A/N

So, I've never actually found anything regarding how John was actually injured in the war. They don't discuss it much in the show that I remember, and I've looked through the books and not had much luck there, either. So no, the scene is not accurate. And I kind've majorly suck at writing war scenes.. But here's my take on what happened to him during that time and just bear with me through it.

Any ideas thoughts or criticism is welcome and appreciated, sorry this chapter took so long guys. Hope you enjoy!

All he remembers is shooting pain, and the echoes of that Winchester's voice. One moment he had been standing with his back pressed against Sherlock's and the next he was falling. He hadn't dropped far, but he'd felt his skin tearing, and the warmth of blood soaking his sleeve, and as his eyes closed his mind was nothing but memories of the war.

He'd known from the beginning he was more than just the medic. In war, you couldn't stick to just one position. If it was you, and the guy you were with, and that guy was down? You took over. It was just the way things worked.

Unfortunately for John, he'd found that he was skilled in both fields, with being both medic, and soldier.

He'd killed people. Pulled the trigger of a gun and watched as he took someone's life rather than saving one.

It was surreal in a way he couldn't quite explain. And every time he would tell himself it was his last one. He was a doctor; he wasn't going to kill anyone anymore. And then a cry would sound, and gunfire would destroy any illusion he had of what kind of man he was. And that's where his life had become a revolving door of trying to make up for the lives he stole with the lives he saved. But even he knew that's not the way it worked.

Holding his gun closer to his body, he maneuvered his way through the field while staying low to the ground. A couple of their boys had been shot down a few miles away and they had asked John to accompany the men going out to find them in case they were still alive and in need of immediate medical attention.

Glancing to his left, he watches as one of the soldiers makes a motion, indicating two were going to the right, and he and John were going to the left. Following behind, the medical bag pulled over the man's shoulder beats out the same rhythm the men walk too.

There's an odd tension in the air, making it feel like every breath was drawn with a sense of finality, and John's hand tightens over the gun. Had anyone else felt this dread?

Stepping carefully over a branch, John's eyes flicker to where they're walking, his breathing low and steady despite the panic gripping his chest. He'd learned to remain in control of his nerves in moments such as these, given they weren't the type of situations one could freak out over and still be alive to reassess the next day.

Moving his head up and fixing his eyes ahead, he watches the man in front of him stop, eyes darting back and forth. He can feel the way Mack's nerves tense, winding tighter and tighter while waiting for something, anything, to happen.

There's a breath of ease, as if a monster had suddenly walked past them and graciously allowed them a few minutes more of life, and then all hell breaks loose.

The sudden pop of Mack's gun firing has John raising his own weapon, sinking back behind a tree as Mack follows after him.

"Damned ambush!"

His voice hisses, but there's fear in his eyes. Mack spoke tough, but he was twenty three, and he'd left his girlfriend with the promise of marriage when he came home, and the fear is palpable in his eyes. Bullets lodge themselves into the bark of the trees where the men take shelter, and John lets out a low grumble.

"If those men were alive, they're not anymore."

"We need to go back, that way is obviously cut off."

"But they'll know where we came from; they'll cut us off through there, too."

John counters, his eyes moving back and forth until he motions with his head.

"Back where Cardinal and Jaril went, if they haven't been found then that still poses an escape route."

"And if they have?"

John's expression sobers as he readjusts his gun in his arms.

"Then we're dead."

The boy says nothing, instead nodding his head and waiting for John to lead the way. Making their way carefully back along a trail woefully lacking in cover, John is relieved to hear the occasional gunshot getting further away.

For once, John felt as if someone had answered his prayers. They'd be okay. Those boys he was supposed to save hadn't been so lucky, and he felt guilty over that. But he couldn't deny that little inkling of hope that was budding inside him as he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding the past few minutes.

After surveying the open field that was between them and their freedom, John makes a motion and starts out. They're three fourths of the way out when he hears Mack's panicked cry, and the sound of a bullet flying from its chamber, the sound far closer than they had been before.

"Watson!"

That was his downfall. As the doctor turns to aid his friend, another shot rings out, and his body is falling.

The pain is agonizing, like fire eating away at flesh. Searing torment that inched its way through his entire being, biting at the nerve endings and causing his vision to dip and sway. His heart is pounding loudly, the thrumming in his head matching the weakening beat.

All he can see through the blurred out world is red and black and the gunfire sounds like bombs dropping all around him. Heavy boots stomp towards him, and the army doctor's eyes begin to fall closed while the blurry barrel of a gun moves directly in front of his face.

He prepares himself for the worst, knowing that at least the pain he feels won't last much longer if they plan to kill him. However instead of hearing the shot go off, he hears a strange grinding noise, as if a machine were trying to breathe. As his eyes close completely, there's a low grunt, and someone dropping next to him.

"Dr. Watson?"

A voice urges, a hand on his uninjured arm, trying to shake the man into action.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Dr. Watson!"

John's eyes pull open quickly, wide blue hues staring up into concerned hazel orbs crowded by dark brown hair.

"Dr. Watson, are you alright?"

The American accent is the first thing the medic notices, the second being the trees as he moves his gaze to just behind the man.

He tries to recall what happened, shifting against the tree he leans against as pain radiates through his arm, traveling up his shoulder and down through his fingertips. He can still see that privates blood seeping into the ground, and feel the heated muzzle of the gun aimed only inches from his face while-

"Dr. Watson?"

Flickering back to the present, the man shakes his head slowly and looks down, his left arm wrapped crudely in blood coated flannel.

"What-"

"We were transported by those stone angels. You landed over there, but you were falling and your arm caught the limb of that downed tree."

Leaning his head back, John nods.

"It hit the artery, I remember."

"I did what I could, I got the bleeding to stop, but I'm not a trained professional like you are."

The man shrugs, his eyes glued to the every move the doctor makes. Glancing back down, John reaches up and moves part of the dressing before looking back up at the American in shock.

"Where did you get the thread?"

"Oh, I keep a kit on me at all times. Dean and I both, with what we do it's needed pretty often."

The man says, a small smile rising to his face. He had to be nearing on thirty, but the expression on his face made him look like a kid, excited to finally open their presents on Christmas morning.

"You said your name was Sam, right?"

The hunter nods, running blood stained hands down his dirty jeans.

"What is it that you do again?"

John questions, shifting again as bark dug into his back.

"We're hunters,"

Sam explains, leaning back against a stump and propping his arm up on his knee.

"We hunt anything that goes bump in the night. Poltergeists, wendigos, demons. You name it, we can kill it."

"You're telling me that in this, reality, werewolves and vampires exist?"

"They probably exist in your world too, Dr. Watson. You just have never seen them."

Frowning in thought, John shook his head.

"If they did exist, Sherlock would find some way to logically explain them."

"Maybe. Others have. But once you know about these things, it's hard to overlook them."

"Why do you look so nervous?"

John questions, his brows drawing together as he looked over the man. He'd picked up a few things from his excursions with Sherlock, and while he wasn't nearly as gifted as the detective, John felt he could hold his own.

"What do you mean?"

"You're anxious. You're tapping your fingers, like a nervous tick. I used to see men in the army doing that to control their nerves."

"I think that's really cool, you know? What you and Sherlock do. I'm a huge fan of the two of you. I read all of your books when I was a kid."

"Trying to change the subject as well. You're guilty about something."

John remarks, moving his arm carefully and biting back a pained groan.

"You're pretty banged up, be careful."

Sam urges, half leaning forwards with worry in his eyes. John recognized that look, the way his eyes scanned over his chest and face, making sure no shock had taken effect, that nothing else had occurred during the fall. He had also spotted the gun tucked up under the tree, but still within easy reach if needed.

"Were you in the army?"

John questions, the confusion flickering over the others features enough of an answer.

"No, my father was though."

"Is that who got you started in all this, the hunting?"

Ah. That was the answer he'd been waiting for. Sam's eyes dart away for the briefest of moments before returning to look at John.

"Yeah. When Dean I were little kids, our mother was murdered. Our father went on a rampage after that, trying to find anything and everything connected to what killed her."

He looked even more like a child now, with his head bent and eyes staring at crimson hands.

He and his brother were forced into this lifestyle, they'd never wanted it. What was it he had said? 'But once you know about these things, it's hard to overlook them.'

"You ever think about doing something else?"

A short laugh leaves the man, his head lifting and a smirk dancing across his lips.

"I tried to go to college once. Made it to Stanford. Was going to be a lawyer."

"Didn't pan out?"

"My brother showed up, told me our dad had gone missing while on a hunt. I never went to another class."

It was sad, listening to him talk like that. But there was a sense of loyalty about the Winchester's. A brotherly bond he'd never seen before, certainly not between the Holmes' brothers.

"Why did Sherlock say that stuff earlier, about the blood under your nails?"

The look of guilt has returned, and the silence lingers for so long, John wonders if he'll say anything at all when Sam finally sighs quietly.

"I may have sorta started the apocalypse."

Out of all the possible scenarios that John had imagined, he had never once considered that as an answer that might leave his mouth.

"May have sort of?"

"It's a long, complicated story. But Dean and I, we're getting pressured into making a decision because of what I did, and I don't know how it's going to turn out."

"You worried about making the wrong choice?"

Sam pushes himself off the ground, running his hands along his jeans again before brushing the hair from his face and shrugging.

"Honestly? I'm more worried about my brother saying yes than I am. Which is why I need to find him. We're not really of any use to anyone here. Not to mention you need an actual doctor to look at that."

Leaning down and grabbing John's uninjured arm, he pulls it around his shoulders and hoists the man up carefully. Grimacing at the movement, the world began to dip and sway as he was moved, John's eyes closing tightly to keep the sickness at bay.

"You lost a lot of blood, you gonna be alright?"

Sam questions, a firm hand keeping the army doctor steady as he barely nods. This wasn't the time to allow himself to relive the war. Wasn't the time to slip back into those memories and leave Sherlock alone in this place.

With sweat gathering at his temples, John opens his eyes and breathes shallowly, pulling away from Sam and straightening his form as best he could.

"Let's go."

"You sure? You're looking kind've pale and-"

Sam's words come to a crashing halt as an explosion somewhere deeper within the trees in front of them shakes the ground, both men falling silent as they exchange a look.

"You're right, we should go."

Sam agrees, reaching down and picking up his gun. Bringing his arm closer to his chest, John's eyes move past them and towards the layout of trees. There's something hidden in the shadows, barely able to be seen as he squints, attempting a closer look.

"Dr. Watson?"

"What? Yeah."

He murmurs, glancing at Sam before looking back, the shadows now void of the figure, leaving John wondering whether it had been man or angel standing there watching them.