**Author's Note:
Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this new fic! -SEE CHAPTER FOUR FOR REAL LIFE SHERLOCK DETAILS IN AUTHOR NOTE-
Anyways, I worked really hard on this and fixed a few errors. Anyways, I hope you like it!
Please leave reviews!
I appreciate any thoughts you might have! (:
Sand, nothing but utter sand and fucking sand.
The desert was a harsh place. Heat that would smolder the sun on a good day, everything so completely dry and hopeless.
Even on it's own it's a force to be dealt with.
It was a miracle that John even survived.
Let the fact he was getting shot at constantly by several deadly and unfriendly enemies be, but just the fact he was able to make in the terrain alone was amazing.
For this long? With a war going on with him in the middle of it?
It was indeed, a miracle of sorts.
To even be deployed as a doctor was hardening. John was put there to stitch up deep wounds, administer medication, help the dying ease- and here he was, having to bring down his gun and fight for his life like a soldier on the front line.
The fight wasn't even supposed to be here.
He wasn't meant to be here- not like this.
John was forced into becoming something he wasn't trained for.
It had been his seventh month in his deployment, a really rough little over a half-year, his patience and reserves running thin. He'd been fighting straight for thirty-two hours with no break, no relenting on either side. Failure was beginning to look like more and more like an ending rather than victory. The sun was beginning to give up it's relentless reign of heat and light to the moon when the attack worsened.
He hadn't been expecting the onslaught of what was once humans. Wolves, almost the size of small bears, to come running straight towards his unit across the sand like it was nothing but air. It was a bloody massacre, literally. So much dark and rusty crimson, so much violent and gruesome death. All in a matter of seconds, thankfully. John somehow wound up on the ground with a mangled shoulder bleeding out into the world's sandbox of destruction. His breathing heavily increased as he realized he was the only one still alive.
John cried, staring up at the emerging stars and the ghostly glow of the full moon as it rose slowly, ever so slowly. He cursed, he yelled, yet nothing happened. The pain was quite unbearable. John's body started to chill as twilight gave out to night. The temperature kept dropping, leaving John's wounded body to shiver as he slowly bled to death on the sand. He gave up the wolves as a delusion- too much lost blood, trying to cope with the deaths in his unit. Mind tricks. Simple, yet horrifying mind tricks.
They had lost to the enemy and nothing more. There was no more.
He just sighed out of exhaustion, giving in to the darkness surrounding his vision.
...
When John awoke, he was in a hospital bed. His heart monitor beeped quietly beside him as he groggily took in his surroundings.
"Ah, Mr. Watson. You're awake."
John nodded, "Obvious."
"You had us worried there. We thought you might have slipped into a coma."
"Where am I?"
The doctor checked the IV bags, "A medical base not that far from where you were stationed. I'm afraid that now you're awake we have to ask about what happened last night."
John stiffened, "Why is it you want to know? … Why me?"
"You're absolutely lucky, Mr. Watson. Everyone else in your unit wasn't compared to you. I'm afraid you're the only one left. I'm deeply sorry..."
"It's fine," John swallowed, "J-Just give me a minute."
John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, he wasn't completely shocked. From all the blood that night he thought as much for a second- just a second. Now, the full reality-shattering truth was just put onto his wounded and tired shoulders.
The doctor left, leaving John in his curtained off space to himself. Take time to adjust, accept the facts and truth. However saddening it may be, it didn't change it. Reality was reality and it should be treated as such. John took another leveling breath as his stomach churned with guilt. Why him? So many other people in his unit deserved to live- and definitely did not earn the right to such a gruesome, horrific death. They were John's friends, almost family- and the fact they were all gone sank down in his gut like a lead weight in water.
He was alone.
It was another hour before John could open his eyes again without the fear of completely losing it. Even though he lost everything, still didn't mean he couldn't try to start again- if he could. Maybe he would get sent back to London for this. What would he do then? The possibilities were endless, enough to make John's head ache a little with them. He stopped thinking- or tried to.
The doctor came in, "I'm going to have to take some blood, just run a few tests on it. Nothing but five minutes, tops."
John willingly held out his arm, "Take what you need."
The doctor smiled, taking a needle and placing it in the pumping vein around John's inner elbow. It stung a little, but what his comrades had to endure was unbelievably worse than this.
"Should be good for now, get a little rest. Your shoulder needs to heal."
John nodded, and closed his eyes and tried to drift off. After a few minutes there was yelling about and John wondered if a serious patient had come in.
Instead, some nurse ran over and put something in his IV and everything around John went dark.
Sherlock was deeply into his studies, searching every available thing he could see with his microscope.
He tests seemed inconclusive. Even though he enjoyed science, and was particularly fond of labs, this wasn't his true home. Sure, it was a substitute- but that still wasn't good enough for Sherlock. No, puzzles and mysterious crimes were Sherlock's home. Instead, he was stuck inside the Baskerville testing site as a bargain with his brother.
"Sherlock." Speak of the devil.
"What is it now Mycroft, I'm busy."
His brother set a file next to Sherlock, still involved with the specimen he'd taken from the beetle he tried to turn blue for fun, "You always are... Seems like I've got something interesting for you. Highly classified."
"How would this pertain to me, dear brother of mine?" Sherlock said monotonically.
He could sense the forced smile on Mycroft's face behind him, "It's a mystery, doctors in Afghanistan came across it. They sent word as soon as they found it. In fact, the individual involved should be arriving here in the next forty minutes."
"Individual? You mean a person?"
"Sadly, yes. A soldier in fact. It's all yours and yours alone. Consider it a present."
Possibilities rushed through Sherlock's mind. Chemical poisons, some type of foreign disease or parasite, maybe even some weird genetic mutation from being in the sun too long- like skin cancer of some various unknown sort. Possibilities, endless possibilities.
Mycroft left without another word as Sherlock picked up the file. When he opened it, it was labeled "Dr. John Watson" in bold, black letters. Interesting. As Sherlock continued reading, he saw the report of John's whole unit being frankly mutilated to the point of sending empty caskets home. John had been the lone survivor of the ordeal. It showed his military photo, his blue eyes staring back at Sherlock. He was blond, at least twenty-nine, and Sherlock could tell by the insignia on his uniform- an army doctor. Beside it, was the report of strange red blood cells present in John's sample, ones that weren't identified as human.
Interesting indeed.
"We've got another one comin' in!"
Sherlock turned, eyes narrowed as they pulled the unconscious man on the gurney towards the end doors of the lab. Sherlock would take this- no doubt. He felt the corner of his mouth twist up in a smirk.
He walked towards the pure white double doors as he slid his card through the scanner. Obviously, he was one in the few probably allowed to enter here- Anderson would be strikingly frustrated.
"He's unconscious for now, he'll wake up in an hour or two at the most- maybe less. Make sure his blood pressure doesn't drop."
Sherlock nodded as a clipboard was handed to him and he skimmed through, deeming if any of it was actually important, "I'll take it from here."
Inside the room, which Mycroft obviously had prepared for Sherlock's new experiment, was a large clear-glassed room. Inside was nothing more than the basic necessities- loo, bed, the basics. A shower was placed off to the side, only accessible if Sherlock gave permission to the poor John Watson. Beside it, was a small lab where Sherlock would probably spend the next few months trying to figure out the abnormality of John's bloodstream.
As the others left, Sherlock watched as John began to stir inside the room, bunching up the sheets on the bed as he awakened.
"Good to see you up." Sherlock smiled, walking over to a cart and setting the clipboard down.
"Where am I?"
"Not in Afghanistan." Sherlock smiled, taking a sip of water before getting a notepad.
"Wait," John rubbed the back of his neck, "I'm in London?"
Sherlock chuckled, "Afraid not, John. More along the lines of Baskerville."
John sat up rigidly, "Baskerville? The one with the-"
"Testing site? Military labs? Genetic variations testing? Quite indeed."
Sherlock watched as John tried to get a better grasp on his nervous breathing. His palms gathered up the sheets beneath him within his fists. Sherlock sighed, taking another sip as he added a little onto his every growing list of notes. He waited till the doctor was calm enough to continue.
"Do you know why you're here by chance?"
John shook his head, "I was in the medical bay last time I was conscious. I was clueless then, too."
"Want me to shed some light on it?"
"Would be nice." John said, voice controlled. He fixed the sling his left arm was currently in. Gunshot, the folder said- but Sherlock knew it had to do with something else.
Sherlock started walking around the glass room, "There was an anomaly in your blood cells, one to make to doctors call you out and sent here immediately. I have no idea what this- mutation- is, but I assure you I will get to the bottom of it. You have my word."
"Is it worth much?"
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, "What?"
"Your word," John stared back as Sherlock stopped, "is it worth much?"
Sherlock debated. Sure, he'd lie, had a past for it. He only did it when deemed necessary or unavoidable- maybe even convenient. He'd never been asked before if his words meant anything. The question sunk into Sherlock's mind as John's unfaltering gaze fell upon him. No one had ever doubted or questioned him before, a trait along with the last name of Holmes. But this man, stranger to Sherlock and his intentions, didn't give a damn- only if it meant he was telling the truth. Sherlock was impressed.
John was defensive. Muscles tensed, breathing short and shallow. It was like he was getting ready to attack Sherlock if there were no glass. He saw those blue eyes glaring back, growing a shade darker in hue as John kept staring. It seemed odd. However, the menacing gaze did nothing to Sherlock physically, but emotionally he was backing down a little, wanting to take a step back. When did he ever want to back down to anyone? He fought back at the urge, and stared mutually towards John just as well. He realized in a few seconds, John lost his bite. Backing away like a dog with it's tail between it's legs. However, John still seemed to linger, and stayed a little bit alert towards Sherlock. He'd been sizing him up. Interesting.
"I certainly believe so."
"I'll decide that," John said, lying back down on the mattress, face towards the ceiling, "because that sounded completely self-centered to me."
Sherlock smirked, "In due time, John."
As Sherlock walked back to his new lab station, John rose from the bed, "What's your name?"
"The name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. Although the circumstances aren't too favorable."
Sherlock chuckled, "Indeed."
Sherlock sat down in his new surroundings. This man, John, he didn't seem different. In fact, quite normal. Maybe the abnormality was only visible in liquid forms, like a microscopic virus or an eternal genetic mix-up. Sherlock placed his feet on the pristine desk, hands held together under his chin in scientific prayer. He'd find out the new mystery. The mystery of Doctor John Watson.
Nothing.
If John was ever bored before, nothing could compare to now. He stared at the plain, flat white ceiling as he heard even the tiniest of Sherlock's movements. In fact, he could hear everything. His head was aching with the fact that so much information from his senses filled into his body. It was torturous.
The only thing he could really see that wasn't white was himself, and Sherlock scurrying about. He had curly, dark- almost black hair, and was tall and lean. His voice was a deep baritone and surprised John a little when he first heard him. His eyes spoke for themselves. Other than that, John couldn't tell much about him. The thoughts only made his head pound worse.
"God," John moaned, "could you turn down these damned lights?"
"Are they bothering you?" Sherlock asked from his nearby lab.
John covered his eyes with his forearm, "Quite."
The scribbles of pen on paper reached John's ear easily before he heard Sherlock get up and shuffle around. Then, the movement of a dial.
"Better?"
When John opened his eyes, it was a blessing. In fact, it was like he was looking at the high quality version of reality. He could see everything, specs of dust, tones and textures he never knew existed, deeper and richer colours. It was absolutely gorgeous now the blinding light had been reduced.
"Oh my god, yes."
"You seem rather amazed."
John look towards Sherlock, he was leaning against the doorway to his lab, watching, "Amazed?"
Sherlock nodded, "Something's caught your attention."
"Well," John swallowed, "It's just... Can I be honest?"
"Always."
John sighed, "It seems as if everything is so much- better. Like before I was sensing everything through a thick barrier and now it's just... gone."
Another note taken down.
"What are you writing?" John asked, tilting his head a little as he heard Sherlock punctuate with a question mark, "Surely I can answer your question."
Sherlock looked up, "You can hear exactly what I'm writing?"
John nodded, "I've heard a whole lot since this morning. You were writing earlier, too. What about food that's so annoying?"
"Hmm..." Sherlock looked down at his notepad, options buzzing around his brain, "What's this?"
John listened, "Obvious, it's an A."
Another, "That's an R."
"Double shot. Two letters, okay?"
John didn't take much to realize the last to letter's, "Arse. Really, Sherlock? Out of all the words in the English language, you choose arse."
"Remarkable."
John tilted his head again, "Remarkable? You think writing the word arse is remarkable? Go call up the Queen, I can practically hear your immaturity alongside it, let alone see it firsthand!"
Sherlock ignored John's sass.
"Absolutely fascinating!" Sherlock darted back into his lab, "It's as if your senses have doubled- tripled within the last seventy-six hours since your recorded wound!"
John sat very still on the too thin mattress. What was Sherlock saying? Somehow, John was magically able to hear him scribbling with a bloody pen just next door, to be able to hear the little boy write arse? John bit his lower lip, everything was just too confusing for him right now. It was as if his whole world had gotten flipped, turned inside-out, and upside down within the matter of three days. Now he was dealing with whatever had occurred that night within the sands of Afghanistan.
No, he couldn't think about that time again. Sherlock would surely go prodding. He already was watching with increased interest. Whatever happened that fateful night, would be guarded as John's last bit of undiscovered information- and would remain as such. He didn't give a damn the military was now treating him like some genetic fuck-up, this was his life. It was his choice. The primal urge to defend himself was overwhelming.
"What's going to happen to me?" John blurted, voice hard.
Sherlock stopped moving around papers and stilled, the question catching himself off guard, "I'm not sure what you're asking, John."
"The question's quite clear, I just think your answer isn't."
Sherlock stepped out of his lab, brow raised and a mug in hand, "If you are implying that I am going to perform torturous tests- than you are wrong, John. Even if this abnormality landed you here under my list of care, this does not mean I don't respect the laws and means of nature. I won't do anything more with your blood and DNA than try and deduce what changed it and how, and won't do anything but exercise you and gauge your physical reactions to certain stimulus."
"Glad to know you guys respect your guinea pigs."
"We do."
John snorted, "If you meant by literal ones, you should have made it clear."
"I thought it was obvious."
John rolled his eyes, laying back down on his mattress, "Sure it was... What are you going to do with me today, Doctor?"
Sherlock took a sip of his tea, "Endurance and strength tests. Kind of like a yearly check-up or a physical."
John closed his eyes, "Point the way Sherly, I'll run."
"Sherly?"
"Get used to it, Sherly."
He heard the muttered words under Sherlock's breath. Every one, "I'll get you back for that."
"Sure you will."
The tests were rather simple. John was hooked up to monitors as he was told to do a certain activity within a set amount of time. John never hit his physical limit, for once. He found running to be an ease, an enjoyable fact he could stretch his cramped legs and give the power they were built for. It was intoxicating. Sherlock never spoke much, either too indulged with the results coming forth or John's new nickname. Didn't matter much, John didn't feel like talking anyway. He felt free.
John found himself back in the glass cage too soon after the tests. He rummaged around, pacing back and forth memorizing the contents in minutes to walk around with eyes closed confidently. He heard Sherlock explaining some findings to someone over the phone- nothing too big though. John could hear every bit of the conversation as he silently, blindly paced.
"Get the personal facts."
John stopped immediately.
"I don't see why they're relevant."
John could hear the strained sigh, "We need to know how this- thing got into the man. If so, we may be able to find the source."
"What will you do if you find the source, then?" Sherlock asked, a cold edge to his voice as he replied.
"Depends on if it's usable or not. We believe it was linked with the huge massacre of his unit. Question him, Sherlock. No if's and's or but's about it. Just do your job."
The line went silent and Sherlock huffed in annoyance, "I am you lying arse. Governmental all over."
John chuckled, it seemed Sherlock had a political stance. He started his pacing again as if he had heard not a syllable. Sherlock entered the room, rather annoyed.
"You seem rather upset, Sherly." John said, opening his eyes.
"How can you possibly tell, John? " Sherlock snapped, making John raise a brow.
True, that was a given point there, but John could feel the tense air as Sherlock entered. He could tell by his breaths and heartbeat patterns exactly how he felt right now.
John chuckled, "Need I say more?"
"Shut up." Sherlock went over to a cabinet, turning a key in the lock, "Do you like scotch?"
"Scotch?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, grabbing a bottle of the amber liquid out and grabbing two cups as if John said yes, "the drink."
John rolled his eyes, "No need to get defensive. Besides, I'd take anything alcoholic right now."
Sherlock stopped mid stride, "You have an drinker in the family don't you? Probably a mother, father, brother or sister? More likely a brother..."
How could Sherlock know about Harry, "Surely you read that in my file didn't you?"
"No," Sherlock started pouring the scotch into the glasses, "I deduced it."
"Deduced?"
"Yes, I can see by the way your eyes dilated when I mentioned it. Like a memory trigger. I didn't read anything on your file about you having history as an alcoholic, besides they wouldn't have let you in the army as a doctor if you were. Family member it is, and a close one- so it's a sibling. I can also tell by the way you tense up at any mention of the past means you are avoiding it. Something bothersome about my drink of choice?"
John swallowed, "My sibling Harry, the drink was an escape..."
"Hmm, I wasn't expecting to get the brother bit right."
"Harry is short for Harriet."
Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, "Stupid, stupid! Too many forsaken hours in this damned lab! Now I can't even get things right from blasted names! "
John snorted, "At least you can leave."
"You think that John," Sherlock put the glass of scotch into the box for transferring items and slid it to him, "but you aren't the only person stuck here."
"How so?"
"There is time for that later..." Sherlock took a sip of scotch down his throat before taking a deep breath.
As John grabbed the glass, swigging a small amount of it's memory-raising intoxicating contents down his throat with barely any burn, he thought of Harry. He always did when drinking. Sherlock was obviously playing a game. John wanting to call the hand he was dealing, "investment". Sherlock would put something in, John give something out. Like a switch and swap of personal information. He'd told Sherlock about Harry and her problems with the bottle, but that was nothing compared to what happened not so long ago that threw him in here. With the realization that he'd cracked open a little to Sherlock's hand, John felt himself closing down on memories and anything he could find as telling.
John felt like he was subconsciously growling, baring his teeth in fair warning to Sherlock to stay away from this type of subject. He'd bite if it came down to it.
"I assure you I'm no threat, John." Another drink.
"What?"
Sherlock smiled, "You tensed John, pupils narrowed, even snarled at me like a dog."
Well damn.
"I did? ..."
Another drink, "Indeed you did."
John found himself downing the rest of the glass in one gulp. Rich, a deep burn all the way down to his stomach. Perfect.
"Honestly John, I never figured you to drink a sip, let alone the full glass."
John placed it back in the box, sliding it to Sherlock, "Another. Just because my sister can't hold her drinks doesn't mean I can't do it when I can. Besides, I don't even know if I'm getting out of here or not. Probably going to be stuck inside this damn box for the rest of my life. Might as well indulge."
"Not a bad assumption," Sherlock said, pouring John another glass, "but a sad and gruesome one in fact."
John and Sherlock talked for a bit. John mainly inquired about outside, it was as if a war had started in John's mind somehow in the few hours he'd been locked away and he needed to know the status of the world. Sherlock told him, not holding back anything about what he asked. Such as "I'm probably stuck here aren't I?" and many more, hope-killing questions. In the end, Sherlock had two glasses of scotch, while John had seven.
"I'm surprised you aren't plastered." Sherlock said, putting the glasses in the sink and the empty container of scotch back into the cabinet- locking it.
"Why?"
John saw the smirk on Sherlock's mouth as he turned, "Two glasses is enough to get me slightly buzzed, but seven- for you? You should be knocked out cold."
John shrugged, "I've been known to hold my drinks."
"Doesn't matter. First glass should have you buzzed or even tipsy. It seems your body is able to process the alcohol at an alarming rate. Interesting."
"This was another test..." John held his face in his hands as he tried to calm himself in deep, deep breaths. Only smelling the lingering hint of the seven glasses of scotch.
Sherlock chuckled, "In fact, I wasn't planning on that at all. I was just doing it because that arse who works as the british government is expecting me to do the impossible."
"Impossible?" John remembered the conversation. It'd been about John, his past, and the source of his condition. It depended on if Sherlock was able to get John to open, or in fact, locate the origin of John's mutation. Which seemed more impossible?
Sherlock sat, back to the glass, "I hate my job. Sure, it's nice because I like science. I like microscopes and test tubes- but in truth, I belong here as much as you do."
John looked towards Sherlock, who had his head up against the glass and eyes closed, "Really?"
"Yes. I like mysteries, puzzles. Complex ones that stunt the normal, John. I enjoy a good challenge. Murder is also a favorite- not committing mind you, no... It's figuring out who and why that's so pleasing to me. Why would a man or woman, so ordinary in nature, created in the same ways as every other man and woman, be driven to commit such an ancient taboo. What could cause them to break, literally, and make them end another life without question? That's what I want to do, John... I want to be a consulting detective."
"Consulting detective? Never heard of it."
Sherlock chuckled, "Shouldn't have, it didn't exist until I invented it. Brilliant it is. So perfect in every way."
John smiled, "Why not just work for the police?"
"They're stupid when it comes to most things, John. They can't even handle parking tickets properly, what makes you think they can handle a murder and a corpse? No, they muck it up, tamper with the evidence, ruin a perfectly good puzzle to where it's completely unsolvable. No wonder so many go cold."
John laughed as Sherlock went on ranting about police and their sudden inability to complete their jobs. Sherlock had a strong distaste for them, as much everything else. John was beginning to doze off when Sherlock completed by saying a few curse words and good riddance. John leaned up, rubbing his eyes.
"Sherlock?" John yawned.
"Yes?"
John turned to look towards the man studying him. His eyes were a pale blue, a speckle of brown above his left iris. So strikingly cold and so brilliant. John found himself breathing more as if the air around him were constricting, "Y-You never told me why."
Sherlock arched a brow in confusion, "Why what?"
"Why you're stuck here too."
Silence.
John saw as many emotions passed behind Sherlock's eyes. His face remained still, but his eyes flashed. People say they are the windows to a person's soul, everything you need to know will be said by the eyes. John saw the hurt, saw the intelligence, saw for one second a damaged heart sealed off from others long ago. John saw himself, a person trapped within a cage never expecting to be freed.
"Another time John... Particularly when I'm not buzzed."
John chuckled, "I thought you said slightly?"
"Things change."
John watched as Sherlock left the lab, "Night, John."
"Night."
The lights went off, and John went over to his mattress. His first night. It seemed weird. The lab was daunting by itself, the white walls seeming to darken by shadows into a sinister black. Maybe it helped represent what John felt about this place. Appearances made it seem clean and proper, safe. In reality, it was nothing more than a messed up way to get things like what was in John now to benefit nothing more than a military project. Figures.
As John closed his eyes, he saw the pair of ice blue staring back. John really did admire that random speck of brown.
**AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Kay guys! I really hoped you enjoyed this chapter! I plan to add another one soon, promise! Also, there's going to be smut eventually that's why I went ahead and rated this M.
It's doing really well so I plan to add the second chapter as a treat I guess. I don't know how long it's going to be but I aim to finish this soon. XD
Have fun and a nice day!~