AN: Hello again! Here's another chapter for you, and, if you're very good, I just might post another before the day is out. Once again, reviews are appreciated! And yes, I'm sure some of my facts are completely inaccurate, but just contribute it to creative license.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters you recognize, they belong to the BBC. The White Lady, however, is one of my OC's, so if you have any questions about her, feel free to ask away. Please don't borrow her without my permission.
Chapter 1:
The distant fire fight was nothing more than white noise these days as John Watson carefully sliced through the meat of a fallen man's leg. In there somewhere was a bullet, and damn if he wasn't going to locate it. Pushing and prodding, he caught the coppery glimpse of a jacket, and without further preamble dug in with forceps until he could grasp it. A quick check of vital signs and positioning, followed by a sharp tug, and the bullet was free.
"Sew him up, Alyssia," John said calmly, dropping his tools onto the tray. "Nice and even stitching now, we don't want him to have too horrible of a scar."
"Yes, Sir," the young blonde answered, flashing him a winning smile.
The flirtation was ignored as he ignored almost everything else these days. He whipped off his bloody gloves and tossed them into a nearby bio-hazard bin without actually looking at it and moved out of the room. A deep breath of dusty, dry air filled his lungs as he aimed himself for his bunk. Sleep was desperately needed, he'd been up for 72 bloody hours now, and it was high time the crash caught up with him.
The tent was empty, mostly because no one really wanted to bunk with him. There were rumors about Captain John Watson, MD of the Royal Fusiliers, and no one wanted them proved right or wrong. The soldiers praised, cherished, and feared the good doctor, and gave him space out of respect. If they didn't, they dreaded him becoming what they deemed 'a butcher', the kind of doctor who simply removed a limb instead of attempting to save it.
John didn't mind the distance, enjoyed it actually, it was a far cry from the last time he'd been in the damned desert before his injured discharge. It hadn't taken him much to get shipped back out to the Middle East, even injured, when the recruiters saw his background. Surgeons were becoming scarce, and, as one of the best, he was welcomed with open arms.
Satisfaction made him sleepy, and he yawned mightily before drifting off. Exhaustion like this meant he wouldn't be disturbed by the usual nightmares. If anything, he'd probably find himself awakened by the cries of people shouting for a surgeon when more wounded were dragged into camp. He couldn't wait until this damned war was over.
Not that he couldn't have left at any time. All he really had to do was get injured again. John wasn't ready to go back to the memories stored in the empty flat though, so he persevered in the heat of the summer. It had been 3 years since that day when his greatest friend had tumbled through the sky. It made him unusually tired just thinking about it.
With that last thought before Morpheus gripped him in a tight hug, he dreamed of that day so long ago when he watched Sherlock Holmes drop off the roof of St. Bart's and land on the sidewalk below. It wasn't the first time he'd had this particular nightmare, but it was the first time the White Lady had seen fit to appear beside the broken body on the side walk. She wasn't much of a dream stalker, preferring to speak to him through other people.
Her voice was smooth and rich, like melted Belgian chocolate, "Hello, Jonathan."
Wiping tears from his eyes he peered up at her. "Hello, My Lady."
She cradled his face in Her spider-like hands. "I know you find seeing me here unusual. But since I was unsure how you would react to my words, I thought this was the easiest way to speak with you."
"What is it?" He settled himself on his knees before Her, leaning into Her touch as She stroked his cheeks.
"I have scoured all the worlds - above, below, and in-between," Her eyes slid to the broken body at Her feet, "and I have found no trace of him. His footsteps have never echoed through my halls."
Shock turned him numb. It couldn't be true. He'd watched Sherlock plummet to his death, held his wrist as his pulse stopped. That he could have survived and not come home to the flat, not come home to him, was impossible!
"No," he choked out.
Her dark eyes were sad, but firm. "He has never set foot on the Path."
Tears of anger, of betrayal, fell from his eyes. The bastard had lied to him, put him through all that pain, and was still alive somewhere? Why the hell had he done that? Why hadn't Sherlock trusted him, warned him, something, anything?
Rage bubbled beneath the sadness, roiling in his heart and veins like a lava floe. John had bound his soul back to the White Lady, bound his very existence to Her, become one of Her monsters again for nothing. When he found Sherlock, he was going to kill him.
A smirk slowly lifted the corner of Her mouth as She watched the fury burning in him. She kissed his forehead sweetly. "I am sorry, little one. I know how much it must pain you. But think on this - perhaps he had a good reason?"
John closed his eyes and sighed, leaning back on his haunches. "I'm still going to knock him silly if I see the stupid git."
Laughter like the tingling of a thousand silver bells slipped passed Her lips as She released him from Her grip. She smoothed the shoulders of his jacket. "Well, after you've taught him a lesson, I will release you from your vow if that is what you wish."
No other deity could compare to the White Lady, no matter how benevolent or powerful they seemed. John had read many religious texts, and no being compared to Her. Her servants followed Her not out of blind devotion, but out of convenience, and if they wished to go their separate ways She gave them Her blessing for a long life and happiness. They would return to Her in the end, everything did, and once more the Choice would be offered for them to take or refuse. If they refused, so be it, they could go their merry way.
"Thank you for your kindness, ma'am," John kissed her hands politely, "But I don't know what I can do to without them to keep him safe."
Another clear laugh. "Then keep them, Jonathan. You are one of my most devoted and loyal servants and I would hate to lose you again."
"Even," he closed his eyes, whispering, "even if I lo-if I'm with..." Hell, even in his dreams he couldn't admit it.
Loud and long, bubbling with mirth that made his whole being feel lighter, She laughed and shook him lightly by the shoulders. "I will say this only once, dear boy, and I shall say it so plainly and rudely you shall never consider asking such a foolish thing again." She grasped his chin firmly and held his eyes with Hers. "First, Love is not my area of expertise. Second, I couldn't give two shits who or what you put your dick in."
Embarrassment turned his cheeks red and he started to laugh loudly. She never was one to mince words; bluntness was always preferred to prevarication. Though She might not reveal everything, what She did say was always true. If there was information She couldn't reveal, you were told right there that She was withholding and it either wasn't your business, or wouldn't be pertinent until further on down the line.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said once he recovered from his laughter. "Do you know where he is?"
"Not at the moment." She pressed a long finger to Her lips. "However, I can tell you that your separation will not last very much longer. Events move apace that will drive you both together again."
Her tone was one of warning, though what She was warning him about he couldn't say. Just because She didn't lie didn't mean She couldn't be cryptic. John took Her words to heart, though, and some of the heaviness that had been driving him to darker and darker places in his mind began to dissipate.
"You should wake up now, Jonathan." She patted his cheek.
He jack-knifed up in bed just as a soldier whipped back the flap of his tent. "Sir! You're needed!"
Grunting in lieu of an answer he hastily tugged his pants back on and pulled a shirt over his head as he jogged back to the battle field hospital. The man on his heels explained that the firefight had ended with a loud explosion and there were so many wounded that no doctor could be spared. John said nothing, simply nodded his head to acknowledge that he'd understood.
This night was going to take forever, he sighed to himself as he choked down a cup of coffee. He didn't even bother donning a surgeon's coat, after all it would just get bloody anyway, and everyone in the tent knew who he was. Scrambling orderlies gave way to him, nurses gave succinct answers to the questions they knew he would ask, and the mobile wounded either hobbled away or helped carry the incoming patients.
John let the fog of adrenaline surround him, shouting for the tools he would need to save this man's leg, or remove this man's bleeding stump of an arm, or stitch up that man's abdomen before his intestines spilled out. He lost himself in the work, the words of the White Lady cuddling themselves down in a corner of his mind to bring him that little bit of comfort he'd need to sustain him through the following days.
AN: This chapter has been revised by my Beta Milky Etoile of the Beta Nook group, part of the Imagination: Unleashed community. Thanks again!
