The ground is vibrating, resonating through John's body as bombs go off all around. Hands are all over him, grabbing his shoulders and shaking vigorously. He cries out because can't they see the blood pouring from where he was shot? The hands are familiar. Comrades. But then the voice attached to the hands yells his name. Over and over.
"John! Wake up!"
They must see that he is in fact awake. Bleeding to death on the hot sand beneath him. The sand is surprisingly comfortable.
A rush of pain floods through him, and this time it is not from the wound in his shoulder. It is from loss. Terrible, dreadful loss. Finally, all this makes sense and he remembers the voice calling for him. Sherlock.
Sherlock, who is not supposed to be here. John turns his head, ignoring the cracking pain in his neck which runs down his spine.
The lifeless eyes of the only Consulting Detective in the world stare back at him. Blood runs from a hole, where a bullet penetrated his amazing brain. John starts screaming. The name of his best friend falls from his mouth over and over, until his throat his raw and sand fills his mouth.
John reaches out and fists his hands into the lapels of Sherlock's coat. He shakes him, still screaming, but then Sherlock's mouth starts to move and he is screaming right back.
"John, wake up, please!"
And finally, John listens.
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