Oh my god, I am so, so sorry I let you wait this long. I thought I already posted this chapter. Well, the positive side of that is that chapter 10 will be soon online. Thanks for the waiting guys, and again: my sincere apologies for misunderstanding.

Also, I am surprised I you guys are still reading this story. I just updated all chapters with the help from my awesome beta 'jack63kids'and I literary slapped myself for using dumb mistakes such as 'putted'. Oh my god, that really was horrible.

From now on, that won't happen again because Jack would read and improve the story first, and after that I'll post the chapter.

Enjoy!


One day after the conversation:

John was pushed out of the car, just after the black silk around his eyes was unfolded.

"Have fun," he heard someone say and the person laughed.

He heard something thrown towards him. It seemed heavy. John's eyes needed to adjust for a couple of minutes since he hadn't had the possibility of seeing through his eyes for an hour. He heard a car driving off.

When he could finally see, the doctor saw that the thrown object was actually a First Aid-kit. He felt a hand on his arm dragging him to his right, where trees and bushes were the only cover.

"Come on, we need to get out of here!" The man who said this seemed very young. Twenty, if his age wasn't even lower.

John grabbed the kit. If he was going to do this, he would do it right. He would save the men and women, even if they were Moriarty's minions. We ran towards the vegetation and ducked when we reached them.

"It should start pretty soon," the young man said.

He wanted to ask "It?", but he couldn't because at that exact moment we heard gunfire. Very loud gunfire. The sound was only a couple of hundred meters away, John thought as he used his previous experience. Although, John thought that you didn't have to have experienced war to decide that.

As the two men heard it, John jumped to the ground immediately, grabbing the upper arm of the man in process. Even if it is a couple of hundred meters away, it doesn't mean you are safe.

"And what's your name?" John asked. If he was to be working with this man, he should at least know his name.

"Hugh," the man said, while he tried to observe John, "yours?"

"John," he answered as he did the same, he could see him properly now. Hugh had black hair with dark brown eyes and skin that was tanned. "You're a doctor too?"

"Yes, how did you know that?"

"Well, we were in the same car. If you were a soldier, you would've come most likely come with the others." John wondered if Sherlock would be proud of him because of that deduction.

Hugh laughed, but you couldn't hear his voice because there was a grenade dropped close by. After they recovered from the noise, the two doctors ran towards the location of the explosion. John found it was way too quiet – the gunfire had stopped – but then he remembered it was always like this after a grenade.

Hugh ran towards their left, John saw a couple of seconds later why. There were a some bodies lying on the ground. John followed him.

The bodies turned out to be men. Three men, to be exact. One was already dead – fatal blow to the head, John immediately saw – the next had a tree branch through his leg and the last was leaning on a tree near them, with a copious amount of blood dripping out of his chest. His shirt was so red, John couldn't determine where it was coming from.

Hugh took the screaming man with the tree branch through his calf, since he was the closest. The blonde doctor picked the other one that was alive, of course. The doctor took off the man's shirt, using it to wipe off the blood. When he saw the origin was from the upper left area, he had little hope. John put pressure on the wound.

"Really? One kit? That is ludicrous!" John heard Hugh yelling angrily. The blonde had to agree with Hugh. But even if they had two First Aid-kits, they still didn't know where they should treat the injured men. It wasn't like they had a base or somewhere to treat them. At least, not that John had been informed of.

Then, he heard multiple gunshots behind him. Naturally, John took cover behind the tree his patient was leaning on. He didn't look around until he felt safe, which was ridiculous of course: why would you ever feel safe when you're in a country like this? He looked behind the tree and found that Hugh had a gunshot wound through his skull. John was relieved the black-haired man hadn't felt any pain: he didn't even have the time to scream. He checked the other two – two minutes ago still alive – men. But no, they were gone, too.

John sighed. Even though Mycroft said that John missed the war – at that time it was had been true. But now, he absolutely didn't miss it, not since he had Sherlock in his life.


One week after the conversation:

He had had a week in at war, but also a week of not speaking to Moriarty. John didn't know if he should be happy or concerned about that.

John had to work in the clinic today that day. He was sure he was in Afghanistan now, because he had seen it everywhere: on the blankets, on the beds itself, on the walls and even on the dark-green scrubs you had to wear as a doctor or a nurse.

John had a few interesting patients the day he worked here there. It was not nice of course, but the patients were something he kept busy but treating patients gave him something to keep him busy. The patients all had some debts – didn't have to be financial ones – and that Moriarty could fix for them. They weren't told what they would be doing: only that they would be out of the country for six months and that they must follow all commands. They all had regretted the choice afterwards.

Some of those weren't even capable of fighting in the war: some had limps or some simply couldn't handle the stress and discipline. Those people had to do most of the bombing: it didn't matter if they must had to throw the grenades or just do suicide attacks.

One woman – her name was Dianne – had touched John very deeply. She said she was doing this for her son, because he had a kid. He had debts, not financial but he had owed Moriarty in some way. He was just married and his wife was pregnant when Moriarty decided to contact him. Dianne wouldn't let her son go away, so instead she went. He admired her for her strength and power.

Moriarty always seemed to find the worst possible times to ruin people's life. That was typical, he thought. Not surprising at all.

Then there was Christopher. He was a young bloke: twenty-five years old. His eyes were green and his hair golden brown. He had a limp – just like John used to have – but even people with emotional or physical traumas/problems had to fight. Even if they were shot: it didn't matter. If they were capable of walking, they were forced to fight.

Christopher had suffered all his life with bad luck. He said his parents were murdered, they had debts, and he had to pay. But, two years ago he had lost all his money because some con-artist stole everything he had. So, this was the only way to do it he could survive financially. Now he got shot in the upper shoulder, not very concerning, but he still needed care.

He liked Chris: he was nice and funny. Don't misunderstand John's intentions: Christopher was handsome and nice, but John wouldn't fall in love for with anyone else since he had met Sherlock. Sherlock was his life now, only he didn't see him all the time like he used to. Anyway, Christopher distracted John from his dark thoughts. He made him feel like he wasn't the only one that who was miserable and depressed. Of course not, John thought to himself. Look around, you're absolutely not the worse one of all. Actually, John seemed one of the most fortunate ones.


One month after the conversation:

"GET DOWN!" Christopher commanded John.

John lied immediately down, lay down immediately on the ground. As Chris noticed John was making movements towards the ground out of the line of fire, he began shooting.

Chris and John were standing in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by at least twenty soldiers that belonged to their side. They were in an attack of the U.S. military: John noticed the American flag on their uniform.

There were at least twenty of their men dead: they were beginning to be the minority of the attackers. As John realized that, he decided he would choose the perfect opportunity to retreat further through the vegetation with Christopher. John wasn't a man who would easily give up on a fight, but he knew deep down they'd both get killed if they continued.

John wanted to go to the other side of the road, where his patients were, but he couldn't because he would get most likely get shot, if not killed. Christopher was on this side, too.

During the last three weeks, they had been on all their missions together. John realized they were becoming good friends, if they weren't already. John had told Chris about why he was here there, and Chris completely understood. He tried to cheer the blonde up most of the time, when they weren't being attacked.

Chris recovered quickly from his shoulder injury and had to work in the field again, without physiotherapy. John had thought that Chris wouldn't shoot half as well as he did before – Christopher told him about his magnificent skills – but he proved him wrong. Now, he had hit most of the U.S. military in this attack. Until he got shot. The groin, this time.

"CHRIS!" The doctor shouted his name, quickly taking his arm and pulling him to the ground, into the cover of the bush he was sitting behind. The blonde saw blood almost spraying out of his body, knowing an artery was hit. That was not good, John decided, not good at all. The doctor applied pressure to the wound immediately.

"Chris, if we want us both alive to live, we have to get out of this, now," John whispered, "I know you are in a lot of pain, but you have to work with me."

He simply nodded. John took that as a sign that he could go, but he tried to be as careful as possible. Walking and applying pressure at the same time is a lot harder than you would think, John thought. He walked with John, limping with both legs – one with the actual limp and the other with a bullet wound – and bent down his back so he stayed low. John put his arm around him so he could lean on him and couched down in the same way he did.

They walked for about five minutes – it seemed like five hours for them – when they spotted an open space between the vegetation. It wasn't very big, at least 3 by 2 meters, so John was sure he could take a proper look at Christopher without being disturbed or injured. There were a lot of these gaps in vegetation, actually, now that John saw more of them. John didn't think much of it the cover they offered and continued walking.

John wanted to glance at Chris, but the older man's eyes seemed broken when he saw Chris' face: he couldn't get his eyes of it. The young man's face was pale, he had trouble breathing and he had a weak pulse when the doctor checked. They were only a couple of steps away from the empty space.

"It's not good, is it?" Chris mumbled.

John swallowed: he knew he had to tell the truth.

"No, I'm sorry, Chris," John said, steadier than he'd expected, "we're almost at an open spot: I prefer to take a good look at you there."

John took two more steps as he lay Christopher down, still with his hand on the wound. Then, both their hearts and breathing seemed to stop as they heard a sound.

It wasn't just branches breaking, or an explosion somewhere. No, it was more ominous than that. The sound seemed enough to stop your heart: it was a 'click'.

"Oh shit," John cursed, not as steady as he had been minutes before, "Minefield."