Warnings For This Chapter: Uh, mild language, I guess. Definitely nothing explicit or remotely bad yet. xD
A/N: And chapter two is in the midst. I know I should probably be working on Dear John, or my new Johnlock called "Danse Macabre" to get it uploaded, but I was honestly in the mood to write off some anger. xD So here it is, and I hope it isn't too bad! (In all honesty, I should probably be studying for my History test that everyone's re-taking because they failed…god damned explorers. But I won't. Because I'm that irresponsible.)
A War Worth Fighting
Chapter Two: Upon Arrival
~oOo~
Third Person POV
By the time morning rose up in the rocky desert, John had already up and disinfected all of what he had left to work with. His tools came in short supply so it didn't appear strange for him to handle them with extreme care. What little objects they had had been distributed throughout the ranks of doctors and nurses – him being the Captain, he had distributed everything properly – and that gave them an easier range to heal.
John was grateful they hadn't had any attacks overnight. He was a man who had trouble sleeping already, so when what little sleep he got was disturbed by raging bombers and firing guns, he wasn't exactly the sweetest to be around. Many would agree with this assumption.
Shockingly, though, John had gotten a little over four hours of sleep before waking up. Truth be told he was a little timid about the man people kept referring to as Sherlock Holmes. Soldiers loved to talk. That much was blatantly obvious. Truth was both a rarity and an extremity as well; they loved to make their stories a lot more intense than they actually were. Whenever they were hitting up against El Qaeda with the American Troops, they would always share stories about their raids and their infiltrations like they were distinct medals in the mind.
John would rather not think of them.
The blonde yawned and cracked his neck, not bothering to groan as his uncomfortable sun burn ticked at his skin. He would think about all that later.
After a few minutes of perpetual silence and happy humming, John heard the beginnings of everyone getting woken up. The first round of – well, technically human alarm clocks – started at the east side of the tents and gradually made their way west, most people waking up with the loud shouting already. John fought back a smile and decided to hop out of his tent before they got to him. Grabbing his gun, the blonde got up and un-zipped the large, tan tarp, stepping out into the large mass of sunlight.
"Oh, bloody hell," John muttered as he squinted, pupils having to extract and retract to get used to the amount of brightness. He quick-scoped the area around him, a habit that he had gotten way too used to, and made his way to the morning rations.
On his way he met up with Tom, who was speaking to one of his buddies. Catching eye on John, he said a quick goodbye to the stereotypical tall, buff blonde, and made his way to John's side. "Hey, Johnny, you ready for the big day?" the dark-haired tease spoke with obvious precision that made the Captain roll his eyes.
"You think I'm worrying about it that bad?" John absently watched the soldiers in front of them puff up dust as they walked to the ration tent, much like he and Tom were doing.
Tommy shook his head and cocked it to the side, his grin still cocked in place. "You should be. He's seriously tough to handle." His friend warned him. John rolled his eyes. He would definitely be the judge of that. Not his friends.
"Oh, piss off. I'm sure I'll find out for myself in an hour or so."
Tom snorted but shook his head instead. "Your funeral."
John rolled his eyes.
~oOo~
After the daily ration was served and John ate as much of the nasty paste as he could, he retired back to his tent. The injured were being shipped to the medical tent down by the east bay for now, because there weren't that many injured that haven't been treated yet.
This gave John a chance to sit down and think.
The list of what he had been told about Sherlock Holmes goes as follows:
1. His subordinates name was Sherlock Holmes. Obviously.
2. He was a genius.
3. He has the tendency to be a pompous asshole.
4. He deduces upon sight.
5. He cared more about the science of medical training rather than the saving people part.
6. He's tall and weird-looking. (John didn't get much more of a description.)
7. He was a soldier being transferred by his own will.
That was just about it. From the looks of it, Sherlock was weird. Really weird. But John liked weird. There wasn't anything wrong with weird. Weird and strange people stuck out from the crowd of normal ones – it gave a flash of colour to the otherwise deathly normal society. Or, as some would say, weird people gave a strange excitement to those who had boring or iridescent lives, and John couldn't help but feel that he was slowly becoming that type of person.
John knew he had to be weary of the man he was supposed to meet, however. It seemed to him that there was some truth to what his friends were saying – rumors didn't just start from nothing, after all. They had to derive some something.
Captain Watson frowned and drew his eyebrows together. Sherlock was due to arrive within fifteen minutes by now; he could show up at any moment for all he knew. That thought made John, albeit reluctantly, a little afraid of what he might see or notice – Sherlock would surely deduce him, and what if he didn't like what he saw? What if he deduced something terrible about John and proceeded to get him revoked from his position?
Not that he had done anything like that – but it didn't mean he didn't subconsciously feel a little bit guilty.
Shaking his head to rid himself of these useless thoughts, John decided to check to see if all of his needles were sterilized. Of course he had made sure to sterilize them all at the wee hours of the morning, but he was also tired and could have missed a couple. Un-sterilized needles meant infected patients, and some infections were quite easily able to kill. John wouldn't have a death from his mistake on his hands.
Rising from his position on the floor, the doctor moved back to his plastic drawers and retrieve his supplies. John got the appliances he needed and sat back down exactly where he had before – on his dusty roll-out that was only a bit more comfortable than the rocky sand – and opened the clear plastic case from which his needles and sanitizing wipes were kept.
John busied himself with that for a good six minutes, simply basking in the sounds around him for the moment. There were no guns, no shootings, no bombs or screams, and that was quite rare for a day like today. Not that he was complaining. It was just strange for this to happen.
The Captain continued to clean his needles for another second or two before he head a few murmurings outside his tent. Turning his head nonchalantly, he hears the zipper open with practiced ease, which lead the doctor to stiffen. So Sherlock Holmes was here.
"Hey, Cap. I've come to deliver you your new subordinate!" Peter Knox, a well-known member of the British government's private regiment spoke with ease, having worked with John for a good year before moving out. They didn't know each other alarmingly well, but John recognized the guy as someone he liked.
"Hello Pete. How are you?" Watson smiled as he saw Peter slip into the tent.
"Just fine. And yourself?" The redhead replied and questioned.
"Fine." John stated with a smile. Just then, another voice erupted as a body walked through the opening behind Pete.
"Not fine. Obviously you've been stressing about our meeting because you've already sterilized those needles at least twice and are in no need of doing such again, judging from the slight discoloration on your thumbs and forefingers, along with the scabbed over prick that should be healed within the hour. From your position it seems you have already been informed of me and my skill, so I assume I don't need to introduce myself or even attempt to be nice for such reasons. I am here for deductive reasoning and cannot handle someone without at least a hindrance of attentiveness to them, so do not bore me and do not pretend to like me because you must work with me. It's sickening."
The voice had suddenly listed off into the silence, and John made sure to pay attention to every word that was said. As the man had finished, John's eyes were blown and his eyebrows shot to his forehead, mouth dropped in a small 'o' of surprise. "That's…" The silence wrapped around his word and John had to force out the next one to not sound like a complete idiot. "Wow. That was…amazing," the captain answered, replaying the words that were already said at least three times in his head.
The deduction was a simple one, but extremely impressive itself. To think that Sherlock could see his pricked finger from two to three yards away was shocking – the discoloration on his fingers was a plus. So, Sherlock knew what he was talking about already. It would be quite easy to teach, and possibly learn, from Holmes himself.
"Pardon?" That same sarcastic, commanding voice that he had heard softened slightly with surprise, and John couldn't do anything but release a half-assed shrug.
"Sorry," John apologized while as shaking his head, "I'm sure you hear that often. It's just amazing to hear something like that for the first time." Captain Watson responded easily, awe still seeping into his tone. He noticed, as he stared at the dark-haired figure that had righted himself and loomed next to the short red-head, that Sherlock's eyes had narrowed.
"One brother. Harry. You have three letters sitting next to your spread therefore that hints at a torn relationship – had you been extremely close you would have known what to say as soon as you were writing. Perhaps it's because you left for the army, perhaps not. His name is on the front," Sherlock listed, not even breaking gaze from the shorter blonde, "Your parents are either dead or out of the picture, you've no girlfriend, or you would have obviously written them first. So, him. You struggle for dominance being only average height against people in the army who are at least six to seven inches taller than you, but you've still managed to become a Captain of both your medical squad and your own troop. Therefore you are an excellent marksman, leader, and doctor. That's decent,"
Sherlock cocked his head and narrowed his eyes further, continuing. "You are a very private man. You have friends but most are decent, probably only one or two within the radius of your barracks that you don't refer to them by their rank and instead name. Pete is an acquaintance, not friend, because he still refers to you by rank and not by your name. You've been wounded severely at least two times in battle; however you are a proud man and raise your chin whenever threatened. You did so when Pete walked in, immediately asserting your dominance. Not badly, just overlooked. Perhaps you weren't popular as a child, perhaps you were bullied. Could be either."
Peter looked automatically afraid by this deduction, worried about what John might do to the man who was speaking to him. John, if possible, dropped his chin even more during this speech about his deductive reasoning, and finally he knew what all the hype was about. If he wasn't too shocked, John might have been a little disgruntled, but at the moment he didn't particularly care that his private life was laid out in front of someone he barely knew because what he had just heard was amazing.
"Woah," John commented weakly, setting his needles down next to him. John stood. "Utterly brilliant. Now I understand what the hype was about." John commented. He smiled then, a grin that said he would look forward to the man in front of him. "That was…that was wonderful."
Sherlock, for the second time today, looked what appeared to be akin to shock. "Really?" He asked, almost like a child would ask his father if his picture was good, and the father, although lying, would have said yes. Skeptical, really.
John furrowed a brow in confusion and nodded. "Yes, it was. Why, is something wrong?" He glanced at Peter, who was also staring at him like he grew another head.
"No, it's just…." Sherlock drifted as he shifted his feet, his lanky body moving in sync with the shift. "That's not what people usually say." Peter nodded along with Sherlock. The Captain grunted as he put his hands in his army pockets, absently twisting a loose strand of cloth there.
"What do people usually say?" John asked. Sherlock held the fainted of a smile as he answered.
"Piss off."
The two of them share a grin, and John realized right then they would get along just fine. Peter, however, glanced between the two like they were both insane, before shaking his head. "Alright, well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted. It was nice seeing you, John." Peter said. John shot a 'likewise' to the man as he left the tent, leaving just the two of them standing in a fairly small place.
After a second or so of silence, Sherlock up the conversation once more. "So, did I get anything wrong?" The young man asked the shorter blonde, who grinned and sat back down in his previous position. Sherlock remained standing.
Figuring Sherlock needed a reply, John did just that. "It was a brilliant deduction," John started, picking up his set of needles once more. He threw the dirty cloth aside and decided to place his needles neatly where they once were, "Though Harry is short for Harriet."
All was silent for a few seconds, even the outside, before Sherlock snapped and plopped on the ground next to John, leaving a bunch of dust to come up and hit the Captain in the face. John mumbled something incoherently in mild annoyance, but Sherlock didn't hear because he was in the process of pouting. "Sister! Eugh, it's always something," The younger man stated as if he had done something terribly wrong.
John rolled his eyes. "For what it's worth, it was a perfectly accurate deduction otherwise. And anyone would have believed, if seen, that 'Harry' was my brother." John offered with a small, re-assuring smile.
Sherlock rolled his eyes like a child. "Ah, dear John, but this is where you are wrong. I am not anyone." Sherlock stated boldly, obviously thinking quite high of himself. John should probably feel appalled, but the only thing he could do at the moment was smile goofily. So this Sherlock was interesting after all.
"That you are not," John said more to himself than Sherlock. The curly-haired soldier frowned as he heard it, though, and did what he did best – investigated it.
"Do you mind elaborating?" Holmes asked as John leaned over and opened the drawer that held his needles, sliding the compact plastic back in its respective place. John hummed and turned back towards Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.
"Can't you deduce it?" Captain Watson teased.
Sherlock guffawed. "I can't read minds." He had stated as if it were apparent. John rolled his eyes.
"Could've fooled me," John commented, before answering Sherlock, "I simply mean you're different. Everyone here, including me, looks almost the same – we act the same, talk the same, so a lot of things the same way. It's refreshing seeing someone different in the midst of war." John smiled, leaning back and crossing his legs Indian-style.
Sherlock and he shared a calm, understanding smile. "Very true." Sherlock commented, not looking in the least upset with his words. John nodded.
The blonde grew serious as he brought up a new topic of conversation. "Now, before we get started – I want to lay down some ground rules. I could care less what you call me behind closed doors – as long as it isn't Smalls – but when people are around I need to be addressed with Captain. Whether it be Captain John, Captain John Watson, Captain Watson, or just Captain, means no difference to me. I expect you to at least listen to my opinion and if you prove me wrong – which I have a feeling you will do so a lot – that's perfectly fine because I'm learning just as you are. I've heard you are more adept to corpses and cadavers, which is a lot different than a live body,"
John drew in a breath as he continued. "So please listen to what I have to say because I have more time under my belt than you in that bit. You will not be able to work on a live man or woman until I say so; until then you will simply watch me and only on dire circumstances will you work on a live person. Other than that, fights are obviously not permitted when I'm around – with our own, of course – because that will go on my record as well as yours and you will be punished fairly for it."
As John finished what he was saying, Sherlock let out a tilted nod "I can live with that. However, if someone begins a fight with me, I will not tolerate it." The taller man warned the shorter, who nodded in retaliation.
"If I am close, I want you to let me handle it. It keeps you out of trouble and I can make him suffer a lot more than you would when it comes to rank. So, is that established?" John asked, feeling as if the conversation went a lot better than it would with someone else speaking to Sherlock.
The crystal-blue eyed man nodded solemnly. "Clearly."
John nodded as he heard Sherlock readily agree to his terms. "Well, since you know most everything about me, do you mind sharing some facts about yourself?" John asked boldly. He watched a mired of emotions cross Sherlock's face, and just then, he couldn't help but realize how attractive the man was.
Sherlock had some weird air about him that didn't scream 'soldier' whatsoever. Briefly John wondered why in the hell the man was on the battlefield in the first place, but he had to remind himself that it was because Sherlock was still an excellent fighter and gunmen as well. A few minutes prior John had only been focused on what Sherlock was saying, and not what he looked like – but now he had a full view of what he would be working with for the months to come.
Sherlock's hair, eyes, and cheekbones were probably the first things one would notice about him. His hair was a fit of dark-brown, messy, dirty curls that if clean, would probably appear a lot more appealing than they already had. Still, his hair framed his long, taint face quite easily and shockingly perfectly. His cheekbones almost tore through his face they were so sharp, like one could cut themselves from just touching him. Other than that, his eyes contrasted against his hair and skin with the deepest, crystal image of blue that John had ever seen on a man.
John wondered if they were contacts, they were so beautiful.
The rest of his body was lanky but toned. John could clearly see skinny but a muscled expanse of legs, which could be anything from a skaters to a dancer. His arms were just as lanky but perfectly formed with the rest of his body, strangely keen with his stature.
The last thing John noticed were Sherlock's fully, expressive bow lips that were quirked down in a constant frown. They were also strangely alluring, not that he would ever admit that aloud, and John couldn't help but stare at them a few moments.
"I am a very private man, John." Sherlock answered the blonde quickly.
John quirked an eyebrow and grinned. "So am I. It's the least you can do, considering you know enough about me." He rebutted easily, watching as Sherlock registered that he was told off by another person in the room. It was quite amusing for John – he found that he liked teasing the brunette soldier.
"Fair enough," Sherlock gruffly stated. "As you already know, I am Sherlock Holmes, active deducer. My brother sent me here because if not, I would be in jail for identity fraud and murder of a man – which, in my regards, was self-defense because there was a gun to my head – and I don't hold humans high in my thoughts. Quite frankly, they repulse me. I do a lot of experiments on chemicals and cadavers, and I am a high-functioning sociopath, not a psychopath."
John nodded at this, as if it were every day information to take in. He had seen all sorts. Just because Sherlock was a sociopath and a murderer, didn't mean he was bad, obviously. They murdered in war all the time. It was a causality. "See, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" John smiled and shook his head.
Sherlock raised a bushy dark eyebrow and regarded John with shock. "You do realize I wasn't kidding, I hope?" He asked.
John laughed and nodded. "Of course. Even I know the difference between sarcasm and truth."
Sherlock paused for a moment, before nodding, almost unsure. John could tell Sherlock's mind was racing, and, still grinning, John continued. "And no, I'm not insane, and I don't have anything emotionally or socially wrong with me."
"Uh-huh." Sherlock answered, unsure. "You're sitting in the same tent as a murderer who just told you he was a sociopath, and you didn't even blink. That certainly says something, John." Sherlock deduced quickly, John almost not noticing the uneasy look on his face. Rolling his eyes, John answered.
"We are all murderers here, Sherlock. Or do you think killing the man on the opposing side isn't murder?" John tested Sherlock, who thought about this for a moment. After a second or so, the soldier nodded, as if agreeing with John on his assessment.
"I believe I will be able to tolerate working for you, John." Sherlock stated fondly.
John held his grin and held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. "And I you. Welcome to the team, Sherlock."
"Thank you, John." Sherlock replied as he shook the blonde's hand firmly.
This was the start of a beautifully messed up friendship, John thought absently, as he slipped into another easy conversation with his new recruit. A beautifully messed up friendship, indeed.
