Plot: During his third tour in Afghanistan, John is a prisoner of war and is forced to play Russian Roulette. Thereafter, he finds comfort in the act of putting a gun to his head and pulling the trigger.
Be warned! This is dark! I…don't exactly know how this idea came to me, but I thought it would be interesting to explore something like this.
I've looked into re-enactments before, which is basically when a person with PTSD re-enacts the traumatic incident for a plethora of different reasons. There are some really good articles on the subject online, and I highly recommend checking them out.
I did my best research on POWs in Afghanistan/Iraq in the last two decades, but it simply is not enough. I always like to be well-prepared before I write something, but I decided to go ahead and wing it this time, so forgive me for the many inaccuracies that will probably exist here. Thankfully, this is a work of fiction and an alternate universe, so…just blame it on that.
Anyway, let us stop wasting time and get on with the show!
(Note: I took some inspiration from the 1978 film The Deer Hunter, specifically the Russian Roulette scene, but hey, who ever said I was original?)
John will never forget the terror of that day.
There are details surrounding the incident that he can't really remember. He doesn't recall where they were, or where they were driving to, or even who he was sitting next to. He knows it must have been a transport somewhere, but why? John truly doesn't know.
He just remembers the explosions.
God, the explosions.
His body had been catapulted like he weighed absolutely nothing. He can still see the smoke from the Foxhounds around him, taste the ash in his mouth; he chokes on blood where he's bitten the inside of his cheek. Flames erupt into the air, war cries screaming through madness.
John gasps as he slumps on his back, blinking through the haze that washes through him. He sees someone standing over him, shouting something incessantly. John thinks he might be saying "Doctor." He can't tell. He can't hear, either. There's ringing in his ears, and he still tastes copper, and then--
And then the man above him is dead. John sees him drop to the ground, lifeless, weightless, and manages to scramble back. Heavy gasps wrench from his throat as he finally manages to take in the destruction around him. He sees dead soldiers first, then the wounded.
That's his next course of action.
Recovering from the IED, thankful that he wasn't too injured from the blast, John ducks through the crossfire and drops next to a stranger, who's gasping on blood and has a chunk of his leg ripped out. John quickly gets to work, unable to speak as he does so. His eyes are narrowed, each hand position calculated with only the precision of a trained medical doctor. He hears a slurred, "Thanks," from the soldier, nods, looks around for more of the wounded--
And then he's struck in the face by an AK-47, and everything goes black.
John wakes with a nasty concussion, but that is seriously the least of his worries at this point. It soon becomes clear that he has been captured by the Taliban, and certainly not only him; several other British troops are here, too, but John can't seem to focus and only ends up passing out again.
When he reawakens, he's somewhere on a cold floor, held behind a cage. He can't see much, and his entire body hurts, and to be truthful, he's scared. John is no stranger to violence and gore and death at this point, but he does not yet want to die. Not like this.
Several days pass, or at least John thinks so, because there are no windows and no fresh air. He thinks back to his Oath and swears to himself that, no matter what torture, he will not break. He will remain loyal to his country. He is not a coward, and he will certainly not reveal any telling information to his captors.
It doesn't take long to understand that they never much cared for information, anyway.
John is hauled out of the cage one evening, hot and feverish and shaking in the man's grasp. A machine gun is held to his head, and he's told in Pashto to "keep your hands behind your head, do not speak, do not run, and obey." John nods quickly, giving the impression of frightened, inexperienced Doctor. Maybe feigning innocence will increase his chances of life.
He's hauled into a vehicle and transported from the building, away from the village, and across the barren landscape to somewhere completely different. He's blindfolded and gagged, trying not to writhe too much, but can taste the fear in the back of his throat.
When he's dragged outside, stumbling slightly, one of the men rip the blindfold away. He takes in his surroundings, squinting against the setting sun, and finds his eyes landing on an encampment; there are two other Taliban soldiers there, holding guns on another British soldier, conversing between themselves.
John swallows as he assimilates the scene before him; a fellow soldier, clearly dead, shot in the head, is being dragged away from the scene. Those who had transported John here take the body, chuck it back into the vehicle, and skid away. Only three Taliban soldiers remain.
He sees a table spread between two chairs; one chair is occupied by the British soldier, while another is empty, clearly the one the dead soldier had been sitting in. John doesn't move immediately, too terrified to take a step forward, but an angry shout behind him encourages him to start walking.
John is sat on the other end of the table, shaking as he stares at his fellow soldier. The man meets his gaze, eyes traveling to the red and white patch on John's arm, and freezes. Nothing is said between them, but everything is reflected in the soldier's eyes: RAMC? A Doctor? Terror is clear there, so clear John could choke on it.
He just wonders what he's gotten himself into.
The Taliban soldiers speak amongst themselves, trading Afghanis between their hands. John's eyes widen. A bet? For what, exactly? He turns away to once again look at the British soldier, slightly afraid to speak, but even more afraid of being left in the dark.
The other soldier senses John's dilemma and leans his head forward slightly. "David Lawrence," he whispers, eyes shining with tears. "I'm just sorry to see you here, Doctor."
A Taliban soldier shouts "No talking!" in Pashto and slaps Lawrence, a sound which echoes through the open tent. John manages to suppress his flinch, but is more wary about the sudden expression on Lawrence's face. He doesn't even look upset.
He looks resigned.
"John Watson," he replies back, even though he shouldn't, even though it's stupid, but he does anyway. If they are going to die here tonight, at least they'll know each other's names.
The soldier closest to John is not happy about his order being immediately broken, so reaches forward and punches John in the face. He grunts, tasting blood on his lip, and goes quiet. The Taliban soldier huffs and places his bet on the table, the others quickly following. The soldiers then become raucous, cheering and whooping. John looks at Lawrence, who seems suddenly scared again, and wonders what's about to happen.
A revolver is suddenly dropped between the two, right in the middle of the table. John goes cold, ice spilling down his back as he stares. Lawrence clenches his teeth, trying his best not to sob, but the haunted look in his eyes speaks volumes to John.
A soldier screams at John and he's immediately shaken out of his stupor, trying to figure out what's just been said to him. The soldier pulls back the revolver's cylinder and shows John the inside; a single cartridge, the rest of the chambers empty. The soldier spins the cylinder and clicks it back into place, handing the gun to John with a barely perceptible smile on his face.
"Shoot."
John has heard of this game before--Russian Roulette, it's called--but never imagined he would be subject to it. His mouth goes dry, left hand trembling as he takes the pistol and stares at the soldier. He can hear Lawrence's soft, panicked gasps, and suddenly understands why the man is so afraid. He was playing with the soldier before John arrived. The soldier who died.
That means one thing for John: if he survives, he will have to play again. It will be endless, at least until he dies, and John will not be able to go through that. He thinks of a way to change these circumstances, tries to think of something he can do to escape, but nothing comes to mind quick enough before he's being hit again, screamed at to SHOOT! as their guns train on him.
John bites down and closes his eyes momentarily, placing the muzzle to his head, half an inch above his ear. It feels like the world has drowned out around him, and he's the only one here, trapped in some sort of personal Hell. He can't stop the quiver in his hand, can't constrain the whimper that leaves his lips as he presses down slowly on the trigger.
He can't do it. He can't. His brains are about to be all over the floor, and then Harry will be alone, and she'll have no one, just Clara, but Harry is already destroying herself so what will she do when John dies? Will he even be found? Will John be labeled as MIA forever?
He opens his eyes, sees the Taliban soldiers staring back at him, sees Lawrence. John releases a shaky breath, managing to smile at Lawrence. At least if he dies, David's last view of him won't be of a blubbering mess. He will have smiled, accepting his fate--
"SHOOT!" a soldier yells.
--and John shoots.
He expects pain. He expects death. All he receives, however, is a 'click' in his ears. John drops the gun like it's made of hot coals and jerks back, growing more panicked. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Lawrence is going to die, and if he doesn't, then John surely will.
Lawrence looks just as horrified as John, trembling from head to toe as the soldiers around them cheer, placing more bets on the table. Then John feels horrible, absolutely awful, because he wants to live longer than Lawrence. He can't allow himself to be selfish; he should be treating David just like any other patient.
John hates that he can't.
Lawrence doesn't pick up the revolver immediately, sobbing softly as tears run down his cheeks. He's punched in the face for his sluggishness and cries out, holding his cheek steady. John tries not to bark out a "Stop!", knowing it wouldn't do anything anyway. Still, it aches to see a fellow soldier being abused like this, and John just wishes this wasn't happening to either of them.
"Shoot!" Lawrence is ordered. "Shoot, idiot!"
Lawrence shakes his head in denial but picks up the revolver anyway, staring at it like he's considering shooting his captors. But even John knows that won't end well, because if the first chamber is empty then they'll both be killed. Even if Lawrence manages to hit one, what then? There are three soldiers surrounding them.
Apparently taking too long, Lawrence is once again slapped. The man growls out a curse, glaring at the soldier that struck him. A tunnel of blood drips out of his ear, stained against the side of his face. He doesn't even seem to notice, too busy glowering at his captors.
"Lawrence," John says, and David's gaze swivels to him. He tries to smile encouragingly, but it comes out wrong and broken. "Just do it," he whispers. "You have to shoot."
"I can't," Lawrence snarls, but his tone is full of fear. "I can't do it anymore, John. I'm sorry."
"Shoot yourself!" is screamed out by a soldier.
"You'll die if you don't," John says, voice weak.
"I'll die if I do."
"You don't know that."
Lawrence begins to sob again. "Then you'll die. And I can't let that happen, Doc. I'm so sorry. Please, God, forgive me."
"SHOOT!" a soldier yells.
"Do it, Lawrence!"
"I can't--!"
"Put that gun to your head and pull the trigger, Lieutenant!" John snaps out, startling Lawrence. David stares at him, momentarily shocked, before giving in with a keening whine. He shakes all over, placing the muzzle to his head, screaming out as he pulls the trigger--
Click.
Lawrence drops the gun, softer this time, and smiles. It's a disturbing smile, filled with relief and horror and shock all mixed together. He swipes a hand over his mouth and sobs into it, hunching his shoulders as he closes his eyes. John stares, dread coiling in his stomach, the jeers rising up around him.
John watches as more Afghanis are slapped and traded on the table. He licks his dry lips, feeling the pangs of hunger even through this terrifying ordeal. It's strangely human, and grounds him somewhat in reality. He's still alive. He's still John Watson. He will not break.
Remember your Oath.
Lawrence opens his eyes, trembling becoming apparent as he stares at John. He opens and closes his mouth, like he wants to say something, maybe apologize, but John just shakes his head.
Instead, John turns toward their captors, blinking through the last dying rays of sunlight as nightfall comes upon them. "Three," he says in Pashto, startling the soldiers.
Lawrence stares at John, horrified.
A soldier scowls and punches John, which causes his nose to begin bleeding again. John bites down on his frustration and instead smiles openly, clearly confusing everyone there. "Three," he repeats, voice shattered despite the laughing tone he throws in. "Three bullets."
And then the soldiers begin laughing, clapping John on the back as they load two more bullets into the revolver. John feels strangely calm as he grips the gun in his hand, meeting Lawrence's gaze. He looks scared. He looks confused.
John wishes he could say something, but decides it's better to stay quiet instead.
Breathing evenly, John raises the muzzle to his temple and tries not to cry. If this goes wrong, he'll die. Harry will be all alone, with no living family left, and John will have failed his country. This has to work. It must work.
Please, God, let me live.
John presses down on the trigger before suddenly aiming at his captors, shooting the first.
The bullet hits, straight through his forehead.
The wounded soldier screams in agony, whipping around in shock, blasting his machine gun. A string of bullets crack through the air; two strays manage to hit Lawrence and the man topples out of his chair and to the ground.
John doesn't have time to cry out for David. Instead, he shoots again, striking the second soldier, who quickly goes down. Before he can hit the last, however, he feels a shock of hot, flashing pain in his shoulder. John stumbles but still manages to click the trigger enough times where the cartridge finally releases, killing the last soldier, leaving them in the silent aftermath of chaos.
John sits there for a moment, breathing harshly, trying not to give in to the sudden onslaught of panic. He slowly stands and remembers the pain in his shoulder, moving a hand up to grip it. He cries out and suddenly he's going down, thudding against the sand below, and it feels like his concussion has just come back in full force.
Even through the haze of pain, John diagnoses himself: a shattered humerus. His bone is broken, probably in splinters, and the agony is beginning to overwhelm him. But the remembrance of the other soldiers returning with another victim, finding John and Lawrence sprawled out across the ground, spurs him into action.
John slowly raises himself up, staggering against the table as he approaches Lawrence, who's still on the ground, breaths hard and heavy.
"Lawrence," John says, being careful as he kneels next to the soldier, holding his own shoulder tightly. He's almost afraid he's about to pass out. "Lawrence, you need to stand up. We need to leave."
Lawrence doesn't respond, just starts sobbing.
John swears. "David!" he snaps. "David! This is your Captain, and I swear to God, if you don't get up I'm dragging you out! Do you hear me, Lieutenant?"
Lawrence's eyes slowly crack open, pain clear within them. "Doc," he whispers, reaching up to grip John's wrist. He sees his shoulder wound immediately and shakes his head. "Leave me, Doc. G…get…outta here…"
"No. No, no!" John exclaims, voice breaking. "No, you cannot!"
"Hit in…leg…and stomach…" Lawrence laughs, blood bubbling in his mouth. "That was smart, Doctor. Didn't…didn't think…to do that…" He begins to fade, fast.
"God damnit!" John snaps. "Stay with me, Lieutenant!" He almost wants to shake him. "You'll live. I'll carry you. Please, come on, get up!"
"Go…" Lawrence whispers, and then he's gone.
John begins to sob, hitting the ground with his fists. He screams angrily, hearing it echo through the mountains and valleys surrounding them. He bends forward and clutches Lawrence's shoulders, shaking them softly, jerking his head in denial. "No no no," he cries. "Jesus, no. Please, David, come back to me. Come on."
He knows it's fruitless. Lawrence is dead; he was the moment that bullet struck him in the belly. John curses himself for not envisioning far enough, for being too slow, for letting this good soldier die…
He isn't sure how long he sits there, sobbing and screaming for vengeance. All he knows is that he sees red. He's so angry it hurts, then he thinks about Harry and his friends here and then his own wound. He needs to get medical help quickly; there aren't any kits here, and nights in Afghanistan can be deadly. The longer he waits, the quicker osteomyelitis will set in, and then John will be well and truly screwed.
Shaking his head, still silently raging at Lawrence, he grips David's dog tags and rips them from his neck. John manages to stand, falling into the table and nearly blacking out from the impact. Managing to catch himself, John grips the edges with white-tipped fingers and drags himself along, stuffing the dog tags into his pockets, looking around for somewhere to go--
And that's when he sees it.
A tripod, in the corner of the small encampment, holding a camera that's blinking red. John thinks he's going to be sick. He swallows down bile and slowly makes his way over, taking it with shaking hands and looking at the screen. It's recording, and has been for the past twenty minutes, roughly starting right before he arrived.
Jesus.
John can't leave this. He can't let the Taliban have this, and…and he doesn't think he could ever let this leak out. Can't even imagine what it would look like. POWs in Afghanistan are rare enough; the media would be in a frenzy over this footage.
No. No, he has to keep this. Has to hide it, store it away, keep it forever and ensure that no one ever finds it. It's not a large camera. He can stick it in his pocket and hope for the best.
Now…now it's just a matter of surviving.
John doesn't remember the rest of those days well. They're clouded and forgotten, the pain and anger stored so deep within John that he begins to turn it in on himself. He can't stay furious with a dead man forever, and that rage needs somewhere to go.
He thinks that's when he truly begins hating himself. When everything changes for him; his entire perception of life, his view of guns, his thoughts on war. He has been needlessly brutalized for a bet. A bet. His trauma has nothing to do with the war's outcome and everything to do with a couple Afghanis. Some fucking money. And he hates it. Hates this place, hates this war, hates the people who did this to him.
He wants revenge.
But John never ends up getting vengeance. Instead, his shoulder becomes infected, and by the time he's found by British troops he has osteomyelitis. Those days of hospitalization remain a haze in John's mind, and for that, he's almost thankful.
John knows he gives a report of the situation, but makes no mention of Russian Roulette. He only details his initial imprisonment and his transfer to another camp, where he managed to escape after killing several Taliban soldiers. He gives the dog tags to the men questioning him, stays silent about the camera, and never utters another word about the situation.
It's kept quiet, clearly, since his name hasn't appeared anywhere in the news or the media. John isn't entirely sure why--perhaps it would make the army look bad--but doesn't think too much on it. Those next few months are filled with hardship and agony as he slowly recovers, transferred to another hospital closer to London.
He grows to develop a psychosomatic limp, unable to walk without a cane, and is thereafter medically discharged from the army. He notices the trembling in his hand, wonders what it's about, then grows sick with realization.
His therapist diagnoses him with PTSD and John finds life to be much more bleak and dreadful after that. He has frequent nightmares, flashbacks that are frightening enough to put him out of commission as a surgeon. He's left treating cases of allergies and the flu, miserable beyond all belief, and that's when he watches the tape again.
It's horrible. Nauseating. John watches as he puts the gun to his head with a shaking hand and pulls the trigger. The 'click' of the revolver echoes in his mind, until it's the next night after and he's rifling through his drawers in his one-bedroom flat, that damned click! still there, and then he sees his pistol.
John stares. He's not meant to have it, but he doesn't care. He's too terrified to part with it, too afraid of what it means. He knows it's a bad idea to pull it out and look at it, but he simply can't help himself. John turns it over in his hands, inspecting it, running his fingers over the grooves and letting that familiar feeling of terror thrum through his skull.
This is stupid. He shouldn't be voluntarily reliving this. He knows it's bad to hold this gun, knows what Dr. Ella would say, but…but…
John puts the muzzle of the gun to his head, feeling his hand tremble as he does so. He can see the room in front of him flickering, remembers the coolness of that evening, sees Lawrence sitting in front of him with a horrified expression--
Then he sees the bodies. Lawrence. The dog tags, the camera. He hears the 'click' in his head, thinks, I want this, I want this, I want this, slowly presses down on the trigger of the pistol--
John is suddenly brought back to the present, made painfully aware of his current predicament. He's holding a loaded gun to his head, ready to press the trigger. He's about to kill himself. Oh, God. John drops the gun with horror and jerks back, stumbling out of the chair. He hobbles painfully to the bathroom, dropping in front of the toilet before vomiting his entire dinner up. He sobs heavily, chest heaving with each breath, tearing his hands through his hair and wishing everything was different.
Wishing some part of him hadn't died that day.
Once he's finished throwing up, John realizes he can't move without severe pain and ends up crying harder, laying down on the cool tile ground and trying to calm his mind. He wishes he didn't live alone, wishes everything wasn't so silent. He can't stand this life anymore, can't stand who he is, but John doesn't know if he can kill himself. Not when it means he could've let it happen all those months ago, not when Lawrence could've had a chance at life…
He wonders for David's family. Wonders for the other soldier he was never able to identify. Wonders if the families of those Taliban troops know what they did, if they grieve for their sons and brothers and husbands.
John has taken many lives, but he thinks those will be the clearest. By shooting those Taliban soldiers, John had ensured Lawrence's death. It makes him sick all over again.
He wishes he could see another corpse, if only to get this horrid picture out of his mind. Why does Lawrence have to be the last death he ever witnesses? Why has God done this to him? John wishes he had the answers, but finds himself unable to come up with any solutions.
The only thing that forms is that God is punishing him for his sins, for begging to live when he should've begged for Lawrence's life. It's only fair that he's penalized for his actions. The army already has by medically discharging him…why not God, too?
A car backfiring. That's what makes him jump today, stopping right in the middle of the street, jerking his head from left to right, hearing the explosion of gunfire in his head as he looks desperately for the origin of the explosion--
Explosion. No, no, it's not…it's not an explosion, it's a car backfiring. He's not in Afghanistan, he's in bloody London, with this bloody cane and his bloody limp. The honking of horns finally seems to register for John and he waves a hand, cursing as he shuffles across the street.
He hates the click of his cane, hates the sound it makes as it strikes the pavement. All that registers in his mind each time he steps forward is the clicking of that revolver, the way its muzzle felt buried in the side of his head.
John goes white as a sheet at that, hand beginning to tremble. He wants to rage, wants to throw his cane through a window, wants to scream as loud as he can, but he doesn't. He walks on, makes it home, and collapses in his chair.
He stares at the desk laid out in front of him, belligerently throwing his cane to the ground. He flinches at the clack! sound it makes, and that's when he decides to do it again.
John opens the drawer, moves the files and camera away, and pulls out the pistol once more. He breathes in, then out, then unloads the handgun with military precision. He holds the bullets in his palm, stares at them before dropping them into another drawer, out of sight.
He slams the magazine back into the gun, now empty, and stares at it for a moment. Then he's putting it up to his head, hand trembling, eyes squinting with the promise of pain that would come from shooting himself. And then he's thinking back to that day once more, of Lawrence, the soldiers, the blindfold, a blinking red light…
He slowly begins to pull his finger on the trigger and gasps out softly, panic pressing on his insides. John tries to calm himself but doesn't quite shake away the memories, allowing them to sit and simmer in his mind.
"Shoot! Shoot!" a soldier screams, and John jerks hard, eyes wide as he looks through the darkness of his bedroom. "Shoot, idiot!" John clenches his teeth, terror burning straight through him.
"Lawrence," he says aloud, so confused on where he is, caught between a time in the past and the present and unsure of where he stands. He swears he hears David's voice, hears the Taliban soldiers yelling, and suddenly he's giving pressure on the trigger and--
Click.
John drops the gun immediately, jumping when he hears it clatter to the floor. He fists his hands in his hair, leaning forward and sobbing, curling into a ball on the chair. He rocks himself back and forth, feeling just as traumatized as he was on that evening. Wondering why he's done this to himself, wondering if shooting himself over and over again will finally make some change in his psyche.
Maybe he'll finally be normal again. Or maybe not. Perhaps it's just causing more damage. John truly doesn't know, but there lies a comfort in being able to control the gun, to ensure there are no bullets inside when he shoots himself. He's not being forced to do it--he's just regaining some manner of control over the situation.
Maybe it's not truly so bad, after all. Even if he does feel awful afterward.
John doesn't think he has any words to truly describe Sherlock after he meets the detective: Infuriating? Annoying? Dismissive? Yes, all true. But there's something else, a pledge of danger, a promise of death. And that's what reels John in, that's what convinces him to go along to that first crime scene.
He can't stand having that picture of Lawrence in his head anymore. He knows his psychosomatic limp is because of the bullet wound from David's leg, from the trauma it inflicted on John. So when he sees Jennifer Wilson's body, still and lifeless on the ground, he can't help but feel like something deep within him has been healed.
He doesn't realize exactly what it is until he's off with Sherlock, chasing a suspect into the night without his cane. And then he returns to Baker Street, and Sherlock says something along the lines of "proving a point", then John realizes he left his cane behind, and…and everything starts to make sense.
He stares at Sherlock as he argues with Lestrade, astonished this man has healed him by doing something so simple. John manages to swallow the bitterness left behind in his mouth at the thought of his therapist being unable to make any similar kind of significant change within him.
It was Sherlock. Sherlock did that. So that's why he finds himself defending the bloody idiot, even if he apparently is a drug addict, and everything is going well and truly fine until--
"But if you were dying," Sherlock breathes, invading John's space, eyes wide and crazed, "If you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?"
John doesn't even have to think about it. He sees flashes of a revolver, a pink painted sky, a laughing Taliban soldier. "Please, God, let me live."
Sherlock scoffs. "Oh, use your imagination!"
John just stares at him, strangely hurt yet comfortingly empty. "I don't have to."
And Sherlock just stares at him for a moment, searching his face for something, but John doesn't know what. It's strange to see Sherlock falter, but then the man is back on his tirade, and John's left somewhere in the background, nearly forgotten. Lestrade glances at him, brows furrowed, but ultimately says nothing as Sherlock continues his diatribe.
All John can taste in his mouth is sand.
The taste of Afghanistan remains until Sherlock is out the door, giving a less than convincing "I'm fine!" before he's gone. John frowns, stares, and hobbles up to his room, retrieving his gun before the police search up there, making sure to load it with bullets tonight. But by the time he makes it back down Scotland Yard is filing out of his flat, all except for Greg Lestrade, who seems to think John has some sort of keen insight into Sherlock's soul.
After Lestrade's left, John sees the location and races after Sherlock. The night seems to flash by within seconds; one moment he's in the cab, barking directions at the driver, then he's in the wrong building, staring helplessly at the scene playing out in front of him. Then, for the first time in a year, John shoots someone. Kills someone, in fact.
Protecting Sherlock. It feels rather good.
He doesn't know how Sherlock figures out it's him, but the detective doesn't seem bothered in the slightest, and that's the exact moment John realizes this man is going to be his friend. If Sherlock can put up with John's madness, his penchant for violence, his irritability…then perhaps things will be alright, after all.
It's only after they return to the flat, John making his way to his room, closing the door and sitting at his desk, does he grow revolted at the feeling of happiness flaring inside him. It makes him nearly gag, so he empties the pistol's magazine and shoves the gun back to his head, flinching at the 'click!' that tunnels through his ears once he pulls the trigger.
Blood. Death. Gunfire. Explosions. All things John can't let himself forget, not while he's still alive. Remembering Lawrence's expression when he died is the least John can do in order to absolve of his sins. His mistakes.
He just has to remember that as time goes on.
For some awful, horrible, terrible reason, John is invited to a party. A party. Him. When was the last time he attended something like this? Truly, when was the last time he had friends?
Still, John finds himself slightly nervous to go. It's not only Lestrade's birthday but it's also a Saturday night on the Thames in June, bringing the possibility of fireworks, something John hasn't had to face in the real world yet. He was hospitalized during summer last year, forced to endure antibiotics straight to his heart. Not exactly a time to hear fireworks going off every other weekend.
That's the main point of John's concerns; he needs to make sure he doesn't fall into any sort of flashbacks if fireworks are set off, especially in front of his friends. So he decides to stick close to Sherlock--who he's surprised is even coming, must be John's growing influence--and hopes that everything will be fine.
The party starts out fine. Truly, it does. He and Sherlock arrive at the bar, which has an open area outside above the water. Donovan, Anderson, and Molly are all there, too, just as surprised to see Sherlock there as Lestrade is. The shock of his presence is soon forgotten, though, once everyone else seems to grow well and truly drunk.
John has a few drinks, but nothing major; he's still wary of alcohol after what's happened to his sister, and Sherlock isn't a drinker, so they remain as the only two sober people at the party. Lestrade's not completely pissed yet, but John figures he will be by the end of the night.
Sherlock ends up wandering away somewhere, much to John's displeasure, so he just nurses on some unfamiliar drink, wincing at the taste, when he hears a loud crack! that makes him nearly jump out of his skin.
John turns his head toward the source of the loud noise, and finds that Donovan and Anderson are popping balloons with a needle. He sets the glass down with a little more force than necessary and forces himself to breathe in, out, in, out. He may not have cared for Dr. Ella, but that piece of advice was the best she ever gave him.
Another balloon pops and John jumps again, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He tries to work through the haze growing in his mind, screwing his eyes shut momentarily. Stay calm. It's just a bloody balloon! Jesus. Can't even hold yourself together at a party.
Sherlock eventually comes back, raising a brow at John, who must look distressed. "Alright?" he asks, sitting down next to him.
"Fine," John snaps, rubbing his neck, glaring out at the river.
Sherlock's look of boredom is replaced by something sharper, like John is suddenly a mystery he's going to solve.
"No," John says, recognizing that look. They may have only known each other for a little under five months, but John isn't going to let himself become some case for Sherlock. "Do not even give me that look. I'm fine. Just like I told you."
Another balloon pops, and John flinches, hard.
Sherlock stares at him, appearing confused. "I thought you'd been doing okay," he says, sounding lost.
John rubs at his face, sighing heavily. "PTSD doesn't just go away, Sherlock. I may not have a cane anymore, but Jesus could they stop popping those goddamn balloons!"
Molly, who has come up from behind them, makes her concern apparent. "John, are you alright? Shall I go tell them to stop?"
"Jesus," he mutters, "I'm fine. Don't…" A hint of shame creeps into his tone. "Don't tell them anything. I'll be okay." John looks at her, appreciative in a tired sort of way. "Thank you, though, Molly."
Sherlock and Molly share a look that John pretends not to notice. The three sit there in silence, the low hum of music playing over their heads, and thank God no more balloons are being popped. John allows himself to relax, just slightly, rubbing distractedly at his shoulder--
BOOM!!
John freezes, eyes wide and jaw slightly agape at the thunderous roar that seems to scream into the air. He hears another one, this one seemingly louder, and finds himself nearly toppling out of the stool. Oh, God. They're being invaded. Explosions, destroyed Foxhounds-- no, no, wait, he's not there, he's here, in London, with Sherlock…
A spray of fireworks shoots into the sky, but to John, all it sounds like is artillery fire. A machine gun, its sound reverberating through all of London. Or is it Afghanistan? John suddenly finds it very hard to breathe. His left hand trembles, horrible, awful memories coming to surface, and for a moment he thinks he's in that dirty little cage, starved and dehydrated before the worst moment of his entire life.
"John-- John!"
John doesn't even realize he's having a panic attack until Sherlock shakes him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. John takes one look at him and Molly, trying to ground himself, but then another firework is shooting into the sky and John is off, out of his seat and shoving through crowds of people.
He makes it to a hallway, he thinks, trying to find an empty bathroom but unable to do even that. The ground seems to shake and John stumbles, hitting the floor and resorting to covering his ears with his hands. He closes his eyes, backs up against the wall, tries not to scream out for Lawrence, tries not to beg for a measly bowl of rice. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus, he's back there, he knew he never left, it's all coming back and John can't cope and he's going to die--
Hands are suddenly on his shoulders, shaking him out of his stupor. John's eyes snap open and he sees Sherlock crouched in front of him. The fireworks are going off like crazy and John lets out a pathetic whimper, shaking his head. "Make it stop," he whispers. "God, please, make it stop."
Sherlock frowns. "It's alright, John," he says. "You're not in Afghanistan. You're in London, with Sherlock Holmes, at Greg Lestrade's birthday party. The sounds you are hearing are fireworks, nothing more."
John says nothing, trying to make the sentences tumbling past Sherlock's lips make sense. "Fireworks," he repeats slowly, feeling around the word in his mouth. "Fireworks, they're…fireworks."
Sherlock nods. "Yes. Just fireworks."
He doesn't believe it. He almost can't, for a moment, then everything comes rushing back with blinding clarity. Lestrade's party, the balloons, Sherlock's concern, the fireworks…
John looks up, mortified. "I'm so sorry," he says. "Jesus, I did not mean for that to happen. Oh, God…" He shakes his head as trembling breaths make their way past his teeth.
"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffs. "It's not as if you could control your reaction. I knew we shouldn't have come to this idiotic jamboree anyway."
"Jamboree?"
"Yes, John, a large celebration. Do keep up."
"I know what a jamboree is, Sherlock, I just didn't think it was a word in your highly academic vocabulary."
"Now you're just being an idiot."
John pauses then laughs at that, truly laughs, and Sherlock smiles soon after.
"So," Sherlock says, "Chinese?"
He snorts and shrugs. "What else?"
They get home later, and as usual, John hikes the stairs to his bedroom, closing the door and making sure Sherlock is making some appropriate amount of noise before reaching for the gun in his desk. He's still somewhat shaken from the fireworks, not having expected that harsh of a reaction from himself.
Even more embarrassing was for Sherlock to see him come undone like that.
He's never fallen apart in front of anyone before, at least, not a friend. Doctors, therapists? Sure. John had screamed himself raw with anger during physical therapy, but hadn't bothered getting too worked up about it all. Now, though…
There's the tremor in his hand he wants to still. The flash of Lawrence's panicked gaze he wants to throw from his mind. It's come to the point where John can't forget the memories without his gun, without checking the magazine and making sure it's empty.
The process is short, but still brings some small amount of shame to John. He knows no one would understand if they saw what he was doing; knows they wouldn't be able to register beyond what it looks like. It's not suicide. He's not suicidal. Or maybe he is. John doesn't really know. Either way, this is a form of comfort, of control, and he doesn't know how to let go of it.
"Shoot!" he hears in his mind, always managing to come back to that horrific day. The thought of Lawrence sends a tremor through his leg, so small no one would even see it, but John picks up on it immediately.
He won't allow that. He needs to have full control, needs to be the one to put the damned gun to his head and pull the trigger on his terms. So what if he re-enacts the scene while doing so? It's his penance. His punishment. God knows John deserves the pain.
"Three," John says to himself in Pashto, exhaling. "Three bullets." The familiar words wash over him with the same amount of terror he felt in that moment. John's hand trembles again as he puts the gun to his head. No good. No fucking good.
"Shoot," he whispers, closing his eyes. Shoot, shoot, shoot! He recalls the sunset that evening, tries to remember Lawrence's eye color, finds that he's failed. He grows agitated, finger pressing down just slightly on the trigger. Why is his hand still shaking? He should be calm. Collected, like he was last time. Why isn't he calm? Why isn't he calm??
"Shoot yourself, idiot," he growls in the same foreign language, digging the muzzle deeper into his temple. He goes back over the scene in his mind: explosions, imprisonment, Lawrence, the revolver, click!
So simple yet the sound speaks so many things for John. It speaks of life, and death, and everything in between. It speaks of Lawrence's terror, of John's strange calm at the end of the game, the lives he took and the life he snuffed out in turn. Dog tags, glimmering in the sun against his hand. A blinking camera. A harsh sob, keening cries, a punch to the face.
John swears he can still taste the blood. Still feels it, dribbling across his lip. He sits up straighter, furrowing his brows, pushing the muzzle in, gasping for breath. A hand on the trigger, the smell of gunpowder invading his nose, fire and pain and death and--
"John?"
--Sherlock. And Sherlock.
For a second, John thinks he's hallucinating. He doesn't believe it's possible for Sherlock to have come upstairs and open the door without John hearing it, for him to have come in his room period. It can't be possible. It isn't. John has been so careful, so quiet, how…?
He opens his eyes, almost expecting to see the harsh rays of Afghanistan sunlight, but instead all he sees is Sherlock, standing in the doorway, mouth agape and eyes wide with horror--
"John," he says again, words soft yet calculated. "John, what are you doing?"
John stares. He stares at this man who knows so much yet so little about him. He almost laughs. Maybe he does. But John is just confused, and upset, and can't believe he's let this happen. No one was meant to walk in. This was meant to be for John and John only. Anyone else who's ever seen this happen is dead.
He almost fears Sherlock will die too, now that he knows John's secret.
"How did you…Why are you here?" John asks in fluent Pashto, squinting slightly with realization. He isn't speaking English. Why did that happen?
Sherlock frowns, the lines of his mouth deepening. "That wasn't English."
John clears his throat politely, but makes no move to put down the pistol, still staring straight at Sherlock, who looks all too calm yet all too panicked at the very same time. "Sorry," he murmurs. "I said why are you here?"
Sherlock stares at him, clearly disturbed, trying to hide it but failing miserably. "I heard you…crying," he says slowly, carefully, like one wrong word is going to set John off. "I came to make sure you were alright, after earlier."
Crying? John frowns, scrubs a cheek with his right hand. He flinches, startling himself, flashing straight back to that first moment he was punched in the face. "I…" John swallows and suddenly feels the wetness on his cheeks. "Oh."
"You were also speaking in another language," Sherlock says lightly, "and I believe it would be in your best interest to put the gun down. John, there is no need to do this. I'm just sorry you thought you had to resort to…" His face screws up, like he hates the word he wants to say. "…this, in order to escape from your pain. I'm only right down the stairs, after all."
Those words warm something cold and broken in John's heart. He tries not to let it show, but the tension in his shoulders eases, and he finds his hand has stopped trembling.
Sherlock clearly sees John's body language and nods, encouraged. "That's it, John." He steps forward, as if to take the pistol himself, but John's eyes narrow and he grips the trigger harder. Sherlock looks frustrated at that, like he's lost a very important battle.
"Shut the door and go back down the stairs," John says, tone made of steel. It seems to surprise Sherlock, who hasn't been spoken to in that voice before--the voice John reserves for criminals.
"No," Sherlock says, testing the waters. "I will not sit by and allow you to commit suicide. I know your post-traumatic stress disorder has been worse tonight, and the flashbacks are probably horrific, but you must know that this is not the best course of action."
"Do not," John says in a growl, "treat me like I'm stupid. I said close the door and go downstairs, or am I going to have to do this in front of you?"
"Your sister!" Sherlock exclaims, clearly shocked by John's sudden lack of care. John isn't even thinking about it--he just wants to pull the damn trigger, hear that familiar and comforting 'click,' and go to bed. He can't stand the flashbacks anymore. "You're going to leave Harry behind, just like that? And what about Lestrade? And Molly? They would be devastated, John, as would I. I…" Sherlock's gaze flickers back and forth. "I have come to rely on you, John. You…are my friend. You must know that I would miss you very much."
John just stares, unable to speak, terrified that if he says anything else it won't be close enough to the original trauma, that this comfort will be lost on him, and that John will be forced to endure the flashbacks forever. So he stays silent, never taking his eyes off Sherlock, giving absolutely nothing away.
"Please think about this," Sherlock continues when John doesn't move, gun still aimed directly at his own head. "I know you aren't stupid. And I know you enjoy the crimes we solve. So please, tell me, what is doing this really going to fix?"
Silence stretches between them, thick and uncomfortable. They stare at each other, at an impasse; John unable to speak, Sherlock unable not to. Sherlock says something again, stepping forward ever so slightly, and John just sees Lawrence and those soldiers and hears that fucking sound in his ear, the need for it building up and up until--
John pulls the trigger.
"NO!" Sherlock yells, leaping forward and knocking John straight to the ground. John gasps, dropping the pistol in the clutter, but manages to relax at the memory of that sound. 'Click.' It plays in his head, over and over again, a mantra that never ends. John closes his eyes and puts his face in his hands, trembling, torn between relief and terror.
Oh, God. What has he done?
John can hear Sherlock's panicked breaths, knows the detective is checking him for wounds, scouring the ground for blood, but there's nothing. John knows he should say something, knows he should explain this all to Sherlock, but finds that he can't. He's too exhausted. This process always does take everything out of John.
"You…" Sherlock trails off, clearly shocked by the turn of events. John manages to place his palms on the ground as he presses his back against the bed, gazing at Sherlock as he unloads the magazine.
The gun isn't loaded.
Sherlock looks up at John, eyes wide. "It's not loaded," he says dumbly, searching John's expression. Comes to a realization. "You knew."
John swallows and nods slowly, feeling his left hand tremble. He growls and slams it into the floor, wincing at the pain that shoots up his arm. Fuck. God, he's losing it. He can't do this anymore.
"Give me the gun," John murmurs, eyes cracked as he stares at the pistol. Sherlock doesn't move. "Give it to me, damnit!"
"Where are the bullets?"
"In the drawer."
Sherlock stands and checks, then turns back to John. "Are you suicidal?"
"No," John snaps. "Now hand me my gun." Fire and blood and death and… "Please." His voice cracks, wanting so badly to drown these flashbacks away. Why doesn't Sherlock understand?
Sherlock hesitates, clearly unwilling to trust him, which hurts, but the detective eventually gives in and hands it back to John, magazine and all. "Just-"
John shoves the magazine into the gun, puts it back to his head, and pulls the trigger.
Click.
The images don't go away.
John whimpers, pushing down on the trigger again. Nothing. Again. Again. Again, again!
Click, click, click, click.
"Oh, God," John sobs, dropping the pistol. "No no no no no." It won't work. It'll never work again. What will he do now? He can't handle the flashbacks, can't handle seeing Lawrence every time he closes his eyes. He thinks he might kill himself if it comes down to that.
And now he's alone. Stranded, deserted, feeling like he's back in that goddamned valley again. John curls his shoulders in and begins to sob, gasping breaths hitching through his teeth. He doesn't know what to do. He hates his life. Hates being so alone with this. And now Sherlock will think he's crazy, will never look at him the same again. It's what he deserves, but it'll hurt so badly, he doesn't know if he can be abandoned again, not after Lawrence--
John flinches when hands grip his shoulders, but it's only Sherlock in front of him, looking both concerned and sad, two emotions John doesn't often see on the detective's face. And then John is pulled forward, and at first he thinks Sherlock is helping him to his feet, then he realizes…
It's a hug.
John sits there for a moment, shellshocked, before finally coming round and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back. He breathes in the comforting smell of the detective, so opposite of Afghanistan, and relaxes. His tears subside, panicked gasps drawing out into normal breaths, and every thought and flashback that was piercing his mind is now…gone.
"I'm sorry," John says, and he means it. Looks into Sherlock's eyes when he leans back. "I'm so sorry if I hurt you with my actions. I-I don't even…I don't know how to explain to you what I was doing, Sherlock. I don't even know what I was doing…"
Sherlock sniffs, crouching. "I do," he says, and John looks up so quickly he swears he gets whiplash. "It happens to people with your condition, sometimes; you re-enact the trauma as a way to cope. I'm just sorry I didn't see it sooner. How long has this been going on?"
Something inside of John calms at that. Sherlock knows. He knows what's happening to him, and John isn't crazy after all, and it's just his fucking PTSD. "Oh," he whispers, staring at nothing, until the question breaks through the haze. "Oh, since before we met. Nine months ago, at least."
Sherlock frowns deeply. "Has the gun ever been loaded when you did that?"
"No," John lies.
Sherlock doesn't look like he believes him, but doesn't comment on it. "What caused it?"
"I…" John scratches his head, trying to remember. "A car backfired one day, back before we met. I thought it was a gunshot, and it just…everything came back. I went home, emptied the magazine, and…and did…that," he says somewhat sheepishly. "It's sort of happened ever since."
Sherlock nods, like it all makes sense, which it can't because the whole thing is bloody ridiculous. "It's caused by flashbacks, then," he says. "Something that triggers your PTSD; I'll keep that in mind. You should, too. If there's another time you find yourself having a flashback, feel free to come to me. If not, perhaps refrain from aiming a gun at your head. It does tend to confuse those who don't know it's unloaded."
John flinches, properly chastised. "I'll let you know," he mumbles, not sure he even believes his own words, but it's a start.
The detective across from him hums, standing slowly. John stumbles to his feet, waving away Sherlock's offered hand. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm not the one who tackled someone else out of the damn chair."
"And I wasn't holding a pistol to my head," Sherlock rebukes.
Well. There's that, too.
"Come on," John sighs. "I'll make a cuppa."
Sherlock stares at him for a moment, like he's calculating something else, but ultimately nods. "I'll have whatever you're having."
"Good, 'cause that's all I'm making."
John wakes to a half-formed shout in his throat, a strangled gasp as the nightmares dissipate into the crevices of his mind.
He sits there for a long while, staring at the ceiling until some semblance of calm has washed over his body. The images creep away, deep enough that John feels like he can actually breathe without it tasting like sand.
He manages to lift himself out of bed and walks down the stairs, scanning the living room with tired eyes. He spots Sherlock sitting cross-legged in a chair by the lit fireplace, crackles of embers spitting up into the chimney. John watches for a moment, frowns, then goes to make a cuppa.
John sits in his chair, sips the tea as he stares into the flames, memories unbridled, crashing against the torrent in his head. He frowns and places his cup on the side table, makes his way across the living room and back up the stairs, gaze swiveling to his desk as he arrives in his room.
He crouches down next to the drawers, opening the bottom one and staring inside. His handgun sits there, unmoved from the night Sherlock attempted to stop his ritual; the gun is gleaming, an addiction John is finding harder to manage than ever. It calls out to him, winding and twisting into his thoughts like thickened vines.
He swallows against the taste in his mouth, stares at the pistol practically begging to be used. It's so close, practically underneath his palm; all he needs to do is pick it up, unload the magazine, and place it against his head. One pull of the trigger and the memories will be discarded into the night, and John can go another few hours without thinking too deeply about the past.
Mind made up, John extends his arm, fingers reaching for the gun--
And digs past it, instead picking up a flash drive that's been collecting dust for the better part of a year.
John nearly vomits when he feels the weight of it in his hand. It burns, scalds into his skin and scorches against his bones, branding him with a gateway to Afghanistan. It would be so easy to plug this into his computer and watch the horror unfold before his eyes, but John knows he can't ever do that again. It was stupid keeping the tape altogether, keeping the flash drive…even more so.
He stands and turns, heading back down the stairs before returning to his chair by the fireplace. John hears Sherlock shift, feels the curious and critical gaze on his hand, knows his friend has seen the device. But John can't find it in himself to comment, so just pitches the flash drive into the fire, left hand trembling when it disappears into the devouring flames, scoured from sight forever.
John feels like something dark and heavy has been lifted from his chest. Like he can finally breathe again. Looking into the fire doesn't remind him so horribly of the sweltering Afghanistan sun, or the sunset's oranges on that particular evening. He's mostly reminded of fire, plain and simple.
It's a feeling of liberation, a feeling John hadn't experienced in months, years. His teeth unclench, his hand stops trembling, and a tension line in his shoulder smooths out. The ache of his gunshot wound isn't so noticeable now, and for once…for once, John almost feels normal.
There's something on the tip of his tongue, begging to be spoken through unclenched teeth. So John lets the words fly, staring into the fire that's somehow managed to wipe away so much of the horror built within his life. "I was a prisoner of war," he says, and he's shocked into silence by the honesty he's just uttered.
Sherlock stares at him, clearly caught off guard by the statement. He pauses, shifts, then seems to think for a moment. "The Taliban?" he finally asks.
John nods, doesn't say anything else for a moment. "They made me play Russian Roulette," he finally murmurs, and those words make him choke, yet the memories are less prevalent, less demanding. "Ever since…well. I guess I just needed a gun to my head to remind me of what's real."
Sherlock is silent, staring openly at John, like he's a puzzle he's finally found the answer to. "I understand now," he replies, and John finds himself soothed by his friend's voice, taken aback by how much his own honestly has comforted him.
Sherlock is the first person he's ever told his secret to, perhaps even the last, and there is no judgement. There is no scorn. Just a simple understanding of something deeply personal and delicate.
It brings tears to his eyes, enough where he has to scrub at his face to dry them away. Sherlock looks over, smiles lopsidedly before offering his hand, an invitation for comfort John hadn't yet let himself receive.
John thinks of Afghanistan, of Lawrence, of the soldiers he killed. He thinks of the gun in his desk and the flash drive melted by the fire. Then he thinks of Sherlock, of his care and presence and genuine understanding of John. And something clicks, makes John realize that the one thing he's always needed is a true friend, a best friend, and Sherlock…
Well, John thinks Sherlock can be that friend.
So he looks over, stares at the hand offered to him, and reaches out; in past instances, the thing John holds is a gun, but now, he holds a hand. A hand that pumps life instead of death, a hand that connects to someone who finally knows of John's plight. Perhaps God won't forgive John for his actions, but if Sherlock can find a way to, then just maybe John can forgive himself as well.
They sit like that, staring into the fire, holding hands across the gap, bringing them closer together than ever before. And John ponders the idea of going to bed without needing to shoot himself, and it settles something in his chest, this need, this addiction that he's let fester.
John knows that tonight, he'll end up sleeping without a need for his ritual, without the need for a pistol to his head.
For once, that thought is a comforting one.
I rewrote the ending so many times--I just couldn't land on something that really hit home! I hope this ending was still satisfying nonetheless, and I think it's a good way for John to begin parting with the trauma he's held so close.
Thank you so much for reading and I truly hope you enjoyed the story. I loved writing this as well as exploring a much darker side of John, so let me know what you thought. I'd love to hear!
Have a wonderful day/night! 3
