-A few months later-
John rushed into the open area, oblivious to the gunfire surrounding him. He had to save the boy that was bleeding to death on the ground. The hail of bullets made no difference as he scooped the boy off of the ground and threw him across his shoulders. They were flying so close that John felt one rip into his uniform, barely grazing his side. The pain shot through him and briefly lessened the pain in his chest. More action, more blood, more pain.
He pushed off hard. One foot in front of the other. Running. Gasping. Grinning. The boy across his shoulders hardly registered as John pumped his short legs harder. The pain in his side grew as his uniform began to stick to him. He was out of shape; he felt a stitch starting in the opposite side. But it felt so good to flat out run. When was the last time he had truly run for his life? Or someone else's?
SHERLOCK!
The cyclist came out of nowhere.
'Sherlock! I have to get up.'
The world spins.
Then collapses.
Sherlock.
No pulse.
'My friend'
No
John shook his head vigorously to clear away the ghosts of the past. His feet pounded rhythmically as he headed back to the base. It amazed him that he hadn't been shot in the back yet. One foot in front of the other. He could feel the blood from the boy soaking his shoulders. 'Faster, Watson, faster!' The boy was going to die if he didn't get him back soon.
It was another couple minutes of hard running before John could swiftly deposit the boy on an operating table. A surgeon was standing by, ready to operate, and the boy was still alive and almost conscious, judging by his soft moans. John felt he could count this as a win.
He returned back to his bunk feeling triumphant. Not even the night watch could ruin his mood. He needed to get ready. He was pulling first shift. His lips were in a thin line as the captain stood before the mirror. His uniform was covered in blood, but he had convinced the surgeon none of it was his. He was a doctor; he could damn well bandage it himself. He peeled away the torn fabric and gritted his teeth. It was fairly shallow; a few stitches and he would be fine. He sighed and fingered the ripped cloth. He about needed a new uniform. The blood wasn't going to come out, and it was too much trouble to mend yet another tear. Rather than going too all that trouble, he shucked off his shirt and pulled out his small doctor's kit.
Disinfect. Apply anaesthetic. Clean wound. Close wound. Stitch. Bandage.
He nodded with satisfaction. He could still function as needed.