Author's Note:
It's been far too long since I updated this! I'm really sorry about that but I've had exams and work and stress and I've been preoccupied with my other story ('Alethiology'). I've been meaning to write this one for ages and after the light-hearted chapter that I posted last time I decided now was the time. Hope I don't accidentally kill you from all the angst and feels (although it's not that bad, I think).
Check out my tumblr if you're interested (everything is really random and depends solely on what I feel like at that moment). My username is stormleviosa.
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Chapter 10- or, why John had a limp
Sand was flying in all directions from the gunfire and he could barely see five feet ahead of him but he knew there was a patient somewhere that needed him. His mates called it his 'doctor senses' because somehow, inexplicably, he always knew and though it sometimes annoyed them they were thankful for it in situations like this. Everyone was yelling and firing in the general direction of the attack but with the wind and the obscured vision and the sleep deprivation that had plagued them of late there was little chance of them actually hitting anyone. John's job was to find the injured soldier and fix him up enough that they could move him to a field hospital at Camp Bastion. It was not going to be easy. When was war ever easy?
It was one of his men because of course it was. He supposed that with him always on hand it was easy to forget that, at the end of the day, everyone was mortal and even the best doctors couldn't bring dead men back to life. His mean were reckless and try as he might to stop them, they ran ahead heedless of any danger. He loved them for it but it did make his life difficult. His was one of the smaller companies so, as their captain, he made it his mission to learn their names. Fusilier Simon Annis, age 22. He'd been shot through the leg and was lying on the ground trembling in fear. He was so young. John's heart ached as he knelt next to him, opening his case. His youth had translated perfectly into foolhardiness and now he'd been injured. He blocked out the surrounding chaos and focussed on his patient. He had to get him home, had to save him for his girlfriend. Sutures. He needed his suturing kit, threaded a needle and cleaned the wound with alcohol as his patient howled in agony. There was nothing but him and his patient and the wound. He packed the wound, mopping up blood, and cleaned it again. Was there time for a local? He wasn't sure so he injected it anyway and left it as long as he could. Then he stitched it with firm and even sutures to close the wound. There was still so much blood. Where was it coming from? His hands were covered in it, drenched in scarlet blood. He couldn't hear the gunfire, couldn't see the sand whipping around them. There was a sudden, blinding pain in his shoulder and he gasped as he attempted one last stitch but his hand was shaking and his vision blurred. There was blackness creeping in. His ears were ringing. He couldn't even see the wound anymore there was red, so much red, and then there was black as well and it overtook the red. Someone was yelling. The words were illegible and panicked. He crumpled to the ground.
He returns to London, returns home, with a limp that requires a cane and a had that won't stop shaking. There is nothing wrong with his leg or his hand. The psychologist says it's psychosomatic. He remembers Annis' face just before he got shot, the terror and hopelessness in the wideness of his eyes, and his leg twinges. He has to agree with the therapist. She suggests writing a blog to get his thoughts down and he agrees because he has nothing else to do. There is nothing fulfilling about sitting in front of a laptop with a blank document open. He types one word: 'nothing.' He tells Ella everything is fine. Everything is not fine.
He meets Sherlock and it's like a door has opened into a new, brighter, life. Sherlock knows his limp is psychosomatic and that his shaky hand has nothing to do with PTSD but he doesn't pity him anyway. In Sherlock's eyes, he is no weaker than any of the other ordinary men and women he is forced to interact with on a daily basis. He has a purpose now and it isn't until then that he realises that he has been drifting in an aimless sea of loss and melancholy. There is a case to solve. They eat (well, John eats and Sherlock watches, composed and cat-like) at Angelo's which is the nicest meal John has had in ages even if he does have to convince the owner that he and Sherlock are not dating, thank you very much. He doesn't get to finish his meal because Sherlock sees the cab they are supposed to be following and then they are running. John leaves his cane. His leg doesn't hurt. Everything about his new situation is freeing: he no longer sees Simon Annis' face every time he closes his eyes and his leg doesn't hurt. He is doing something worthwhile, something special, and it is wonderful.