The same scene over and over again.
Every single time.
The bloodied battlefield, nothing but barren wasteland. Cannons bombarding every corner, gunshots firing left and right, dust almost always unsettled. The sound of aircrafts flying past the medical tent, dropping missiles on enemy troops. Afghans and Soldiers alike were rushed in, too many to count, many on the verge of death. He looked on at the mess of red in front of him, guilt rising in his chest.
Traumatic head injury, a tertiary blast injury.
Secondary blast injury, shrapnel to the chest, in need of immediate surgery.
Penetrating gunshot wound to the right carotid artery. Urgent blood loss.
Primary blast injury, amputation required immediately to right limbs.
He remembered every case to heart, every gruesome injury he'd seen during those months. Countless deaths occurred under his watch, and his watch only. Despite all the death he had seen, that one thought was unbearable. Unimaginable. Why can't I save them? Why couldn't I have done something?
The scene ended like it always did, the sound of an aircraft over the tent, then black.
Heat. Crackling. Screams. Ringing. Helplessness. Pain.
Blank.
Why didn't he do better?
The scene changed.
A distant figure stood on the rooftop, arms extended. He donned a long, black coat, pattern checkered. The Persian blue scarf wrapped around his neck, a striped pattern in shades of blue. A mop of windswept cocoa hair, soft untamed curls falling to each side. He was dangerously close to the edge of the building, nearly about to fall-
"Sherlock!"
He extended an arm, as if trying to catch the falling form, to finally succeed in saving someone. Someone he cared about. Someone he loved. He couldn't watch another innocent death.
As always, he was too late, watching the cursed memory replay itself. The detective was graceful, as if it were merely an acting performance, coat floating in the wind. If his vision wasn't so blurry, he could've sworn there was a smile on his face, as if in reassurance. Do not worry, John. I don't think I have the capability to die so easily. Wherever did you obtain that thought?
He remembered his voice, a smooth baritone, something that could only be described as honey. It was usually blankly monotone, but occasionally, he had a voice of melodic excitement. It was like a child at Christmas, the playful glee that he had, and the goofy grin plastered onto his face. To be honest, the detective's giddiness was infectious.
Which made this exact scene all the more painful.
Every single replay, rewind, he would remember another detail of his beloved detective, only to watch him fall to death in front of his own eyes. The broken form of the man, covered in a familiar crimson, burgundy, maroon. Icy blue eyes, lifeless, when they once held a bright brilliance. What hurt most was his peaceful expression, as if he felt better dead than alive.
Was it because of something I had done?
He'd prefer to not have an answer, just to spare him the pain.
The rain poured on relentlessly.
〰️〰️〰️
The doctor jolted awake, covered in cold sweat. His breathing labored, like every other night. The digital clock beside him read 2 a.m, another common reoccurrence. He laid in his bed at 221B, which was odd. Oh yeah, he visited the old apartment yesterday. Probably accidentally fell asleep.
The room closed in on him, vision darkening. His breathing hitched, ragged as he drew every breath. Panic attack, he diagnosed, focusing solely on calming his breaths, which wasn't working too well. Symptoms worsened, heartbeat pounding loudly against his ears, his hands shaking. He felt the bile rise in his throat, nausea swirling within him, accompanied by dizziness.
He didn't remember stumbling into the loo, but he did so anyway. He retched out an empty stomach, sitting there on the bathroom floor, curled up in a ball. Tears were fresh in his eyes, sobs choked out painfully against his damaged throat. The damage was probably from the throwing up. He muffled an extra loud whimper, trying to calm his crying, to no avail. I wish Sherlock was still here-
The thought made it worse, burying his face into his hands.
He'll never admit it, but…
He loved him more than words could ever express.