Chapter 1
"John? John, open your eyes! John!"
Bombs are flying, exploding far too close for comfort. Sand is working its gritty way down the collar of his uniform and is biting into the skin of his shoulders and upper back with insistent diligence. He feels cold despite the heat of the day and despite the sweat trickling down his face as he works to save the life of the soldier beneath his hands.
Gunshot wound to the upper abdomen, to the right of the aorta; not immediately lethal but still life-threatening (as all gunshots can be). There's no exit wound but he's not entirely pleased by that. Too often bullets still in the body can ricochet off of a rib or tear through organs as it moves, and sometimes it's impossible to remove because of where it stops.
"Look at me, John. Open your eyes!"
Dark red blood- fresh blood, too close to the heart- is staining the man's shirt like a rose bloom. The sight leaves him inexplicably light-headed and it's growing harder to breathe. What the hell is going on? He never has panic attacks while on the field, never falls apart when the shells are flying- no, that comes later, when he's alone. There's a painful stitch in his side, a roaring in his ears.
He wants to sleep.
"Damn it, John! Don't you dare die on me!"
It's growing harder to catch a breath but still he tries to staunch the bleeding, hoping to save this soldier's life. A sniper's bullet hits the dirt near them, making the others scatter; John stays where he is, desperate and terrified and oh-so-gloriously alive like he only ever is in the war zone.
Too much blood. The thought and realization hits him painfully as he looks down and the obvious becomes clear; blood splatters the soldier's uniform and stains the sand in areas that he can't have fallen on. Startled and confused (it's growing grey on the edge of his vision), he lifts a hand to his own torso where he can feel a pain and when his fingers withdraw blood shines up at him. It's run down his front and soaked into his jumper.
"Please, I need an ambulance here at 221B Baker Street. There's been a shooting."
It's nearly impossible to breathe now, the grey swiftly deteriorating to black, and as John flounders to stay conscious, to grab hold of anything that will keep his head above the waters that are sucking him down, he chances a glance at the soldier's face. There's no breath left in his lungs to scream as he loses the battle and everything goes black.
The soldier shares his face.
~/~/~/~/~
He surfaces briefly to murky confusion and muted pain. He can't breathe properly and he whimpers deep in his throat as he realizes that he can't move. He tries to speak but can't; there's something blocking his throat. Before he can start falling to pieces, he feels thin fingers grasp his left hand.
"John," the old woman's voice cracks, "it's all right. You're in hospital."
He wants to tell her he can't breathe properly, wants desperately to sit up and ask what has happened, but he still can't move and his eyes aren't opening. The pull of unconsciousness drags at him again and with another slight whimper he's swept under again.
~/~/~/~/~
The cold antiseptic smell of the hospital is what John smells first when he manages to claw his way to awareness. It's a tedious process- his world is hazy and unreal, and he's not entirely grounded in reality. With every step he takes towards awareness the dull ache sharpens to pain.
It's like Afghanistan all over again.
The memory of blood and agony, of pleas to a God he only half believes in, jolts him- both mentally and physically. His mind clears startlingly quickly and he feels his body jerk involuntarily, sending a dulled ripple of hot prickliness shivering through his torso. He opens bleary eyes to find himself staring up at the pitted white ceiling tiles of one of St. Bart's hospital rooms, with the steady beeping of a heart monitor keeping time in his ears and an IV in each arm. Despite the ache in his body he feels strangely numb and his mind feels stuffed with cotton- there's something important that he can't remember right now, something that has shifted everything, but he can't recall it. It unsettles him more than he's willing to admit.
"John!"
The small exclamation near the other side of the room draws his foggy attention and he turns his head to find Mrs. Hudson sitting tensely in one of the chairs, pale and drawn with lines of exhaustion dug deeply beneath her eyes. She stands and rushes over to his side, hands seeking for his own as she speaks. "John, thank goodness, we've been so worried- we nearly lost you..."
Alarm bells are ringing somewhere in John's head; dimly he's aware that the heart monitor is picking up but he can't make heads or tails of what this all means. Was it a case? Worse yet, is it Moriarty?
But no- that's not right. If there's anything John is sure of it's that James Moriarty is dead. The criminal mastermind has been dead for almost three years now and his vast network has been dismantled man by man by Mycroft's plan and-
"Sh'rl'ck." The name slips out unbidden. "Where's... Sherlock?" He has to clear his throat before he can finish the question, and his alarm rages to almost painful levels as Mrs. Hudson suddenly flounders and the color drains from her face. Her mouth opens and closes in helpless silence several times before she simply shakes her head. John's almost trembling he's so confused and upset; the important thing he's forgetting is only growing harder to ignore. If he can only remember it it will explain Sherlock's absence, and why John himself is lying in a hospital bed.
He can't remember.
The door opening interrupts his whirling thoughts, and he looks to the door to find that Greg Lestrade is peeking in. Grim and tousle-haired, he looks like he's aged a decade like he only ever does on the most difficult of cases. The relief on his face seeing John awake is just as powerful and frightening as it had been on Mrs. Hudson. "John!" The door swings open all the way and he strides in without realizing how loudly he's just spoken. "I can't tell you, mate, how much of a relief it is to see you awake."
"What's happened, Greg?" The sandpaper scrape of his dry throat makes it impossible to speak louder than a whisper, and Mrs. Hudson goes to find water for him. Anxiety and confusion is thrumming deep in John's gut and he has to know.
The question brings the copper up short; for a moment his expression is raw pain similar to the old landlady's, but then he pulls himself together and he's hidden his emotion behind the DI's collected mask. "You don't remember." It's not a question, and he swears harshly under his breath as he runs a hand through his tousled hair.
"Is Sherlock- dead?" His tongue trips over the last word and he wants to throw up at the thought. 'Not now, please, not now! I've only just got him back.' It had been two of the bleakest years of John's life when he had believed that Sherlock was dead, and he's struggled to keep his friendship the same easy way it's always been after Sherlock revealed his deception. He can't bear the thought that his best friend is truly lost to him now.
"No- no, John!" Greg is quick to reassure him of that, but the copper's distress only seems to deepen. "No, he's still alive as far as we know, but-"
"But what?" The words are loud and they cause another dull pain to shudder through John's body; bewildered and growing angry at the lack of straight answers, he manages to locate the source of the pain and freezes when he sees the gauze-covered wound. His brow furrows as he looks down at it in dumbstruck silence, his sense of confusion only deepening, and when he looks up there's something lost in his expression. "Greg?"
"You really don't remember. God Almighty..." The copper is trying to maintain his composure in the face of the unexpected development but he sees no way around it. "John... he's- Sherlock is currently wanted for your attempted murder. He's on the run."
~/~/~/~/~
"You know better than to reveal anything of an upsetting nature to patients, Detective Inspector." Doctor Rachel Taylor's gaze is a mite frosty as she stands with crossed arms in the hallway by the nurse's station, daring Greg to nay say her. She's been employed at St. Bart's long enough to know how the DI handles situations such as these, which only adds to her disbelief that he could mess this one up so spectacularly. "How did you think that revealing to Mr. Watson that he's been shot by his own flatmate was a good idea?"
"Doctor," he snaps. "Doctor Watson." He flinches when he realizes how short he's sounded, and shifts restlessly on his feet. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just... this sis hitting a bit too close to home right now. John's a mate of mine, and a mutual friend between us has laid him up here."
"Sherlock Holmes," she supplies for him, and her gaze is definitely colder now. "Yes, we know. The story has made its way into the papers by now- it's been a week, of course we know, DI Lestrade. Just catch the bastard, yeah?"
He swallows down his reflexive anger at her final words, but they cut deep nonetheless; he wonders how they could have all gone so wrong in trusting Sherlock. Greg has always wanted to believe the best of Sherlock Holmes- even through the man's darkest hour with Moriarty- but this... this is unspeakable. The unbelievable. Because Sherlock shot John at close range while in their flat and left the latter to bleed out on the floor. Until the day he dies Greg is sure he'll never forget the sickening lurch to his stomach when he received the call about the shooting, or when he'd arrived at the crime scene the knowledge that it was a miracle John had made it to the hospital alive at all.
He's sitting hunched over his desk an hour later, gazing down at the photos that the team has of 221B's living room when he hears the sound of his door opening. His eyes widen. "My god, Mycroft."
Sherlock's older brother lets himself in without invitation, his expression just as icy and aloof as Greg remembers and not one hair out of place. "Detective Inspector," he says in that sharp, reptilian way of his, and Greg's spine tingles with muted dislike. He doesn't seat himself at the copper's prompting. "This is not a social call, Lestrade," Mycroft states without preamble, "nor should you believe I am asking when I tell you to hand over every scrap of evidence you have about Sherlock's shooting Doctor Watson and pursue it no further."
The words are so infuriating that it takes a full ten seconds before they actually compute, and when they do Greg shoots to his feet. "You son of a bitch! Like hell I'll let your brother get away with this- John flat-lined twice on the way to hospital, and once after the surgery, he almost died because of Sherlock! You don't have the right-"
"On the contrary, Inspector," Mycroft cuts in with a razor's edge smile, "you will find that I have every right." Which, frankly, doesn't help with his overall archenemy persona at all. He looms over the desk all with that same smile on his face. "I will overlook your rather emotive declarations in this circumstance, Lestrade, but be forewarned that any further protests will result in severe repercussions for you. Do not assume that I am not going to pursue the resolution of my brother's crime- but what he has done, and where he will try to go is not within either your jurisdiction nor your reach. The files, Detective Inspector."
Greg's legs give out and he falls heavily back into his chair as he takes in Mycroft's warnings. Still inwardly raging against the cruelty of the man's orders he gathers together the pictures and the statements and other information and hands the folder over with shaking hands.
As if to add insult to injury, the smug bastard opens the folder again and glances at the pictures. If he's anything like Sherlock (and he is), then Greg knows that Mycroft has already read more into the crime itself and drawn correct conclusions about it than any of the coppers put together, but still he's viciously pleased when he sees the man's expression freeze when seeing the last photo.
"How long was Doctor Watson alone before the ambulance came?" Mycroft asks softly.
Clearing his throat, Greg answers shortly. "About four minutes. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard the gunshot and come up to check what it was about, I don't know how it would have all turned out."
"Yes," Mycroft agrees, but it's said so much like Sherlock when he knows more than he's willing to say that Greg's suspicions rise.
"You'll catch him?"
"Assuredly." The icy smile is gone, and Mycroft's mouth has thinned. He's more shaken by the evidence than he's willing to show. He flips the file closed and straightens again. "Good day to you, Inspector. I am sure you will take my advice seriously."
"Up yours, arsehole," Greg mutters after the door closes. The silence is stifling, too thick and cloying suddenly, and in a rare pique of frustration he slams his palms against the surface of the desk that is too bare of evidence. He has to trust that Mycroft Holmes will uphold the law in this circumstance but he has a horrible feeling that all he has done is enabled the elder brother to sweep the younger's actions under the rug. "Damn it."
He can only hope he's wrong.