John; 797 days after
When I wake up, it's already half past nine of one very weird day. Sherlock is still asleep and how do I know that? It's because that idiot somehow made his way into my bed and is now snoring softly with half of his gangly body over me.
I sigh heavily, because it's kind of difficult to breath when you have another seventy kilos on your chest. I could wake him up or try to slip away, but he honestly seems to need the sleep, so I just settle back against his warmth, moving him just that bit so I can breath and so it's not that embarrassing, and let my thoughts engulf my brain.
It's been three months since Sherlock came back to live. It wasn't very difficult to deduce he traveled a lot, he is slightly tanned, but more on the side of sun-burnt. He was in Rio, judging by one of the bus tickets he threw next to his skull. Mrs. Hudson threw them out, but I managed to sneak a peak.
Two of the tickets were from Mashhad and Dushanbe, which are towns far too close to the war zone for my liking. Was Sherlock really so close at that time? It was the spring of the second year – barely half a year ago and I can't really remember what I did.
How did we spend our spring? By burying bodies into the thankfully less frozen ground? By trying to find some herbs to use into food and finding only poisonous flowers so early into the spring? By clearing mud instead of snow from the ripped bodies of far too young boys?
I sometimes wish I could remember every face belonging to the body I sewed, but I can't. Not even in my dreams and I don't even know the faces of boys I couldn't help. I don't know their names, but I know enough about their lives to know, that they were naïve and had a future.
I try to remember each of them, but I can only count and it's not such a large number, but still twelve kids too much. And I remember something about each of of them, I have carved them into my skin.
Some of them are too young to even have a girlfriend and know what to do with her. But still, they are given a gun and sent to kill or be killed. Or both.
I was that young when I first saw the bloody sunrise of an Afghanistan day, as well. And trough the first months I didn't fire one bullet. Because I didn't have a gun.
The memory makes me smirk, if a bit sadly. But those are good memories, they helped forming me and made me who I am now.
When I came, I was put into a four-member squad. That's nothing extraordinary, we are more like partizans in this part of war, but I was still surprised. I still had milk on my chin, still would try to hide behind my mum's skirts, were she alive.
My squad captain (I am not sure why, but I can't remember his rank) was a rough guy at the age of over forty and he once told me, that his daughters were already grown up and his wife married again and war was the only women still interested in him. He crouched in front of me, making me red, because I wasn't a kid – or I was, just didn't want to see it. And then he told me I am under strict orders not to carry a gun.
I told him I need to be able to protect myself and my comrades and he raised his brows, before replying that no, I don't need to. They will be the ones firing and I will be the one carrying needles and bandages.
He told me that kids shouldn't kill other kids.
The next month our mission was much more difficult and I was given my gun back. But I was still unable to pull the trigger, when I knew that on the other side people were just as scared and nervous as we were.
They shot one of my teammates and I crawled over to him to sew him up. It was a minor injury, but could easily became infected.
In the end he survived, but while I was trying to clean the dust from inside of his arm, I heard the bullet. Like in those action movies, when protagonist who shouldn't die, die and he can hear the bullet. I heard it and looked around. And what I saw was my captain being shot.
The bullet should've ended in my solar plexus, but instead nested itself right into captain's aorta. I couldn't help him and I remember crying for the first time since joining the squad.
I finished the injured guy, while holding onto captain's hand and trying not to let any of my tears fall into the guy's arm. We survived, but parted our ways.
The guy with the injury was shipped back home and we – the only two remaining – got another two guys to fill into. But they weren't part of the team, and me with the fourth never parted.
Until I went home.
We had nicknames for each other. He called me Schizophrenic and I called him Blond.
Until three years after the death of our captain, we kept on switching our other two teammates. Then Lizzard came. And after another two years we found an injured soldier who didn't want to go home and insisted on being alright.
We called him Bloody Knight and he stayed. With us and we were complete. Now Knight is back at home and Blond ended his travels the same way he would have much, much earlier, had I not survived those long years ago. Defeated by infection.
Two years before I left, we were sent onto a mission deep into the heart of our opposition. I don't remember much, being drugged by smoke and the smell of gun powder and death and blood.
We spent two weeks in the wilderness, with another commando. Their captain had fallen and so they sneaked their way to us, trying to look as if we weren't seven instead of four.
Two of them were Hound and Eyes. We quickly made friends and I got to know their medic, a petite guy we called Sárí. He is home now, as well.
Two weeks later their team – now something like a 'brother' commando of ours – got their last member and I immediately started liking him. Psycho. One of the children, but still so bright. He had something in him what made everyone wary or scared of him, but I liked him.
I still do.
He caught onto me the very first day he came, maybe because I gave him a hug and a smile and I thought that he is alive and I won't let war dull him. I held him when he cried because of the things he saw. I wrestled him when he grabbed a knife and started waltzing towards another soldier in the camp with the happiest of his smiles put on. I steadied his hands when he first shot an enemy.
Because I wanted to save him just like captain had saved me, hopefully not giving up my live in the process.
And maybe I did, because he's still alive and in France right now, because teams have to have their holidays synchronized and he wanted to threw an paper plane down from the Eiffel Tower. I am not sure if that's allowed or even possible, but I trust he will find a way.
Sherlock mumbles something in his sleep and that's enough to throw me outta the memory line back to the presence. I smile down at the mop of dark curls on my chest, thinking that Sherlock saved me and so if there is any way to save him back, I will do it.
There is not much what I wouldn't do for him.
Sherlock; 797 days after
I can almost hear the gears turning in John's head. His heartbeat is slightly rugged and when I peak up at him, I see his pupils unfocused and dilated.
It's not really difficult to deduce that he is thinking about the war – there is nothing else (maybe me) that can give him such a somber expression.
But the close proximity and the safety and his heartbeat, it's all so soothing I soon drift back to sleep once again.
When I wake up for the second time, John's heart is calm and I wonder if he's asleep. I doubt it. He is far to calm to be sleeping, his hands are steady and his breath far to even. He is relaxed, yes, but not asleep.
"Morning, Dr. Watson." I mumble into his chest and his whole body vibrates with his laughter.
"Morning, Mr. Mad Detective." his reply is amused. "Now that you are back in the world of the living, could you please stop squashing my chest?"
I snort, but obediently roll of him, turning so that I can look at his face. His eyes are closed and he is smiling. That is a good sign, isn't it?
"Thank you." he breaths out and stretches his arms and back, arching from the bed. "You are heavier then I would think possible." he informs me and sits up, obviously intending to get up now that I don't use him as my pillow anymore. I follow his example, even though I don't really want to get up yet, but I am still not sure when is he leaving, so I just have to spend every minute with him, right?
"I am no heavier than you are, John." I point out and absently run my hand trough my hair. I am sweaty, so shower is in order.
"But I don't really spend my nights laying on myself, so I wouldn't know, would I.." he mumbles and I can't help but roll my eyes, because John can really say stupid things.
"Of course not, that's anatomically impossible."
"So is living with you." he retorts without any actual bite, so I let it be. I watch John find a clean t-shirt and jeans, thinking with distaste that he should really try to dress more smartly, but before I can inform him of my genial observation, he tugs the top of his pajamas over his head and I notice ink on his back.
I shuffle closer to the edge of John's bed to take a closer look – has he really gotten a tattoo? But the ink doesn't curl into any intricate patterns, no. What is on John's back are small lines, only three centimeters long, right over his spine. One beneath other, beneath other.
I count fourteen of them.
"It's a memento." John throws a smile at me over his shoulder, before forcefully covering the lines with his (ugly) beige button-up. I am – once again – confronted with the thought of John learning how to read minds, which is of course ridiculous. But so is the idea of him learning how to read me.
"Memento of what?" I ask him and trail my finger over his spine, as if trying to see the lines with my touch.
"Of those who died even though I tried my best to save them." his voice is barely a whisper and my finger stop it's track. I look up at him, he is half-way turned back to me, but his eyes are unfocused.
"Two of them were blue, why?"
"Because those two were people I knew.." he trails of, looking lost and I understand. He lost two comrades and wanted to have something to remember them.
"Can I see?" I ask him, trying to make my voice gentle and failing epically. But John – my good, understanding John – doesn't mind and nods. I tug his shirt up, not bothering with unbuttoning it, or taking it off. When I look closer, I see smaller, almost tiny, pictures next to the lines. Symbols or letters.
The first line is blue and I rest my finger atop it, noticing that there is no symbol accompanying it.
"Blond." John informs me somehow calmly and I flick my eyes up at the back of his head.
"Don't be stupid John, it's blue." I say, noticing that his back becomes stiff and shaking and it takes me few seconds to realize he's trying to stifle his laugh. What is so funny in getting a colour wrong I do not know.
"I know, Sherlock. 'Blond' is a nickname of my comrade." he explains and I suddenly understand why he found my comment so funny.
"He is the first who died?" I ask curiously, because it doesn't really seem so probable that the first one to die beneath John's hands would be a comrade.
John sighs and I can even feel it beneath my fingers. "He died before I came back, he was my teammate of over five years from the first time I were there."
"He died after you left and because you didn't leave an address – your departure had to be rather hasty, because of you injuries – you were informed only when you came back." John nods, letting me know I was right.
"Why the symbols?" I continue with my interrogation, even though I suspect the answer.
"Because I want to remember each one of them." John's tone is firm and solemn and I know he will be able to do whatever is it he wants to. Just like always. I quickly scan the symbols, not seeing any particularly interesting, other than -
"Why the kiss?"
"Oh surely you can deduce that." my blogger laughs and takes a step away from me, tugging his shirt back into the place.
"Do enlighten me."
"He told me he knew he will die and asked me to give his message to his comrade. That was the message."
I don't say anything, because there is nothing to be said. John puts on his trousers and when he exits the room, I trail behind him like a lost puppy.
"I will make a breakfast, could you please do something for me in the meantime?" John turns back at me without a smile and with such a serious expression I can't really say 'no'.
"Go down to visit Mrs. Hudson so that she knows you are still alive."
John; 797 days after
It's surprising just how obedient Sherlock is, and were he not so sleepy looking, I would think he had some experiment ready for me. I shrug, thinking that every experiment of his is probably safer than dancing waltz in the bomb rain and Psycho did just that. And of course I was the lucky one to accompany him.
I make the tea mostly by memory, thinking more about what the hell should I do for breakfast, when all what's inside the fridge is something looking suspiciously like human brain in milk.
There is the possibility of going out to buy something, but I know should Sherlock come back and I wasn't here, he would go all Sherlock on me. That leaves asking Mrs. Hudson, but I don't want to bother her that much.
I smirk devilishly when other possibility appears and I take out the pink mobile phone, dialing the only number I remember for the sake of never picking it up when it appears on my screen.
"Yes doctor Watson?" he picks up almost immediately and for some reason that really makes me surprised. Does he have a habit of picking up numbers of dead tourists? Of course he did know it was me, because anyone else who would have some interest of using this phone is Sherlock, and I doubt Sherlock would call.
"Hello Mycroft." I greet, not for the sake of greeting but for the sake of showing what good manners are. "Can you please do me a little favour?"
"Of course doctor, and what would it be?"
"As you surely know, I am back to London and trying to make some breakfast. The only thing present in our flat, however, is something inedible. Would you mind picking up something to eat and coming over?" because that's the only way how to make Mycroft do it, without having to owe him.
"Of course doctor!" he sounds too happy for my liking, but it would have to do. "I will be there in ten minutes." Meaning he was already on the way here.
"I would also like to have a word with you, if you would." I smile into the phone, feeling more and more evil by every passing moment.
"If is it about Sherlock and his way of living while you were in war, I assure you I tried my best."
"It was and thank you." I hang up, before Mycroft can come out of his shock of being thanked by me, when I usually gave him the vibe of not liking him. But I don't, because I could hear he was honest. He did try his best and will probably again when I leave. I will just have to persuade Sherlock to let him.
Sherlock; 797 days after
Why should Mrs. Hudson think I am not alive is beyond me. But it's John, so instead of telling him just how ridiculous request that is – because a corpse in the process of decomposing would make an odor noticeable enough, that even our neighbors would smell it – because he would just give me that look, saying that I am stupid, I went down to knock onto her door. Yes, in those trousers I spent the last week in, and without shower.
Surprisingly she didn't even comment upon my state and hugged me. Seriously, what's wrong with people today? First John letting me sleep on top of him, without his usual complaint and then letting me discover his secret fetish with tattoos and then Mrs. Hudson hugging me.
I endured it, of course. In the end it didn't that long to explain that I really couldn't be dead, because they would notice, and surely my brother wouldn't visit my corpse.
Well – maybe he would. Mycroft is not well know for his intelligence, after all.
Mrs. Hudson seemed to be much too happy upon seeing me, because she shouldn't be, right? No one should be happy upon seeing me. Sans Lestrade, when he is facing difficult – for him – murder. What if they decided they missed me when I was gone? That was intolerable! What if next time I visit some crime scene Anderson or Donovan smiles at me?
I halt in the middle of the stairs and consider the possibility. It's almost null, of course, but so was John not punching me the first opportunity he gets. And he hasn't done that, yet.
I shake my head to stop thinking about things this creepy and climb the stairs.
John is in the kitchen, humming some song, that is not classical and neither musical, while pouring three cups of tea. Three? Was I supposed to invite Mrs. Hudson over? No, no, John would have told me, he knows I don't do etiquette. So if he doesn't intend of drinking two cups of tea, he had to invite someone.
Lestrade? I don't think John would do that, he knows we would just fight again.
Donovan? Anderson? Somehow I doubt that.
"Mycroft." John utters when he moves past me with two of the cups in his hands.
"What?" I can't help asking, because I still hope I heard wrong. I turn around to see him in the living room, setting those cups onto the table. One in front of John's chair and the second one in front of the sofa. Well, we will see how will my dearest brother manage to get his seat, when I lay down onto the couch.
I smirk and take the last cup – obviously intended for me – and walk to the room. But all my plans are ruined, because that devilish little blogger can read me. Or it would seem that way.
John is sitting on the sofa, leaving his chair free. John is giving up his chair to Mycroft? I can't have that! No one but John is allowed to sit in the chair. Or maybe me, but that's not the point.
The evil doctor finally looks up at me and smirks – smirks. Because he knows. Knows that Mycroft will get his chair in the end, and he doesn't even have to say a word.
I will not give up my chair to my brother. Not even if it costs me my live. I sulk to my place and slump down.
I sip my tea pointedly, when I notice John let his and Mycroft's cup untouched. How polite. The worst is, Mycroft will notice. Maybe not appreciate, per se, but notice all the same.
I notice facts. Mycfort manipulates facts. And I don't want him to manipulate my facts or John's facts, but he will.
And obviously, John notices people and somehow always manages to manipulate them. It's endearing, really. But annoying.
I frown at the blogger, who is watching me – which is good – with a smug expression on his face – which is worse.
Oh – and here the rhinoceros comes! And can hear his inelegant stomping already. Yes, such a good idea to find a flat with stairs. I would have thought that was enough to stop my brother from coming, but he is obviously more dense than I thought.
Review if you liked it ;) I would honestly appreciate a comment, because this style is new to me (I am used to writing stories that are mostly about dialogues, so..)
Smile, me.