Author's Note: Kinda short. I thought it was long when I was typing it up on my phone, but it wasn't, oh well. Hope you like it, though! Tell where I can improve, what you think, etc. I own nothing.
Going back to Afghanistan after his Christmas leave was very difficult. John had to readjust to life in a war zone again when, just a week ago, he had been relaxing in the Baker street flat sipping tea. For the next six months, John worked almost mechanically. Bandaging wounds, prescribing medications, writing and receiving letters from back home. He discovered that a person can get used to anything. Even death and destruction occurring around you all day. This is what John had gotten used to, but that didn't mean it was easy.
John had become quite proficient with a gun after training with the snipers in his outfit for a couple months. He figured, even though he was a doctor, it wouldn't hurt to know how to defend himself without magic.
Bill was of the same opinion, and he joined John at these informal training sessions. In war-torn Afghanistan, any combat training can make a difference.
The days all ran together. Most of the time John didn't know what day of the week it was. But, he would always remember the day when he experienced the worst pain of his life.
That day started normally enough.
"Jesus, it's even hot in here." Bill Murray said, plopping down next to John on his cot. "Who're you writing to? Your girlfriend?" Bill asked, pointing to the letter John was writing.
"Just Sherlock." John responded, folding up the half-finished letter.
"Ah, your boyfriend." Bill said, grinning.
"Ha ha." John laughed sarcastically.
"Just taking the piss." Bill said. "I know Sherlock's not your type."
"Yes, he's male." John said, standing up and grabbing his boots; he had to check on some recovering soldiers in the medical tent.
That afternoon, John and his outfit ventured into the hot desert to scout out an area. When the shooting started, it came with no warning. Gunshots rang out loud and clear and two men in the outfit dropped like stones.
"Get down!" Bill shouted, pulling out his gun and scanning the area for the hidden shooters.
John ran over to the wounded—wounded until officially declared dead—soldiers, opening his field medical bag as he did.
The first soldier John came to had been shot in the leg. He was grimacing in pain, sweat running down his face.
"How bad is it, Watson?" The soldier panted.
"It didn't hit the femoral artery." John said, examining the wound, "I need to make a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding, but you're going to be alright."
John worked fast, moving from one soldier to the next, doing his best to ignore the gunfire surrounding him and focus on the wounded.
As he bandaged a superficial head wound, John saw Bill surreptitiously pull out his wand and Stun the snipers that he could see. The enemy snipers flew backwards when the jet of red light from Bill's wand hit them. John shook his head, exasperated. Bill was a Statute of Secrecy violation waiting to happen. At least he was smart enough to perform the spells nonverbally. When Bill noticed John's eyes on him, Bill winked.
When gunfire rains down on you, time simultaneously speeds up and slows down. It is an experience like no other. John felt the bullet hit him in slow motion. It was like he could sense it coming but was powerless to stop it. The bullet found its target, and all thought was erased from John's head. John gasped in pain and stars filled his vision. His shoulder was on fire; a ripping, stabbing sensation coursed through his upper body.
John blinked and found that he was laying on his back on the hot desert sand. His breathing was rapid and he could feel his heart pounding out of his chest, working hard to replace the blood that he was losing. The gunfire seemed to be dying down, but the fading sound could also be due to the fact that John's senses seemed to be malfunctioning.
The sky was a brilliant blue. The same color as the walls in John's childhood bedroom when the sun hit them just right. A lighter shade than the blue of the bruises his father caused. Gonna beat you black and blue, his father would say drunkenly, already raising a fist to strike his son. Better him than mom, John used to think, as the blows came.
That was before his father went to jail. Before Hogwarts. Before Sherlock.
But, of course, Sherlock knew about his abusive father. He knew the first minute he laid eyes on John because of his stupidly amazing powers of observation. Sherlock...
The thought of his friend helped John find his way out of the delirious haze he had slipped into, and he summoned enough logical thought to lament the fact that he didn't have his wand. The weapon he'd had since he was eleven years old was back in his tent, of no help to anyone.
Suddenly Bill was above him. Bill's hands cupped John's face, his mouth forming words that John couldn't understand.
John felt his remaining strength leaving him. He was so tired.
"Tell Sh'lock I'm sorry." John croaked out. "He'll b-be furious..." He would be. Sherlock had been having the Sherlockian equivalent of a panic attack since John told him he was going to enlist in the army. If John died today all Sherlock's worries would be proven valid.
Bill spoke again and John could hear his voice loud and clear. "No way. You're not going to die, John. Not here. Not now." Bill pressed down hard on John's wound.
John screamed, fatigue leaving him immediately.
"That's right, John. Keep fighting."
John's eyes were watering with pain and stress, but he didn't spend seven years learning to be a Healer to forget what he learned when he really needed it. With the arm that was not bloody and broken, John gestured to Bill's pocket.
"Your wand." John said, throat aching. "Vulnera Sanantur. Sh-should stop the bleeding. I-it won't remove the bullet though."
Bill nodded, pulling out his wand. "Okay. Okay. I was always shit at Healing spells back at Hogwarts. Stay with me, John..."
But John was losing the fight with the darkness clouding his vision.
I'm sorry, Sherlock, John thought as he lost consciousness.