Allie sits in the mess hall in an undershirt and pants, hair damp from a shower. Her dog tags clink as she leans over her book, forgetting her tray of food. They aren't normal dog tags, if you look closely the engraving only holds Operative 916361222181. Two years have passed since she last saw John, and she sits alone, more Allie than Wombat: a circle around her where people don't dare sit. The only comfort she has is down by the bay of Manderly, or at the tea party with the Hatter and Hare. She doesn't stick out so much anymore: it's easier for people to believe that she's eighteen. But still, on a base full of Americans, she's the outsider.
With a heavy sigh, she stands, turning down the corner to mark her page. Food doesn't appeal to her now; after today's mission she just wants to go sleep. The base she's on is small, covert, and there are no lights outside of the mess tent. The night air is cool, and stars kiss her skin as she moves to the sleeping tent.
Something swift moves in the shadows causing her to shift the balls of her feet the best she can in heavy boots. Rough hands grab her, and pin her to a siren post.
"A pretty little British mouse," a voice says. "Out wandering all alone at night."
A hot mouth presses to hers as she struggles, and horror stories about female soldiers getting raped flash through her mind. A knee to the groin -causing the man to groan and spit out profanities- and then she vanishes, the action so instinctual, such a self-defense that there is no thought behind it.
She's a pretty little British bird, flying away as fast as she can.
There's no pain anymore. She's floating over a hardwood floor, towards an armchair with Sherlock sprawled in it. The silence is welcome; there is no blood, no screaming. The world is clean and white and perfectly silent. She sitting in the chair now. When did she get here? Half on the mans leg, half in the empty space.
Are there words? There might be words, she decides, trying to reach her ear and sink into her brain, but at the moment, she's not in the mood to hear them.
Sleep tugs down at her eyes, and she lets it wrap her in a soft blanket, lets it pull her head onto the bony shoulder of Sherlock. White is now black, but there is still silence, so it doesn't matter. But then it changes. She's standing in a field, grass swaying, sky a perfect, uniform shade of grey. Bodies. So many bodies, weighing down the grass, spilling blood into the soil. The clouds above her let loose, and there's a crack of thunder.
No...gunfire...
Bullets. It's raining bullets. So hard and so fast that everyone of them shoots into her, sending lead into here bloodstream, weighing her down.
There's no more silence.
She's screaming. People are yelling. She's in an armchair, with Sherlock hovering over her, his face almost concerned. Stumbling upwards, she pushes passed Sherlock, passed John yelling at Mycroft, passed a Mrs Hudson -hand pressed her chest in worry- and into the kitchen. Water, as cold as it can be, is pouring over her head from a tap, and she's staring at the stainless steel of the sink.
Long fingered hands grab her shoulders and pull her backwards, out of the flow of the water. Sherlock shoves her into a chair at the table, leaving her hair dripping onto the linoleum.
There's so much sound.
"You can't keep throwing her into those places Mycroft!" John yells. "She can't handle it. What you put her through already was more than enough!"
The sound of water pooling on the floor from her hair.
"I-"
"This is what happens when you throw a fourteen year old girl into a battle zone!"
Words pour into her mind from thoughts of others.
Oh dear, what's John got himself into again? And poor Allie!
I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL THE GOVERNMENT.
If John would only let me speak...I am doing the best I can for the girl.
And then blessed silence. It's as if she is stuck in a dead space between the world and the fourth mind in the room, something she can't penetrate.
She looks up from her shaking hands, and makes eye contact with Sherlock. His eyes are wide, curious. He watches as her lips move noiselessly, trying to collect her thoughts.
In the bliss of silence, she moves to the fridge to chug the rest of the milk.
Sherlock feels something move away from his mind.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"I-I didn't believe it yesterday...when you vanished..."
"No one ever does."
"Look, John!" Mycroft exclaims, a note of desperation in his voice. "She's fine."
"Allie-"
John's face is lined with worry; he looks more exhausted than he did in Afghanistan.
"John, John. It's fine. I'm fine."
"That's bullshit Allie!"
"But it's all I can tell you."