Title: Lead Me Home
Rating: Um...everyone ever
Pairing: None. To any particular extent.
Warning: Um...spoilers, yes maybe no.
Word Count: Each are short. Hence, drabble. Though that's a lie, they're probs the ficlets things.
Disclaimer: Neither songs nor Sherlock reincarnation mine.
Summary: Sherlock dreams he is in war, and 10 other ficlets exploring the world of Sherlock.
A/N: Picking a song at random on music player and writing something around it. First 10! Of course, you can only write as long as the song lasts (good news for Meatloaf fans :D). I've cleared them up a little, but I've generally stuck to it. Inspired by a fellow Sherlock writer who was inspired by someone else ^^
1. Walking in my shoes – Depeche Mode
Sherlock had a dream he was in war. He was dressed suitably, crouched low to the ground, or behind large objects obscuring is view, a gun heavy in his hand, weighing his down, feeling like a ton of responsibility – in it he saw a human's life, or the swift removal of it.
The next moment he's hovering about a dead man, whom he watches bleed, and his shaking hands couldn't handle even the bandages he had ready, never mind a swift removal of the bullet itself.
His following thoughts were wondering how he wasn't already dead, the way he fumbled about, feeling confused, dazed, scared. There was no puzzle, no mystery to figure his way through, he was completely out of his zone. He was a soldier, inexperienced and nervous, stuck in a war that was not his to fight. He wanted to go home, back to where things made sense. A man besides him was married with three kids, and another graduated from Oxford with a first with honours, and the man across the way firing at them had a very sick grandmother he wished he could go home to help and it made little difference what Sherlock could or couldn't tell here, in fact it made everything worse. Here, his gift was a curse.
Enemy fire hit him in his shoulder, making him stumble back. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he fell ungracefully to the ground. Around him, people were shouting. "Watson!" They called, and for a moment Sherlock felt himself in John's body, felt something new and strong and calm, and it made him feel all the poorer.
When he woke, he saw the brightness outside and smelt the tea John was brewing downstairs. He took a moment to be amazed that maybe his evaluation of John was wrong; John was much more than Sherlock had initially credited him to be.
When he found himself in the kitchen, he couldn't help but stare at the steady hand which John used to pour Sherlock's tea.
End.