Note: Harry (the doctor in here) is changed to Tom because of the confusion between him and John's sister. Thank you toeki!

"If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live."

"Use your imagination."

"I don't have to."

"Take cover!"

The shell landed only a few meters away. Doctor John Watson lifted himself from the ground where he had been knocked down.

"By the time we're done with this tour I'll be deaf!" she shouted to the man he was helping up.

"What?" yelled David as he was helped to his feet.

John smiled. "Exactly." They shared a moment of levity in the midst of battle. But joy didn't last long in war.

"Medic!" The cry came from the vicinity where the bomb had landed. The doctor and Lieutenant David Sterling rushed over to help their fallen comrade.

They found a soldier kneeling over another, putting pressure on a nasty looking gut wound. The fallen soldier was unconscious but fitful. He tried to fight against his fellow's hands.

"David, hold him still!" John ordered and David, along with the soldier, helped to hold the man down as John attended to the wound. "What happened?"

"Shrapnel from the explosion," the soldier explained. "He was standing right next to me. A few centimeters over and it would have been me instead of him."

John glanced up at him. He saw the face of a boy who was trying to be brave. But he was in shock at the near miss. John shook his head. These kids were getting younger with each battalion that passed through. And the wounded soldier was no exception. He looked even younger than his concerned friend. Probably mates from school.

John turned his attention back to the wounded soldier. He had drifted back from unconsciousness and was looking up at the doctor. He decided to make small talk while he tended to the man's bleeding gut.

"What's your name, son?" he asked, taking some gauze from his medic pouch and applying it to the wound.

"B-Bernard," he said, his voice quivering. "But everyone just calls me Ben."

"Alright Ben. How old are you?" He started to tie off the gauze so he could be moved to a safer area behind the front lines.

"Twenty." John could see a lie in the boy's face.

"Are you now?" John looked at him like a stern father, but he wasn't in the least angry.

"No. I'm actually only 18. But I wouldn't have gotten this far if they thought I was that young," he added hastily.

"Why would you want to be at the front lines? You fond of the adrenaline?"

"No, but I wouldn't have been able to with my mate, Jerry here." He looked at the young soldier who had called for help.

"I tried to tell him not to but he's a stubborn one. And I can't say I'm not glad to have a friendly face with me here," Jerry clarified.

"No need to explain yourselves," John reassured them. "I'm not going to rat you out." A slight look of relief flashed across the boys' faces. "My job is to patch you up. Now what's say we get you out of here and somewhere a little less noisy, eh?" Ben nodded. "Alright. David, Jerry, grab him at the ends. Gently now."

Jerry took the shoulders and David took the legs. John walked by Ben's side to make sure the dressings stayed put.

A whistling sounded overhead and a warning was called. "Incoming!" The four men looked up to see artillery coming down at them.

"Move, move, move!" John yelled. They redoubled their efforts to get out of the line of fire but they didn't get far enough.

The bomb landed right in their path. They all yelled in surprise, Jerry and David dropping Ben who landed with a cry of pain. John landed on his back and stars danced in front of his eyes. He blinked a few times, trying to dislodge the heavenly bodies and waited for the ringing in his ears to stop.

When John turned and started to stand up he thought he was going to be sick. Not from any wound he had sustained; he scarcely had a bump on his head and a few scratches from flying debris. It was the carnage that lay around him that caused this reaction. The other three were unconscious and John feared they might be dead. He rushed to Ben's side and checked his pulse. He was still alive but his pulse was weak. His wound had started to bleed again so he grabbed some more gauze and wrapped it quickly around the young man. Unlike before he didn't stir as his wound was being handled.

John didn't spend much time at Jerry's side. There was no reason to. A large shard of shrapnel had buried itself into the soldier's chest. He must have died instantly, or at least that's what John hoped. All he could do was shut the man's eyelids to give him some semblance of peace.

Then he turned his attention to David. The missile had landed closest to him, therefore doing the most damage. There was little left of his right leg. Most of it had been blown off. What was left was a charred and bleeding stump. What make if all the more horrible was that he was now awake.

"John," he whispered.

"Hush. Not a word more out of you, do you understand?" But the dying man refused to be silent.

"Ben…?"

"He's fine for now. Now quiet!" John was at a loss at what to do with his friend. There was really nothing he could do. There was too much blood and the shock alone could kill him. He started to wrap bandages around the stump but he knew it would be useless.

"The other one?"

"Dead." He didn't stop working. He was trying to put a brave face on the situation and could only hope he was succeeding. But David could see right through it. He had known the doctor sense the beginning of their tour. They were practically brothers; something John had always wanted.

"You should take more care of Ben over there. He's got a better chance."

"Just shut up, will you?" John looked down at his friend pleadingly. "You're going to make it, alright?" The mask had finally broken. "Now, I'm going to get you out of this. And you're going to get a prosthesis so you'll be able to walk and lead however a normal life you can, you hear?"

But David just smiled. He was so calm. How could he be so calm? "You're rambling John. You always do that when you're nervous." He gripped the doctor's arm. John stopped his work and looked at his friend. "Let me go, John. Just let me go."

John shook his head furiously. "I can't do that Dave, you know I can't. I took an oath, remember? I swore to save those who are injured in battle."

"And Ben has the better chance of surviving. John, you can't save us both. Save him or I'll never forgive you."

"David, please…" John shook his head, tears flowing freely down his face. "Don't make me choose."

"Then I'll choose for you."

"No…"

"I want you to tell my family what happened. Make sure they're taken care of, eh?"

John decided there was no use in arguing with him. "Of course, David."

"And look after the boy. He's a fighter. He'll make it." John could only nod. He didn't trust his voice. "I'm not afraid, John. It seems strange, but I'm not. I just wish I had more time." David took a deep breath and coughed it out. The shock was wearing off and the pain was starting to become apparent. "I'm glad you're here with me, Johnny lad. You're my best friend, you know? Stay alive, will you? Please, John. Please."

"Alright, David," John nodded, patting his mate on the shoulder. "Just take it easy."

Until now the battle around them had left them untouched. The world had allowed them a small moment of piece but now it was here to reclaim it. Shots rang out over their heads. John ducked and drew his gun. He looked down at David, afraid to leave his side and leave his friend alone. But David just nodded and patted John's arm.

"Get some of them for me, eh?"

"You can count on me, mate." John smiled. "Good bye, David."

"Good bye, John. And give them hell for me!"

John laughed. "Yes sir." They both saluted.

David's eyes closed and his hand fell from its place of attention and lay limply on the ground. John hung his head and tears fell to the earth. But a promise was a promise.

John whipped the tears from his eyes. He got up in a crouched position and pointed a few shots towards the insurgents. He didn't know if any of them hit their marks. He rushed over to Bernard's side to check on his condition. The boy was stable for now. John knelt over him, determined to keep him safe. He surveyed the area around them, shooting at any enemy that came close.

None of John's battalion or any other allies were near. They had all been driven back. He was out there alone in no man's land. Some distance away lay bodies of friends and enemies alike; men who could not be saved. But at least one could be.

Ben was still unconscious. John didn't have any more gauze with him. He had told himself before that he shouldn't use it so liberally. So he took off his jacket. It wasn't riddled with pockets full of ammunition and the like. He was a doctor, first and foremost. All his most important supplies were in his pack. He took the jacket and placed it on Ben's wound. Would it ever stop bleeding?

"Come on Ben," John urged. "Fight! Your friend believed it, David believed it, and so do I. You're supposed to be young and tough, so live!" More shots rang out. John fired back. It was a miracle they hadn't been shot yet. But he knew their luck couldn't hold out for much longer. He moved to Ben's head and proceeded to drag him closer to friendly territory. But dragging something causes a person to become a larger target.

To John the moment seemed to happen in slow motion. The bullet raced towards him, the sound of it being fired oddly removed from the rest of the weapon's fire. The bullet found its target in John's left shoulder. He'd never been shot before but had seen it happen to many men for the past hear and a half. He never realized how much it would hurt.

The force of the shot caused him to drop Ben and spin around so he lay face down in the grass. He could feel the small piece of metal still in his shoulder under his collar bone. The pain of it blinded him and he closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids he saw moments, flashes of the past; mostly important things but some rather mundane scenes as well.

'So this is what it's like for your life to flash in front of your eyes,' John thought. He remembered what David had said just a few minutes ago. He was supposed to tell the Sterlings what had happened to their son and give this kid a fighting chance. How was he supposed to do that when he was dead?

'Please God, let me live,' he thought before he drifted away and was lost to the world.

Beep…Beep…Beep…

It was the first thing John heard as he started to gain consciousness. But he still didn't open his eyes. Soon John became aware of other sounds as well: the footsteps of passers-by, the shuffling as people rifled through the cabinets. And also the low groans of wounded soldiers. John had become accustomed to the sound and had the feeling it would haunt his sleep long after he left Afghanistan.

He surmised that he must be in one of the hospital compounds. So why was he asleep? That wasn't very professional of him. He opened his eyes slowly. The light was dim. He was staring up at the ceiling, a light bulb swinging a few meters to his right. When he tried to get up he found himself hindered by a sudden piercing pain in his shoulder. Upon further inspection he found that his left arm was in a sling.

The memories came rushing back to him. Jerry, Ben…David. He'd been shot, he remembered that much. But how did he end up here? Surely he had been beyond the aid of others.

One of the medics had heard his small grunt of pain and came over to him. John didn't recognize him. He was a captain, same ranking as himself. He must be in another unit's hospital tent.

"How are you feeling Doctor Watson," asked the medic, looking at John's chart.

"As well as to be expected, I guess. And call me John."

"Alright John. I'm Doctor Tom Peterson." He hung up the chart and came to sit by John's side. "You're a really lucky man, John. You had lost a lot of blood when we found you. The bullet got dangerously close to your artery. Surgery was touch and go for a while but you're here, obviously. You should be able to make a full recovery after some physical therapy. Three months if you're lucky and diligent, which it appears you are. There wasn't much tissue damage."

John stayed silent for a while, letting the information sink in. he hadn't expected nearly this much. He had expected to die. And now to learn that he could make a full recovery in three weeks? It was too good to be true. He silently thanked God for answering his prayer.

"So I'm being discharged? What about Ben? What happened?"

"Just take it easy there. Yes, you're being discharged. We're going to keep you here for about a week before sending you back home to England. There's a hospital there specialized for wounded vets.

"As for your friend, well, see for yourself." He pointed to the bet on John's right. Ben was there sleeping calmly. The readout on his screen was comforting. "He made it out just fine. You dressed him well, John. It stopped him from bleeding out too much. His recovery should be a little sooner than your. There wasn't much shrapnel and it didn't go far. Had to sew up a small section of intestine but he was in no real danger."

"Good," John sighed, a large burden being lifter from his shoulders. "But what happened? I thought we were beyond help."

"That's where you're really lucky. Our unit was passing by after yours; sweeping the area for insurgents and wounded; collecting ID tags off the dead. We were going to pass right by you actually. You were pretty far removed from the rest and the dirt and debris from several bombs had covered you quite well. With that and your fatigues blending in with the ground we could hardly see you. But then we heard a noise; a sort of groan or something."

"Ben?"

"No. It was another chap, a Lieutenant David Sterling."

"What?" John whispered, confused, his voice quivering and eyes full of surprise.

"That was our thought when we found him. He must have died a few hours before we got there. That's what made it strange. For a corpse to exude a groan or release air of any kind, pressure must be applied to the lungs. Yet nobody touched it. So however it happened, that soldier saved your life."

John's mouth was open, gaping at what he'd just heard. He couldn't believe it. "David saved my life?" His voice was barely over a whisper.

"Aye, and that kid's over there, too," Doctor Peterson said, nodding towards Bernard. "Now get some rest. We'll see how you feel in the morning." He patted John's good shoulder and walked off to check on his other patients, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

A tear fell from the corner of John's eye. Even after he died, David has saved his life and Ben's when he couldn't even save his best friend. He laughed. He couldn't help it. David was the same dead as he was alive: stubborn to a fault and determined to boot.

"Ah, David," he sighed, closing his eyes, ready for sleep. "Thank you, mate. Thank you."

A week later John was ready for transport back home. Ben had already been transferred a few days before. Tom Peterson met him at the transport pad. John was going to England via plane. Tom took the medic's place who was pushing John's wheelchair towards the plane.

"Your arm giving you any trouble John?"

"Hmm? Oh, no. Not at all. Although my leg is giving me a bit of trouble."

"Which one?" Tom asked, stopping the wheelchair and kneeling in front of John.

"Right." John started to rub it.

"What kind of pain?" Tom started to examine the leg.

"Sort of dull throb," John replied, continuing to rub it.

"Well I don't know why it should be hurting. It wasn't wounded at all. But they can check you on the plane. It's about to take off and there's not much I can do here." He started to push the chair again. "Well John, it's been a pleasure. I just wish we could have met under better circumstances." He handed John over to the medics from the plane who had come to collect him.

"So do I, Tom." They shook hands. "And thank you for everything."

"It was nothing. Take care of yourself John."

"You too. Keep in touch."

"I will."

John was loaded up into the plane. He had himself a nice spot by a window and a large comfy chair. "This is better than first class," John mused aloud. "I should do this more often."

Just then a doctor came up to him. "So Doctor Peterson outside just informed me that your leg is acting up."

"Yes, that's right. But it has no reason to. My right leg was never damaged at all."

The doctor considered this and nodded his understanding. "Anyone else's leg get busted up? Someone you were close to maybe?"

"Well, yes, but…" John stammered, trying to find the significance in this question. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Doctor Watson, my name is Charles White. I'm a psychiatrist. I help wounded vets cope with their injuries. Now, your shoulder wound doesn't concern me in the slightest, but when Peterson told me about your leg I though I should see what I could do. So who was this person whose leg got injured? A friend?"

"Yes. Lieutenant David Sterling. We started off together. We'd been through a lot." John's eyes got distant like they always did when he talked about David.

"What happened?" White asked, not unkindly.

"A bomb. It landed right next to us. It blew off David's leg…his right leg. He didn't make it." It wasn't easy talking about it but John figured it was best to just spit it out and not have this shrink try and pull it out of him.

"I'm sorry to hear that John. I've lost friends to this bloody war as well. But you have to understand that your leg wasn't injured and there's no sense in you trying to take on your friend's pain."

Was this what therapy was like these days? Telling the patient they were stupid for feeling the way they did? John had no intention of finding out. He didn't want to feel this way; didn't want to feel pain. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. "Could you just stop, please? I really don't feel up to this right now."

Charles White stood up. "Alright John. But I still want you to see a psychiatrist when you get back home, alright?" He left before John could answer. Obviously he didn't get a say in it.

When John was alone again he pounded his uninjured arm against the arm rest. "Bloody hell!" He had thought he would have been able to live a somewhat normal life when he got home; put all this behind him. But it looked quite the opposite. The war was following him home.

There was no way he was asking Harriet for help, what with her drinking and Clara and all. So he was going to have to find a place for himself. And on an army pension at that.

"I'm starting to wonder if it was the right thing to do, asking you to let me live," John said, looking out at the sky that was moving rapidly as the plane flew to Heathrow. "Maybe it would have been easier if I had just died." He sighed and shook his head. "No. No, I'll go on living. You died for me, David, so I'll live for you. And I'll let your mum and dad know how you saved our lives. They deserve to know you were a hero. So there! Have it your way. You win. I'll live."

YAY! So another Sherlock fic up and running. I'm planning to write a second chapter that's John's letter to the Sterling family. I'm also planning on doing another fic that's based off the line in here that John always wanted a brother. Should I make it a third chapter or a completely different fic? It mentions David but I could go either way...What do you think? Review and let me know...please? Constructive criticism welcome and flames will be hurled at the insurgents!

Also, I have my first Amazing Grace story up so I hope you check it out! It also has Benedict Cumberbatch (what an awesome name!) in it and it was just an astonishing show in and of itself. You should totally watch it if you haven't already!

Thanks!

Also, many thanks to toeki for pointing out my many grammatical mistakes!