Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss
Atonement
John Watson stared at the whirring blades of the spinning fan above him. He ignored the burning pain that seared into his leg. His hands were numb from being lodged behind his head for far too long. A breeze drifted down and lightly ruffled his blond hair as he laid in bed.
Stay still, soldier! I've got to staunch the bleeding.
John blinked.
Sounds of exploding bombs and screaming soldiers he once knew rang in his ears, a remnant from another nightmare, another vivid memory that stayed trapped in his consciousness. It clawed at his exhausting attempt to suppress the horrors and slowly ripped his sanity to shreds.
'Captain Watson! What do we do? There's too many soldiers and not enough supplies!'
The sounds of the world awakening to another day increased beyond the barriers of his window. He could hear them, the rumbling of cars, the shouting of unfriendly neighbors, the soft twittering of birds. It was the sound of life moving on and leaving him behind. The thick curtain hanging in front of the window kept the room dark. Only a sliver of sunlight was granted access to the room that held him captive.
'Oh, God! Someone! Help me!'
John sighed.
He hoisted himself up and sat on the edge of his squeaky bed. His bare feet touched the cold floor. The wound on his shoulder burned. John grimaced as he rubbed it. The sounds of his breathing roared in the deafening silence. It was too quiet, living alone. John stared at the floor and watched particles of dust dance in the morning sunlight. His stomach rumbled. He had no appetite.
'Watch out! It's an ambush! Capta-!'
John squeezed his eyes shut.
He wasn't supposed to be alive. He didn't deserve to be alive.
He could feel the sharp digging of his own stolen gun poking in his back, the desperation swelling in his stomach as he begged for mercy.
.
.
.
.
Please, God, let me live.
.
.
.
.
He hated it, the guilt.
Nothing was more worse than the guilt.
John shook his head, trying to clear away the involuntary thoughts. He stared at the blood-red apple on his desk.
The room.
It trapped him in a lonely box of memories.
He needed to move.