John lay, stunned and bleeding in the sand, his head spinning. Shot… he'd been shot. He raised a shaking hand to touch the spot and recoiled from the sudden increase in the pain. His hand was slathered in blood.
The soldier he'd been trying to reach was dead, he realized. The same sniper who'd hit him had finished the unfortunate corporal off too. His head fell back and he struggled to stop his vision from spinning. Nobody had ever sufficiently explained to him how much bullet wounds HURT. He struggled to sit up, but found he couldn't do it. Someone grabbed him under the arms, dragging him backwards toward cover. He blacked out.
John came to in a cot towards the back of the surgery. His entire left side ached and his arm was tightly wrapped in bandages. A knot of pure agony erupted in his shoulder when he turned his head to look around. Right. Don't move. Got it.
A nurse, one he'd worked with before, jogged over. She talked to him briefly then dosed him with a strong pain-killer. The world swirled out of focus again, and he slept.
"Doctor Watson?"
John's arm was still firmly bound to his chest, but he'd been recovering well. He'd spent nearly 6 weeks in an army hospital in Turkey, undergoing a few minor surgeries to remove bullet and bone fragments from where the shot had grazed his collarbone. Fortunately, nothing irreparable. They estimated he'd regain full, comfortable movement in the arm as soon as the tissue healed.
"Yes. Here." He reached out and took the phone that the young doctor held out to him, giving them a brief smile in thanks. "Hello?"
"Johnny! HI! How aaaaaaaaaare you?." Harry. God was she drinking again?
"Harry, what's going on. Are you drunk?"
"Naaaaaah…. Not drunk. Just a little pissed, that's all!" She'd laughed as if this were hilarious. John felt his left hand begin to twitch and tremor. He ignored it as best he could, though it made his shoulder injury ache.
"Harry, what's going on? I mean it, why are you doing this? You were doing really well-"
"Clara…. Clara's a bitch." Oh god. Here they went again.
"Harry, she's your wife. Don't talk about her like that." A headache was starting to form behind his eyes.
"She is NOT." Harry slurred angrily. "She poured out my scotch. ALL OF IT JOHN!"
"Harry-"
"It's over. Stupid cu-"
"HARRY."
"Well she is! It's over Johnny. OVER. I left her this mornin'."
"You… you left Clara because she tried to stop you drinking…? Harry, oh my god, are you serious? Don't do this to yourself."
"I'll DO WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT! AT LEAST I'M HONEST ABOUT WHO" She paused as if she'd lost her balance from shouting "WHO THE HELL I AM!"
"Harry, please-"
"At least I told Dad."
"… what?"
"At least I told him. You're a poof, but you don't tell anybody!"
"Harry, what are you-"
"YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW?!"
John hung up. He wasn't sure what Harry did or didn't know, but he couldn't deal with her. Not right now. His side ached and the now persistent shaking in his hand only made it worse. He buzzed for a nurse. He was going to need something stronger than aspirin for this…