A/N Lalala, I'm back~
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XI. Memory
At first, in the midst of the bullets raining down on him and the shouts of surprise from his and Sherlock's assailants, John doesn't think much of the noise. It's nothing more than a cry that greatly resembles the one which rang through the air directly before he was shot in Afghanistan—eerie, certainly, but not entirely implausible. He's still here, still firmly rooted in this alleyway, crouching behind a trash can that rattles as it's bombarded with gunshots. Sherlock is a few meters away, peering out behind his own garbage bin during a pause.
But when the fire resumes, everything else starts to waver.
"Dr. Watson, take cover!"
It's certainly not Sherlock's voice, and yet John can't help but whip his head around in confusion. He's not greeted by the night's damp blackness, however, but rather by a flash of sunlight that momentarily blinds him. His hands slip in the sand—but, wait, where could sand be coming from? The only thing touching his palms is cracked asphalt—but then why is it glittering viciously in the light that shouldn't be there in the first place?
His mind is fragmented, confused bits of sensory input whirling through a humming void, and he's aware of tumbling down a blazing dune just as surely as he feels his head hit a decidedly cold and wet ground as he involuntarily slumps, rendered entirely, off guard by his sudden and ragingly vivid memory of the war.
"Watson!"
"Move, man, you're a sitting duck like that!"
"Is he shot?"
"No, I'm fine, I'm…"
"Then get up! People need you!"
"I feel… bad…"
"For God's sake, Watson!"
"John?"
That's his voice… that's Sherlock's voice, and it's like an anchor dragging him back into the present, weighting him there as he blinks in confusion and rolls over, facing the night sky. A cold breeze rolls off his face—no, it's a hot gust of dry air, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the brilliantly fiery midday sun glaring down upon the desert.
"I think Dr. Watson's down, but I can't find a wound!"
"Could be heat stroke. Has he fainted?"
"No, he's conscious, I think…"
"I'm—I'm fine, I'm… I mean it… really…"
"John, can you hear me?"
Yes. Yes, I can hear you. Sherlock's voice is by far the clearest thing in this bleary mess, and John clutches onto it like a lifeline, struggling to feel solid ground under his back instead of shifting sand, to register where he is and who needs him.
"Sherlock! Great, you're—oh, God, what happened? John?"
That's someone else's voice, but it belongs here with Sherlock's, not in Afghanistan—it's heavily toned with a smoky London accent… Lestrade, John realizes, and is instantly pleased with himself for coming up with the name. Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's here now, which must mean that the criminals and their guns are being dealt with, that it's over…
John takes a deep, shaky breath as Sherlock's pale face wavers into existence above his own. Another draft of chilly air soothes John's skin, upon which a thin layer of sweat has formed, and his eyes flicker sideways to find an alarmed-looking Lestrade crouching down next to him. He registers that he's sprawled on his back, and hastily pulls himself into a sitting position, bracing his elbows against the rain-stained street.
"You alright, there?" Lestrade asks a bit nervously.
"Yeah… fine…" John gazes around wearily. "Just some sort of… of flashback…"
"Gunshots probably prompted it." Sherlock sits back, and some of the tension seems to leave his face, though it's still abnormally pale. "Are you sure you're okay, John?"
He nods, running a hand over his forehead. "I'm definitely here now. And damn glad, I have to say."