Chapter 25

John crossed out yet another line, screwing up the paper and hurling it at the bin in frustration. He must have started this letter a dozen times, if only in his head. He knew it was important to talk about things that are bothering you and he did want to share this with Sherlock but… how? This was not something you just dumped on someone. Sherlock deserved more delicacy than that. In the back of his head John was also worried about Sherlock being able to deal with this. Sherlock was like he used to be, only experiencing death as the aftermath, the effects and not the event. From this angle death is numbing to some, fascinating to others. Death present tense is a totally different affair. One John wished he'd never been party to. He had all the theoretical justification in the world. He did it in self defense and in defense of his patient as he was required to do. He was in a warzone where killing is not only part of life, it's literally in the job description. So why this nameless feeling in his gut? Maybe Sherlock would know. If only he could find a way to tell him.

Instead of an envelope, it was a packet that fell to the floor of the entrance way to 221 Baker St. Sherlock heard the letterbox snap and hurried down the stairs to get it. He initially thought the packet was for Mrs. Hudson but there was his name and address on the label. Mystified, he took it up stairs, ran it through with a letter opener and fished out the contents. An old style cassette tape marked on one side "please listen to asap" and "I'm so sorry" on the other. He recognized John's handwriting but could not fathom why he would send him such a thing, or label it in such a fashion. There was only one way to unravel this conundrum. Listen to the tape. He rustled around in his closet until he found his old stereo that had a cassette compartment, plugged it in and listened as keenly as he could.

A rustling clatter. Undoubtedly John moving the cassette recorder around after turning it on. Then, his voice.

"Hey Sherlock. Sorry this message has been so long in coming but I have I couldn't write this down. I had to find some other way of doing it. I know this is an unusual method of correspondence but it was the only compromise I could come to, a place for me to rant and babble while also giving you the space to absorb and process that you don't get with face to face interaction. I have literally agonized over sending you this message. Ugh, agonized. That sounds… pathetic but…

John took a breath as he pronounced the next word

… pathetic but there's no other way to put it. I guess I should just come out and say it.

Pause

3 days ago I was chosen to be an evac medic for a casualty evacuation at a bombed out girls school. At first, it was like all the other evacs I've been to. Loud, dusty, it was hot from still burning fires, wounded every where, horrific wounds.

Pause in which John breathes tersely seemingly steeling himself

But this was different this time. the scouts had said that they had cleared the area that there was no enemy units. This time they were wrong.

It was just as we were clearing out, as I was pulling the last girl from the last classroom… when it happened. this enemy soldier, this "talib" as they call them here, just jumped out of nowhere.

The pace of the words increases

He was screaming, something I didn't understand, I can't remember anything except that he was screaming. And I remember, seeing a gun. I didn't see the man's face but I saw the gun. And I, before I'd even had time to think, I'd shot him. Through the heart.

I turned, his body, his heart to mincemeat. Saw his eyes roll back in his head. At the time there was so many things I couldn't pick one out, one feeling out of the gray haze in my mind. There was fear definitely. My own heart was beating at a million miles an hour. When I heard that bang just reverberate around the room it felt like it was me that had been shot.

My stomach curdling, his dead, dead body slumped to the floor and the girl, the girl was screaming. I couldn't think, I had to switch my brain off just to get her out of there. I couldn't, I didn't have time to process, I couldn't do it there. Wasn't time. Somehow we got out, got her into the ambulance, got her to hospital and came back to base.

John takes a shaky breath and the pace slows

When I got back, the only thing I felt was.. tired. I had taken a man's life and all I felt was tired. Wanted to sleep. But I couldn't close my eyes and lie still knowing that he would never do anything but lie still ever again. I couldn't bear to feel like him, to be like him.

Lately, feelings have started to filter back through the haze. And I feel horror for what I've done, knowing that I am capable, mercilessly capable of taking a man's life without even thinking about it. Horror that that was my first response, my default setting. This is what I have become. A flashpoint killer. My reflex action was to kill and I feel horror at that. Then I remember the girl and I remember what that man was there for, he was there to take my life and that girls life and as many lives as he could. By taking him down I saved my life and her life. …. And I feel proud.

Then I think, maybe that guy had a family and I feel ashamed of my pride. Then in the back of my brain I remember, remember why I'm here. I remember that killing not' just a hazard of the job it is literally in my job description, it is why I am here. And I am ashamed at being ashamed at my pride and that is where it gets too much. When you start having feelings about your feelings about your feelings I just… I can't process it anymore. I'm a practical man Sherlock. I'm a man of the here and now and these vague concepts are things I cannot put a name to, things I cannot label things I cannot explain. They are too much for me. And so… I give you this message.

I don't even know what I'm expecting you to do with this. It is probably massively presumptuous of me to expect you to be able to answer the questions I myself, the one who is living with them cannot answer. The risks we take when we make friends.

You don't need to fix me Sherlock. I'm a lost man reaching out; all I'm looking for is another man brave enough to admit he's lost too. We don't have to complete each other; we can just be broken together. Don't try for answers Sherlock. Just be a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, maybe even arms to hold. That's all I need. An anchor.

I'm so sorry to do this to you. I don't know what you're going through listening to this.

Another rustling thud and the sound cuts out.