A/N: This intertwines with an old one, posted as chapter 13 here, and one of my favorites. (Can hardly believe it's been these many already). Started writing this when I thought I wouldn't make it home for Christmas myself. I also wanted to write a very John-centred one, where Sherlock was the thin conducting thread and the plot resolution even before he had a dialogue line.

As always, I'm definitely still not British, a Doctor, or in the Army. Therefore I apologise beforehand for all the inconsistencies in what I'll be typing bellow. (Oh trust me - there should be plenty.) -csf

Extra: Well, I'm realising that once again I've overdone myself lengthwise, so there'll be two parts to this story.

. Part One of Two .

'Captain! Captain Watson, sir!'

The lad comes running inside the operating theatre, overly excited, then does a halt as he remembers our surroundings. It's easy to forget we're in a war zone since it's been secure for the last few weeks, insurgents kept at bay, but always just a wink away. I look up from the needle and thread, as I'm suturing after a landmine at roadside came to surprise a Sargent, to the First Officer still staring intently at me. 'What?' I ask, less than patiently. After all, I've been dealing with a wave of incoming casualties for eight hours straight.

'Your replacement is here, Doc!'

I frown. It's a bad taste joke. The risk is too high and this province has been deemed to much of a liability. We're stranded, in a way. No new personnel, and those of us who were to return have been assigned for another couple of months. That means Christmas in Afghanistan.

Better me than some of these brave men, with kids and families at home. Besides, I know I'm needed here. I'll always be needed here. The casualties keep on coming, I patch them up as best as I can, and send them back for more. There are days that I hate myself for that.

I can't rub the bridge of my nose because I'm wearing surgical gloves, and I stop myself just in time.

'Go get some rest, Chandler', I tell him caringly. He's just a lad, he's far too young to be here. They all grow up too fast in here.

'Doc, I'm not kidding. You won the lottery!'

I freeze as I bandage my unconscious patient. That has become a code in our unit. Winning the lottery means landing the grand prize: going home without medical leave or in a body bag.

'What?' I ask, confused, as the Nurse takes over the patient's dressings.

'The aircraft, with the politicians, they just radioed us. They are coming here and they want you, sir!'

They are willing to breach the No Newcomers rule. 'Is anyone hurt in the aircraft?'

'No, sir. They want you. They've sent a replacement and all.'

Maybe I can have my Christmas miracle after all. 'What's his name?' I ask.

'Doctor Holmes.'

'What?'

'Doctor Sherlock Holmes, he asked to swap places with you, sir.'

.

I wake up startled from my nightmare - what else can I call it? - sweaty and shivering in my spring bed. The distant noises of fired ammunition and trucks rolling on dirt roads in long springy convoys grounds me again. A part of me never left this place. As a doctor I've been assigned a resting area in a small corner behind a folding curtain, conveniently located in the big medics tent. We've been stationed in Afghanistan for three months now, and we've just received note that our stay has been extended by the Royal Army Services. I really miss London now, closer to Christmas. I miss a homely Baker Street, and a nice cup of sandless tea, and Sherlock playing the violin.I even miss my mad friend's craziness. It always kept me on my toes.

I came here with a mission from Mycroft Holmes. A further return, he even bent the rules to hand me the physical checks okay to return to active duty after my shoulder injury. He mentioned something about a promotion, and about Queen and Country. I gladly pass the first one, but I can't ignore the latter, as he knows very well.

I'm a doctor, I told him. And a doctor you shall remain, he assured me, over-selling his politeness act as usual.

How could I say No?

Sherlock asked me to. I tried explaining. You just don't stop being a soldier or a doctor. It's part of me as much as my name or my age.

He seemed incredulous, speechless, as he stared on blankly at me. Then for a single glimpse of a moment, he looked hurt. I couldn't tell if he felt betrayed by me, as if I was betraying my allegiance to Baker Street and the Work. Before I could understand, he walked off.

Later I heard he had gone to Mycroft.

I waited in Baker Street for his return. I waited forty-seven out of the forty-eight hours I had before departing on my mission. I remember I was siting on the old run-down red armchair when Mycroft's instructions arrived by special messenger. I quite remember it was sweet Mrs Hudson that bought me a toothbrush and other toiletries to pack, as I insisted on not missing Sherlock's return. He never picked up any of my calls till his phone's battery ran down. Little after, so did mine.

Uniform on, airplane tickets, passport and dog tags in my pocket, I took a cab away from Baker Street, not before one last careful look about in the street.

I was really worried about Sherlock now, but he had made his position quite clear. So had I.

'Where to, soldier?' the cabbie asked me in fake good humor.

'Afghanistan', I responded, distracted, still looking out of the window.

'Can't take you that far.'

I smirk, he really can't. This is something I need to do on my own.

'London Stansted Airport, then. The British Government will take care of the rest', I assured the cab driver.

.

Soldiers learn to make do with what they've got. In our current situation we don't have turkey or Christmas pudding, we definitely don't have snow or a white Christmas scenery. Our plastic tree is mediocre and bonsai-sized at best. Some of the guys have placed decorations in it, then there was a small row (typical of confined spaces behaviour; I put a stop at that immediately), in the end we decided to hang the dog tags for the ones in our unit that served our country and then managed to go back home. What better way then to symbolise our hope and materialise the spirit of the season?

And since we're too far away from our loved ones someone thought about the usual poker game.

I guess it made us all very naughty and that's why Santa won't be coming around.

We're playing cards for beans, with Chandler's casino chips. He looks nervous behind his deck of cards as it is. And I haven't even mentioned my silly dream and how he had been the bearer of wanted news (with an evil twist). Seemed unfair to bring it up. He's a good man, he'll go far provided he endures this six months tour of his. And that he looses this tell of blinking his eyes when he's bluffing.

'I'm calling it, Chandler.'

All eyes are on him. Some are cheering on, others are just looking for a distraction from one of the warmest nights here. Either way, Chandler keeps on blinking.

Finally he lowers his cards, defeated. I win, he was bluffing all along.

'Nice try, Chandler.'

'How did you know, Doc?'

'If I told you then how was I to get a plate full of beans?' I distract him.

'You're too used to this', he protests, halfheartedly. Still it rings true in my mind.

Too used to bluffing, to facing opponents and to try and deduce them like Sherlock did.

'Come on, Doc!' Someone elbows me to get me going. I realise they haven't seen my cards yet. I throw them on the table as I'm already getting up, spoiled mood. The whole thing got me thinking about London again.

I wonder if it's snowing there. Maybe Mrs Hudson is making mulled wine. I wonder if Sherlock will care to decorate 221B. And Mary - I haven't a clue how she's doing. Mycroft had a mission for her as well. She took hers even before I took mine.

Not that the timescale matters. She would have known my answer all along.

In a few lost steps I've reached the entrance of the First Officer's tent. The dark sky outside always amazes me. Over the pitch dark desert the lights of the hundreds of stars seem so bright and pure.

I look over my shoulder to the guys resuming the poker game. They are on a roll and don't find anything amiss in my absence.

If I were to walk off, through the desert, and the cities, and the water, and other lands, I'd never stop till I reached London. And the guys behind me wouldn't even notice.

I shouldn't think like this. It's a bit not good.

I've done my mission for Mycroft. He'll send someone for me as soon as he can.

He wouldn't have forgotten me, right?

...

Sherlock wouldn't have let that happen, in any case.

.