TITLE: Wednesday
CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Four/Not Okay
RATING: T (language, content)
A/N: THANK YOU ALL so very much for your amazing and kind reviews! I was blown away! Don't worry - I wasn't near the roofs of any tall buildings when it happened. Too soon? Too unbelievably lame? This is why I don't write comedy...
You asked for it! Here it is! A peak into John's nightmares. His nightmares span a few chapters. Sherlock's POV took only one chapter during the dreams, so the timing may seem off. But it's dreams, time passes different in them. This is turning into so much more than the little oneshot I had originally planned! Hope I don't disappoint!
Please read and review, many thanks.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
Chapter Four: Not Okay
John Watson watched the scene in front of him play out, resigned to his fate. He was going to die. They all were.
And that was okay.
If riding the world of James Moriarty also meant depriving the world of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, then so be it. Two lives in exchange for the countless that the consulting criminal would have a hand in. John had been a soldier. He knew the true meaning of sacrifice. He had time and again thrown himself into the line of fire for comrades and friends. He had even done so for Sherlock. Not once had it been a difficult decision for him to make. And this time was no different.
And as Sherlock pulled the trigger, John let his eyelids fall peacefully closed.
He was ready this time.
But John didn't die.
The doctor had had enough Semtex strapped to his body that the whole building should have been reduced to crumbling stone and ash. The blast would have been quick, and given his proximity to the device, his death should have been quick.
But there he was, lying on his back, shivers and stabs of agony attacking every fiber of his very being.
"Sherlock!"
He had meant to shout for his friend, but wasn't quite sure if anything intelligible actually came out of his mouth.
Behind his eyelids, sparks and colors were erupting, dancing amidst the darkness. Beyond that blackness, there were sounds. Noises.
Chaos.
Bullets and bombs and strangled shouts.
The snipers. Had the snipers somehow survived? Were they firing on them?
No. Not the right sounds for snipers. John recognized these shots - but it couldn't be.
His head was spinning. No - pounding. No - both.
He tried desperately to gain his bearings without opening his eyes and unleashing the havoc that would certainly do his brain.
Sherlock oftentimes tried to impose his methods of observation and deduction on his flatmate. Maybe it was time John finally started applying them.
Scent. Strongest sense.
He sniffed, expecting to be assaulted with the overpowering stench of chlorine and charred flesh against his nostrils.
Only the latter burned through his nose. Suffocating.
Familiar.
He didn't need to rely on any further Sherlockian methods.
He knew this smell. Knew these sounds. He knew this place.
No. Not here.
He couldn't be here.
His eyes snapped open and he swallowed a rush of air. Flames danced dangerously around him. Dust and smoke and bullets poisoned the air. As he expelled the breath he had taken, with it tumbled out broken and cracked coughs. The dirt and smoke burned his throat and eyes and nose and something else too. Flesh. Right. Not his though. He had nearly burnt his hand on in chemistry class when a bully decided he would try and be funny. He knew what burning felt like. He wasn't on fire. But there was pain. Oh, yes, there it was.
John glanced down his flattened body and his still staggering gaze slowly began to focus on a blur of green. No, not a blur. An object. A vehicle. A vehicle that just so happened to be pinning his leg to the earth.
Fantastic.
He blinked blearily and tried to glance around at his swirling surroundings. Hauntingly familiar faces flashed by him as they ducked for cover and fired back at their attackers.
Attackers. Insurgents. Bombs. IED.
He remembered this. Deja vu maybe. But wasn't he at the pool? No, the pool never happened. Or didn't happen yet. There was somebody else that had been there at the pool that wasn't a pool. Someone important. Someone -
A cry in a foreign yet all too familiar language sharpened his senses and brought John back to the - present? Someone had slipped through their scattered ranks and was charging straight toward him, weapon aiming for the downed soldier's head. He was granted time to thank. All he could do was act. It was pure instinct. His hand reached for his gun and without hesitating plugged a bullet into the stranger's stomach and skull.
As the insurgent crumbled forward, his falling body revealed behind it one of John's friends, fighting for his life.
Adam Perkins. 33. Husband. New father. Going home in a month. Brilliant card player. John's friend.
John's friend who was promptly being overpowered by a man twice his size.
Somehow Perkins had lost his weapon. John didn't time to question how. He lifted his arm once more and squeezed.
But not before Perkins' assailant did the same.
Two shots rang out.
With the second, the stranger tumbled. But with the first, so did Perkins.
"No!"
None of his own even turned at the shots or scream. His comrades were far too busy trying to save their own skin. They were severely outnumbered and bullets were coming down on them like rain. He doubted his friends had even noticed his or Perkins' predicament. He wasn't about the shout for help. Captain John Watson didn't ask for help. He also knew that distracting his fellow men now could mean certain death for them. They needed to focus. And so did he.
Adam was a few meters out of reach, lying on his back and gasping. His whole body was arching and convulsing and screaming against the bullet that was now lodged in his chest.
If John could just reach him. He could save him. He had to save him.
Continually glancing around him to check for any potential immediate threats, John sucked in a breath, squared his shoulders, and started to push. His arms shook under the weight of the jeep and he used to free leg for leverage. Grunting and groaning, John gradually lifted the vehicle enough to be able to writhe and slide his way to freedom.
Somewhere in his mind he registered that his leg was crying out, but he swiftly ignored his own pain and half sprinting, half crawled, to Perkins' side.
"Perkins! Hey, can you hear me? Look at me. Look. Come on. No, don't. Keep your eyes open, Perkins. Listen to me! Look right at me, alright? Good. Good."
John was no longer caring for his own safety. Every ounce of focus he had was being poured into saving his friend.
"John," the man's usual bass tones were closer to tenor and thick with unshed tears. "John, tell Lisa -"
"Stop," John shook his head, "don't. I'm not gonna tell her anything because you're going home in a month and can tell her yourself. In fact, I think they'll send you home early now that you've been shot. Hope this wasn't some damn scheme to see your daughter sooner."
John smiled when he was able to pull a laugh off the man's lips.
That laugh was to be the last thing ever on the dying man's lips as John watched the exact moment his friend's heart stopped. His eyes, which had previously been wandering toward the sky, were no longer look at anything. They were no longer Adam Perkins' eyes. They were no longer anything.
John couldn't let Adam Perkins lie there like that in the middle of Afghanistan, a bullet in his chest, and not staring into the sky with not eyes. With the precision of a man who had done so far too many times in his life, the army doctor slid the soldier's lids closed.
He didn't hear the insurgent behind him.
Not until the shot was fired.
And just like that fire and pain and white warmth were burning inside his shoulder. Through-and-through. Several centimeters above the heart. Lucky. Missed the collarbone. Ball-and-socket joint still in tact. Good. Definite nerve damage. Most likely cause of death. Blood loss.
The thoughts hardly had time to process though as John whirled around and fired at his attacker.
Another gut, instinctual reaction.
And then the scream.
Because, no, it wasn't like the movies. Yes, it did hurt so much more worse than he could have possibly ever imagined.
He had seen so many bullet wounds in his career he couldn't count them all if he tried. And yet none of them prepared him for this.
John tried to stand and saw nothing but stars for a solid six seconds. When the constellations cleared, John found himself somehow now facing the opposite direction, and face down in the dirt.
He looked up just in time to see another one of his comrades fall, a bullet breaking through the man's skull.
John took out his comrade's killer with almost a sense of satisfaction.
John Watson watched the scene in front of him play out, ready to fight this fate. He was going to die. They all were.
And that was not okay.