"Is everybody alright?" John asked as the smoke cleared, his heart in his throat, a burning sensation coursing over his left shoulder.
Those in the back of the Humvee; Fuller, Spider and Gardner were uninjured, and their calls rung out from the heady smoke that was beginning to pump furiously into the broken body of the Humvee.
Richardson's groan was less convincing; his leg had become trapped under the Jamaican's seat, where it had broken and fractured, wedging itself at an impossible angle. He cries out hollowly, tears stinging his eyes.
On instinct, John turned to feel for Bill's pulse, but was halted by sudden blinding agony. Looking down with weary eyes, he caught sight of the damage. He had had the impression he had remained unscathed; the angle of the fall meaning Bill had cushioned most of his impact, but the sudden numbness in his left arm signalled otherwise. The bullet which had driven straight through their driver's neck had followed through and buried its self deep in John's shoulder.
There was no way Richardson or he were going to survive this without surgery… and they were in the middle of the desert.
"I want everybody out of the Humvee, now!" Spider yells savagely, and practically pushed Fuller and Gardner out of the doors, tearing his gun from over his shoulder with wicked smoothness.
John, whom sat between Bill and Richardson, was trapped. He leaned to one side to check Bill's pulse with his good arm, practically whining with relief when a soft, repetitive thrum jolted his fingers.
The sound of a whistle, and then a solid, sickening thud sounded from outside the Humvee.
"Sniper!" Fuller screeched; "Sniper at 11o'clock! Fall back!"
John froze, hands lingering on Bill's neck, feeling the heavy burning of his shoulder slowly hint upon agony. His vision zoomed in on the tiny splintered hole in the windshield, and the blood coursing from the unnamed, and now deceased, Jamaican's neck. Sniper.
We're fucked.
"Archangel, this is Uniform-10," Spider hissed into his radio to the chopper that was supposed to have kept them safe; barely audible to John inside the Humvee. "We are under attack from an unknown assailant; I repeat: we are under attack. We have three men down and two causalities; request backup. We need backup-" A whistle of air as a second bullet glanced the Humvee. "Is anyone there? Hello? Archangel, this is Uniform-10-"
John's steady hands ripped at his belt, unbuckling it and throwing it around Richardson's thigh. With it in place, he tightened it, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Richardson cried out in pain, breathing noisily through his gritted teeth. John made no obvious show of his own pain, simply biting into his lip, creating white, tortured indentations.
"Hold on, mate; we'll get you out of here." John panted, getting onto his knees to check how far Richardson's leg ran under the seat.
The door on Richardson's side is torn open to reveal Fuller, red faced, SA80 in hand. From the other side of the Humvee, there is the sound of bullets ripping through the air, each a painful thud to the heart. It was Spider providing cover, prone by the bonnet of the Humvee for protection.
"We've got to run," Fuller choked, bending to view Richardson's leg just as John was. "The chopper was compromised way back by RPG; it's heading for the secondary LZ two miles north. We've got enemy convoy on two sides and a sniper over our heads." He scoffed, shaking his head in despair, before pulling his startled emotions together and returning his attention to the mangled twist of Richardson's leg. "D'you think you can get him out?"
John shuddered a breath and ran a hand over his face, adrenaline like fire burning through his veins, hearing Richardson whine pitifully beside him. His wise eyes roamed the injury.
"It won't be easy," He settled with, then turned to Richardson; "It'll hurt like nothing you've ever experienced."
Richardson, who is already sweating and writhing in agony, twisted pathetically in the chairs grip. "Get Murray to safety first…I can always draw fire."
John and Fuller shared a look over Richardson's lap; hard, military eyes assessing the danger.
"Watson," Fuller ordered, "I'll cover you; take Murray over the ridge, then together we'll take Richardson here, got that?"
"But," John countered, his bullet wound protesting at the mere thought, "I'm a better shot than you; you should take-"
"You've got more medical knowledge, with Murray down you'll need to tend to him," Fuller explains; "I'll be no use to him when he wakes if you get shot down. You take priority. Now go!"
Whirling away from the door, Fuller set up position next to Spider, both of them sending round after round over the dune the sniper was supposedly laying. John had no choice but to take Bill. Somehow.
Reaching over Bill's lax body, he threw the door open and climbed out, head down, helmet firmly strapped on, and pulled Bill into his arms. The pain hit blinding point, and he hissed, a sob breaking from his lips. He could do this. He could do this. He heaved Bill's body over his good shoulder in a fireman's lift and almost blacked out in pain. God, Bill was heavy. Using all his strength he walked furiously around the Humvee, chest tightening at the sudden sight of Gardner's fallen body, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. That must've been the thud from before.
A silent prayer falling from his lips, John powered on, back burning, and body hot despite the cold of the night. Cold sweat ran in rivulets between his shoulder blades. The sand simply made matters worse, with their combined bodyweight; John sank and slid, teetering dangerously. In the light of the stars, he reached the ridge and laid Bill down, where the man stuttered into consciousness as he hit the hard, sandy ground. John sighed, practically sobbing in relief and sucked in a ragged breath.
"Hey, there." John murmured over Bill's groan. The injured man raised a hand to his head, and grimaced as he comes into contact with the wet slide of his own blood.
"Thh- fuck?" Bill coughed, hacking, and tried to sit up; only to be pushed back down by John's strong hands.
"Stay here." He commanded, "I'm going back for Richardson. Keep your head down, mate."
And with that, John turned and leaves, stumbling down the steep slant of the dune before Bill even had a chance to thank him.
Skidding violently as he reached the bottom of the bank, John threw himself forward to gain cover using the side and slid up to Fuller, back flat against the Humvee.
"He's safe." He breathed, drinking in a lungful of air through his teeth.
"Fucking fantastic." Fuller retorted under his breath, firing vehemently over the bonnet. Something catches his eye and his thick eyebrows draw together. "Bloody hell, Watson, you're hit."
John followed Fuller's line of sight, and tucked his chin in to see the stain of flowing blood over his left shoulder, easily visible against the tan-colour of his uniform.
"Yeah, I know." He said, "Murray's awake, he'll have visual from the ridge." John was intent on changing the conversation, but Fuller ripped at his pack to find a wad of material to press to John's shoulder, both of them distantly aware of Spider's repeated firing. "Carrying Richardson is beyond me," John continued, "I'll have to hang back and cover you and Spider."
Spider paused and dragged his SA80 down from the bonnet, hugging it to his chest. "What about his leg? We ripping it out or what?"
"Near enough." John admitted, "If we can manoeuvre the seat forward it might make it easier."
"I can hear you, you know!" Richardson called from inside, "Cut it off if you fucking have to, just leave me my balls."
"You heard the man," Spider said as another whistle of the sniper's bullets hisses above their heads, "Drag him out, then Watson can take position. Step to it, ladies."
With that he tugged a grenade from his belt and sent it hurling over the dune; an onslaught of ammunition forcing him back down below the bonnet.
Ripping the front door of the Humvee open, Fuller hauled the Jamaican driver from his seat, drawing him out and laying him on the sand. John, meanwhile, forced Richardson's door open and crawled over him, before getting a grip on the offending leg, bracing it still. With a grunt, Fuller pulled the bar under the front seat and slowly yanked it forward.
Richardson shrieked in pain.
Inch by inch the chair slid forward, Richardson's cries filling the air like a heavy soup as the metal of the seat scrapes morbidly along the already ragged flesh of Richardson's leg. There is a clunk as the seat is fully extended.
"It's alright, mate. That's the worst of it over." John reassured him, checking the tightness of the tourniquet quickly before Richardson joined them, standing outside the Humvee.
"Right," John said, taking control. He eyed Fuller, "Take hold of his arms and drag him out, I'll twist his leg."
Ignoring Richardson's look of sheer horror, Fuller acquiesced, folding his arms around Richardson's. "Ready?" He asks.
"Ready," John echoed, and watched as Fuller begins to pull. Hands shooting out he manoeuvres the twisted leg, wincing in sympathy as it caught fractionally before freeing itself. Blood smoothed the passage, slicking Richardson's leg free. As Fuller stepped back and Richardson was free of the Humvee, John held his leg high for Spider to take hold of. The manoeuvre successfully carried out, John launched forward, chest heaving, and fumbled his gun upwards.
"See you on the other side, Watson," Fuller called, arrogantly thrusting his chin up. John mimicked him in reply, and trained his attentions back on the direction of the enemy fire. Everything fell into place.
Movement.
As the harsh sounds of boots on sand faded into silence, there came the most almost unrecognisable flicker of movement below the cliff not far from where John crouched; black lines stark against the beige-brown of the Afghanistan ground.
Noise.
Chatter, like dubious birds rises from behind a ridge in the distance, indeterminable word with an unrecognisable rhythm of speaking.
Danger.
The sight of approaching soldiers.
John tilted his gun minutely to aim, eyes shooting from man to man. They both wore suits; black and white, clean – expressions blank and unreadable. They also carried no weapons, and had no armour to protect them. Against his own will, John lowered his SA80. There was no way he would fire at unarmed men. He just couldn't. Despite the danger, morals were ringing through distantly in his mind. What sort of a man would shoot down someone who couldn't even fight back?
"Stop where you are!" John bellowed, head down.
The two men stuttered to a stop. It was clearer now they were closer that one was taller than the other; the first a lithe, towering blonde – the second a shorter, smaller-built brunette.
"We just want to taaalk, Johnny boy!" A lyrical irish voice rose from the shorter man, "We don't bite. Well I know I do, if you're into that kind of thing."
John froze, eyes flying wide. Oh no.
"- Can't say the same for my man here, but then again; when can you?" The Irishman shrugged, an eerily jovial smile gracing his face. "He's a darling really." A pause. "Is that a British Army L8A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"
"Why are you here?" John barely had to raise his voice for the pair to hear him; their closeness raising every hair along his arms. "How do you know my name?
"Oh, I know a lot of things…" He huffed a giggle, brown eyes roaming the sky. "John Watson. I'd recognise your dumb little blonde face a mile off. It's so adorable. Really. But then, I always have had a thing for blonds."
"You didn't answer my first question." John seethed, heart in his throat. Suddenly, his trigger finger was aching to move. "Why are you here? What do you want?"
"Oh, Johnny, isn't it obvious?" The Irishman tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and looked up through his eyelashes, a dangerous smile flitting over his mouth. "I want you."
A/N: Here's the drill. I have about 40 different endings for this; so what do you guys want? Angst? Romance? Happy ending? Sad ending? Moran spontaneously ripping off his top to reveal his several thousand abs? Review and send love, my beauts.