Chapter 1
Afghanistan, 2010.
In the lee of a bullet-scarred wall, Captain John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers tends to the latest injuries sustained by Matt, the youngest member of the patrol, following a nasty tumble down some unexpectedly precarious stairs. Two other soldiers prowl nearby, eyes peeled for any movement in the surrounding area.
"Nearly done," John says with a tired smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Matt is 19, on his first overseas tour, and he's been like a dog straining at the leash since he arrived. John has lost count of the times he's had to clean his wounds and stitch cuts - all superficial and easily treated - but it's the lad's recent and increasing jitteriness that is more worrying.
Matt's hand is gripping the front of John's tunic so tightly that his knuckles, under the ingrained dirt, are white. As a precaution, in case he might need any other medication later, John asks him if he's taken something he perhaps shouldn't have. Matt stares and snorts indignantly.
"I'll take that as a no." John keeps his tone light, gently pulling the young man's hand from the front of his jacket. He turns as a shadow looms over them.
"Everything okay here?"
The man who has come between John and the sunlight is the Corporal in charge of their patrol. Richard to his mum and dad, Richie to his brother and sister, Uncle Ricky to his nephew, Corporal Tregorran is known to everyone else simply as Buzz. He's a head taller than John, and almost twice as wide. He has a sharp tongue, a sharper wit, and an even sharper mind. Those who aren't intimidated by him adore him. He and John share a birthday, and John doesn't think he's ever met anyone more alive.
Buzz pats the young man on the shoulder and helps him to his feet. "'tis but a scratch," he says with a smile, "Off you go, young man…" He pauses and looks down at John. "I'm not convinced, y'know."
"About what?" John stands, adjusting the weight of the kit on his back before moving off in the direction of the patrol.
"That he's not taken something," Buzz says, walking beside John, his eyes scanning the area. "He's out of sorts."
John hums in agreement. To be honest, they're all on edge - some moreso than others - following an earlier close call with a poorly-disguised IED. Physical injuries were limited to cuts and the point man's mild concussion but it goes without saying that for some the shock might take longer to fade.
As they progress, John's eyes are on the rubble around the market square. These were family homes once, crowded and noisy, laughing children playing hide and seek in the brightly coloured clothes that were hung to dry across the narrow passageways. The small, bustling shops were filled to overflowing with exotic foodstuffs, garish bric-a-brac, gorgeous fabrics, and locally-made pottery. Old men would sit outside their front doors, occasionally shouting at the children, or arguing with their wives. At other times they were like statues, the only movement being their dark and narrowed eyes - which silently followed the soldiers as they meandered past - and the wreaths of filthy-smelling tobacco smoke which surrounded their heads.
It's silent now. When news of encroaching insurgents reached the village, everyone fled with their worldly possessions piled high on carts pulled by tired horses. Shops were looted then burned out, houses pounded with mortars and gunfire. Remnants of clothing still flap, grey and tattered, against pock-marked walls. Gardens that had been lovingly nurtured for generations are now choked with weeds. Vegetables have rotted in the ground and fruit has rotted on vines. The rats have thrived. The only structure which remains largely undamaged is a bell tower. The bell tolled incessantly in warning as the insurgents approached, only to fall silent when a grenade blew it apart.
John glances at the tall man beside him before his eyes return to scan the rubble, looking for anything that might threaten the rest of the nine-strong patrol. There may not be much left of the buildings but any soldier worth his salt knows that it doesn't take much to conceal a sniper.
At the north side of the square is a narrow alleyway which leads into what was once a small orchard of fig trees. Despite the hostilities, these are still standing defiantly tall in the scrubby, knee-high grass, their branches heavy with the year's first cropping of fruit that will end up as mulch. Matt is eating a fig as John and Buzz walk into the orchard. He turns to them and angrily asks why the natives keep complaining about the chronic food shortage when there is all this to be had...
Sudden gunfire crackles through the air above them. John shoves Matt into the deep shadow of the garden's perimeter wall and gestures for him to keep his mouth shut. He looks across the orchard at Buzz, who is looking intently in the direction of the gunfire. After a minute or so, the Corporal lowers his gaze and his eyes meet John's.
As they move off again, John realises why no-one has bothered to harvest the fig crop: every tree is peppered with bullets.
Matt is muttering to himself as he heads towards the gap in the wall. The heavy gate which used to hang there is on the ground, grass and weeds growing through the bullet holes. As they go past, Matt grabs something from underneath the gate. It's a child's cardigan, pale pink where it's not stained and full of holes. The lad holds the garment in his hand, stroking it with his thumb.
Watson taps him on the shoulder. "Put it down," he murmurs, "and thank your lucky stars it wasn't hiding a device."
"What the fuck are we doing?" Matt's voice rings out around the walled garden. He throws the cardigan on the ground. "They shot a kid!"
"Yes, and if you don't shut up, they'll shoot you." Watson shoves him through the gap in the wall.
"Fuck off," Matt stalks away to where other members of the patrol are regrouping. He kicks at several stones as he goes.
John pokes his head around the wall and watches him. "And that's 'fuck off sir' to you."
"Watson."
John turns at the sound of Buzz's voice, irritated at the realisation that he has allowed Matt's anger to distract him.
"I need a doctor," the corporal says in a low voice. "Get your arse over here right now."
John makes his way around to the south corner of the orchard. Buzz is standing just inside the doorway of an old brick-built outhouse, and he moves back to allow John to enter.
"Took your bloody time," he mutters.
"I went the pretty route." John dumps his kit on the floor and rolls the kinks out of his shoulders. "What is it this time? Found another split end? Or did you chip your nail varnish?"
"Did you not get the email? All beauty treatments are to be done in off duty hours."
"My secretary's on holiday."
"Head, John." Buzz removes his helmet. "And how about I make that an order...?" he adds, with a lascivious smile.
"You wish." John shakes his head as he pulls on a clean glove. "Turn round."
"Aw, no foreplay? No fair. Is that what they mean by pulling rank?" Buzz lowers his head to allow the doctor to inspect the wound. "It's a lovely arse, by the way."
"Fuck off..." John says with a chuckle. Buzz's banter veers from childishly naughty to outrageously graphic, and John finds its almost constant presence curiously reassuring. He's also well aware that the most explicit of it is for his ears only. His fingers gently part the short hair at the base of Buzz's skull. The scalp laceration isn't too deep, but there's a sharp inhale as John examines the wound."How'd this happen?"
"I shoved my head through a window," Buzz says sheepishly, "and the bloody lintel fell on me."
"Wood..." John goes to rummage in his pack for some tweezers.
"Mm-hmm." Buzz leans against the wall and watches him. "Definitely wood," he murmurs softly, "but only for you..."
"You could have concussion," John says, sounding mildly exasperated. He gestures for the corporal to turn.
The man doesn't move. He holds the dark blue scowl for a few seconds before his face splits in a huge smile. "And now you're blushing... oh God, that's fucking gorgeous."
John takes the other man by the arm and shoves him around. "Splinters," he says, sounding distracted. "There. Just needs undressing... shit. A dressing... it needs a dressing. Don't... just don't."
Buzz is still grinning. "One hour, John Watson, that's all I need. One hour and you'd be mine."
John pauses briefly in his ministrations. "And once again," he says with a sigh, and in a tone of infinite patience, "what part of 'I'm not gay' do you not understand?"
"Yeah, whatever." Buzz waves a hand dismissively. "I love a man in uniform, and I love a challenge, and you're both. How about being bi-curious for an hour? Half an hour?" Buzz turns his head and kisses John's cheek. "Five minutes?"
John pushes Buzz's head forward and secures the dressing. "Okay, you're done," he says briskly, before leaning to whisper in Buzz's ear, "and you'd only need about thirty seconds, from what I've heard." John goes to repack his medical kit, chuckling to himself. "Five minutes, my arse."
It takes John a moment to realise what he has just said, by which time he is up against the wall, the stunned recipient of a very passionate kiss. He bites down on the tongue invading his mouth and is instantly released. He shoves Buzz aside and walks away from him. After three steps, he turns with parade-ground precision and levels his incredulous gaze at the younger man. "What the hell was that?"
"Bloody bit me..." Buzz sticks his tongue out and prods it with a finger.
"We're patrolling in a war zone," John says quietly, gesturing towards the door, "and you decide that now is a good time to stick your tongue down my throat?"
"You know exactly how I feel about you, John," Buzz says softly. "You've known from day one. Well, okay... day two and a bit."
John's expression softens. "I do know how you feel," he murmurs, "but your timing stinks."
Buzz grins. "Yup," he says in agreement, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "No sense of rhythm, me. Oh, c'mon John. If not now, when? You're great company, a good laugh, and bloody gorgeous. What's not to love?" He picks up his kit and heaves it onto his back, hovering just inside the doorway as he watches the doctor. "Besides, the bullet with my name on it could be the next one."
A volley of rifle fire cuts off John's response. As the noise dissipates, raised voices come from the other side of the orchard. Matt's voice can be heard clearly above the others. The Corporal and Captain look at each other, and share the same thought: if we can hear him, so can the gunman...
In the narrow passageway, Matt is arguing with the Lance Corporal. He is clearly agitated beyond reason about something and, as he sees Watson, he redirects his fury.
"How the fuck can you let this happen? They kill a kid, and you don't give a shit! What sort of fucking doctor are you?"
Buzz is about to speak, but stops as he glances at John. The doctor is looking at Matt with an unexpected degree of sympathy, and all eyes are on him as he approaches the younger man.
"I'm a very good doctor, according to the people whose lives I've saved." John's voice is calm. "But there have been people whose lives I couldn't save, and it still hurts. I still feel responsible."
"You should," Matt snaps angrily, "you're meant to save lives. That's your job."
"'If it is given me to save a life'," John says softly, almost to himself, his eyes slightly abstracted, "'but above all, I must not play at God'."
Buzz puts his hand on the younger man's shoulder, but his eyes are bright and fixed on John. "Okay, that's enough."
Another burst of gunfire drowns whatever words might have been uttered in apology. Several bullets slam into the wall above them, sending a shower of fragments of plaster and brick down onto their heads.
Buzz squints up through the dust. "Those holes are level," he murmurs to the man by his side.
John nods. "It's too high for a first floor..."
"But too low for a second..."
The two men look at each other. This time, their shared thought is voiced. "They're in the bell tower."
Buzz drums his fingers on his knee. "Right," he says decisively. He looks at his troops. "You four in there," he says, indicating the house in front of him, "first and second floor." As the soldiers vanish into the shell of the building, Buzz turns to the remaining men. "You two that way," he gestures to the outside of the orchard wall, "and Captain, Private, you're with me."
John follows Matt and Buzz along the base of the wall, back into the orchard, where they have a clear view of the upper third of the bell tower. He leans forward. "The stairs run round the wall," he whispers. "There are a couple of dozen bullet holes where they turn, see? I noticed the light coming through them earlier. I can only see about half of them now."
"That's 'cause the sun's gone round," Matt mutters, sullenly.
Buzz's eyes narrow. "You'd not see any of them in that case. Good spot, Watson."
"He's moving around a lot, probably reloading," John continues, "so either he doesn't realise he can be seen or he doesn't care."
"I'd go with the first." Buzz glances to his right. "Watson? What is it?"
"There's a shallow ditch under that bush. I saw it on the way in. It runs parallel to the wall." John's eyes flick between the ditch and the tower as he thinks. "If he's reloading he's not looking, so sod off and keep an eye on the boy."
"Aye aye, cap'n," Buzz murmurs. "I've got you covered." The corporal keeps watch on the bell tower as John crawls into the ditch, and as he backs away to the outhouse he smiles. "Bloody gorgeous."