AN: Most everything that I've found for fanfic covers Watson returning home, but we rarely see the catalyst that led him to meeting Sherlock, unless it's the odd flashback. I wanted to have something dedicated to just what happened to send him home. This is the second version of this story. I'd be willing to post the original if I see enough response to this one. Please let me know what you think.

PS. : I tried to make it sound as British as possible and still maintain accurate military terminology. I looked up possible translation here:

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Feel free to correct me. I was American Military.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Sodding hell.

Between the river of sweat going down his back, and the desert sand that infiltrated everywhere, there was a mudslide moving under his pants to make a home in his boots as he stood for the debriefing for his company's upcoming mission, his tucked-in trousers giving no outlet to the mire soaking into his socks.

Some of his soldiers had stumbled onto a cache for weapons and drugs for the local cell of terrorists, and through human intelligence, they had confirmed who it belonged to, and the kind of resistance they were looking at. The time frame at which the operation would begin meant that possible hostile forces would be at a minimum in the area of operation.

Except that his gut was telling him that something was off, that it was too simple. Murphy's Law was always in effect in the military the world around, and plans never survived the first minute of combat anyway, but he still couldn't twig what exactly was wrong. So because Captain John Watson couldn't use a gut feeling to scrap the mission, Dr. John Watson would just have to be alert, at least more than usual.

After the dismissal to prep for movement, he called over LT. Murray for some last minute checks. His nervous energy was channeled into checking his med kit and making sure his L9A1 was in working condition, the two parts of himself at war. The guilt he felt when he was forced to end lives was often eclipsed by the desperate energy to save the lives of his comrades, but sometimes a bad day is a bad day, especially during missions to try to build schools, and spending more time shooting than building.

The call of "Five Mikes!" or the five minute warning till movement spurred John to his vehicle, the rest of his group already moving. He nodded to Murray as he got in his vehicle, his driver already at the wheel. He mentally ran through the intelligence reports as they commenced movement, still slightly unsettled about the mission. While this wasn't the first cache to be found and destroyed, and by no means will it be the last, it wasn't really an area of operation known for harboring hostile forces. Then again, this wasn't his first tour, and he should stop being surprised in the places that hid such factions.

As they advanced, he mentally ticked down each klik to the target area, already composing the entry in his war diary for later. He wasn't an orator or Chaucer by any means, but this was essentially business writing, similar to the after action reports, and not his personal blog, so more flowery and invective terms would not be included.

The distance passed quickly and soon they were disembarking, moving into position, as part of the company sector, aside to the forward defended localities. Sentry positions were established and the hand signal to advance was passed along. Squads were set up to start breaching buildings when the first explosion went off, and then chaos reigned on all sides of him.

They received fire on three sides, an ambush not uncommon for the terrain. He got no satisfaction from his gut feeling being validated; now his focus was on the wounded. The blast was close enough to him that the ringing in his ears drowned out everything else. His heart was in his throat, and he could feel the initial flow of adrenaline coursing through his veins. His need to move towards the probable casualties warred with his instinct to avoid the gun fire, his service weapon in hand almost without thought.

His kit bag firmly secured, his reflexes were on point, firing off rounds in contest to the spitting dirt near his cover, his surgeon's eyes shifting to more deadly purpose as his journey continued. He reached the nearest wounded after another dart into open space, and dragged him behind the lee of the parked vehicle closest to him. Shrapnel had found an unhindered path to flesh, lacerating the carotid artery, a dark red spurting flow quickly drenching the good doctor's hands, making his grip on the tools of his trade difficult to maintain. He was forced to strip his fellow soldier of the battle armor that had unfortunately not protected him as much as it should have, but they weren't meant for bombs so much as bullets.

As he dressed the wound, he was joined by LT. Murray, cluing him that his hearing had mostly returned as he listened to the nurse's assessment of the wounded he had already treated. He was informed of the call for medical evacuation, and estimated time of arrival, the landing zone being their original rally point. He nodded his acknowledgement and headed off to the next casualty he found, Murray having taken over care.

It wasn't until his fourth wounded in treatment that he felt like he had been punched in the shoulder, and every ounce of air knocked from his lungs. He found himself on the ground in one of the longest blinks of his life. The pain in his shoulder was mind-numbing, and he barely registered Murray's voice making its way through the fog. Despite the heat of the desert, he started to feel cold start seeping into his body, and prayers passed his lips, litanies and epithets following in murmurs and whimpers, until darkness set in, and silence fell.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

The ejected cartridge pinged as it impacted on a rock, its own silently retrieving it despite the unlikelihood of anyone spotting him or searching the area. He had followed the orders of his boss to not let anyone interfere with his business, obligated to aid the insurgency group he had been negotiating with. However they were proving less than capable and he felt that business was concluded, one way or another. He would report back to the boss that the deal was completed and he retained the payment for the transaction, but no further business would forthcoming due to the amount of corpses littering the ground, a favored pastime of his employer, but better enjoyed when that particular whim hit him.

He was never one to leave a job unfinished, but this was one he would let go. He recognized the doctor as soon as he went down, not that he had been aiming for him in particular, and he was rarely one to miss. Had it been anyone else, he would have finished the job without batting an eye, but he owed the doctor a debt. What had been his last tour two years ago, and the first for the doctor, then Lieutenant Watson, he had fallen under his care, thus saving his life. This was a piece of the last dredges of conscience that plagued him, but he was sure it wouldn't last long, and should he run across the Captain again, if he fell into his crosshairs, he had no compunction over what the next step would be. But for now Captain Watson's fate was out of his hands, and his debt clear.

He packed away his rifle with the same deftness as he used it, and made his way from his vantage point to the hidden transport nearby, the sound of it drowned out by the approaching helicopter. He left a message into his boss, and fingered the cartridge, his trigger finger itching at the unfinished business, yet he felt as if he would get another shot at the doctor.

And this time, the outcome would be certain.