, where was I… Oh yes. You recently came back from a war, either Afghanistan or Iraq since that's where Britain is currently deployed. Also the fact is that you have a tan line, where we haven't seen sun in such a long time, am I correct? You also walk with a limp, which I presume is not due to an injury; that's on your shoulder. No, it's because you suffer from PTSD and that's how it manifests in you John Watson."
John stared on, dumbfounded. How could this man know so much from such a short meeting?
"Sherlock likes to deduce people," Mike noted for John, "He enjoys learning about people in the tiniest ways possible."
John nodded, looking at the slender man gracefully walk the room. He didn't even notice that Sherlock gave Mike back his cellphone, as the heavier-set man slowly left the room, leaving the two men alone.
"So are you wanting to room with me?" Sherlock asked, picking up his long, dark trench coat. John swore he saw it somewhere before. He just couldn't pinpoint it.
"Uh- Yes if that's alright with you." John nodded, shifting so his weight was on his good leg. He kept staring at the man, fascinated by his pale ghostly-blue eyes. He could swear he saw this man before. Somewhere, even for the briefest of moments he knew this man.
"Good. I found a flat on Baker Street if that suits you. You can swing by tomorrow to take a look at it. I already have a good deal on it."
John was rather surprised at the other man's quick statement. He already found a flat, without even consulting John? Who was this man even? Before John could ask, Sherlock was already out the door.
. . . . . .
Ah, settled at last. After a day of packing and slowly moving things from his old flat to 221b, he was finally home. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a rather lovely woman. Older, with wisdom far beyond her years, and could have a quick temper too. ('I'm your landlady not your housekeeper!' she quipped to Sherlock at least once today as John was slowly moving things up the stairs.)
Out of the corner of John's eye, he could see Sherlock communicating to the skull. He recalled the strange man named it Yorick, after Shakespeare's Hamlet he presumed.
"What are you doing?" John hummed, feeling rather cold. He got up from his rather large chair to a box, where he opened it up to get one of his jumpers on.
"I'm talking to my brother." Sherlock snapped, placing down the skull on top of the mantelpiece.
John chuckled, "Rubbish. That's a skull. Unless you've hooked up wires to make it a phone." He suggested, raising his eyebrows.
"This skull is used to communicate with my brother Mycroft whom is currently overseas in France to deal with a flu epidemic." He sat down, opening his violin case. Several moths came from the case, hanging around Sherlock like he was a flame.
John pursed his lips, "So it is a phone then."
"No it is not."
"But you said it was used to communicate with your brother-"
"Yes, but it is only between those that have a skull and can use it," Sherlock quipped, "Like, for example, if you used it, it would be rendered useless."
"What the bloody hell do you mean 'it would be rendered useless'?" John snapped, closing the distance between himself and the man before him. "It's just a bloody phone. And why the bloody hell is there so many moths!"
Sherlock plucked a string, the moths dancing around him once more before settling again. The air went still. John shivered; a puff of white air coming from his lungs. He swore he saw the lights in the room flicker to a dim glow.
Sherlock stood up, the moths slowly becoming puffs of smoke when Sherlock laid a finger on their dancing form. He snapped his fingers; a golden hourglass forming out of the smoke that came from the moths. Tipping the hourglass, the sand started ticking away the minutes. The slender man finally crossed the room, placing the time device in John's warm hands. John gasped at the touch. It was like ice being plunged into hot water; almost burning to the touch. The lights shattered to let the room become fully dark. John was blinded for a brief moment, panicking where the light had gone. Sherlock snapped his fingers, causing candles that were placed around the room to illuminate the dark space. John blinked, gawking at the heavy hourglass that was now in his hands.
Sherlock stared at John, his pale-blue eyes dancing in the light with a frosty glare. He frowned before saying, "I'm your Grim Reaper, John. You're going to die in six months."