Scarlet red stains the ground, bodies begin to pile up, screaming, pained moans from near-lifeless men on the battlefield. Deafening firing from guns, canons firing, more pained screams. This is just a day in the life of a soldier. Add more pained expressions and emotional goodbyes to fallen comrades, and then you have a day in the life of a war doctor.
John runs from one body to the next, his heart beating in time with the shots being fired by the enemy. He leans over the next body and jumps back in surprise when he recognizes the face below him.
Anthony Serfer. Same rank and same title as John. He had been John's only go-to man in the army –well, him and Sebastian Moran. Just a young man, one who had his whole life ahead of him. Tony had been the bravest young man John had the pleasure in meeting. He would face life head-on, never give up or give in to irresistible temptation.
And now he was gone. Dead and lifeless, the once dark skinned man had a paler complexion due to loss of an extreme amount of blood.
John pushed all attachments aside and put his fingers on the man's neck –though he knew it was hopeless.
His suspicions were confirmed when no pulse was found, just a cool touch to slimy, sweat-covered skin.
John stands, feeling his mind go cloudy.
Another friend gone…How many would be gone before the godforsaken war was over?
Suddenly, a bullet whizzes past his ear, grazing the earlobe and making John jump to the side…into the pathway of another oncoming bullet.
The tearing of flesh and immediate flowing of blood out onto his uniform is enough to produce a guttural cry from John. He flies backwards and ducks, hitting the ground with a thud in order to get out of the way of more bullets. He feels his head cloud even more, a numbness overcoming his whole body.
He becomes slightly aware of hands probing his chest and shoulders, causing him to scream in pain. They lift him by his armpits and legs –not trying to be gentle at all. They set him down in a large tent, another team of medical individuals taking over immediately. They hand him a sheet to bite down on and sloppily fix stitch the wound in his shoulder closed –not having to remove a bullet seeing as it was a through and through shot. They bandage the wound and inform him that he will be sent home as soon as they can gain clearance for air-transportation out of there.
John rests his head back and mentally kicks himself for being so careless on the battlefield. Usually he had been so alert, aware of every bullet being fired and knowing how much time he had before an ambush was upon him. But now, as he lies on the crude bed, he can't help but cry. The whole reason he had gone to war was to prove himself, to prove that there was more to John Watson than just a jam-obsession and an alcoholic family. To who he was trying to prove was still unclear, but he had the tiny impression that the person he had been trying to prove his usefulness to was himself.
But now, he was going home. Shot and useless to the war.
He had failed not only his army-buddies, but himself as well.
John moved across the asphalt toward the large building –the memory being pushed into the deep archives of his mind. Hearing the faint thudding of trailing officers behind him, he knew he had to focus. If he didn't, they would all surely die. Joan and Sherlock were by his sides, each equipped with two guns, one strapped around their ankles and one held firmly in their hands.
John had explained his tactics plenty of times to the small team of officers –Sherlock and Joan included- and now they were putting them into action.
He had been worried that Joan wouldn't understand the plan and that she would want to pull out of the mission, but once again, he had misjudged her. She had gotten it the first time he explained it, and then had proceeded to explain it to confused officers.
Now they were at the building, getting ready to infiltrate the pair of criminal mastermind's headquarters. This had been a long-time coming; he would finally get to have the pleasure of killing the man who had killed his best friend. Sweet, sweet revenge.
John knew they were foolish to hope that Irene/Moriarty and Jim wouldn't be expecting them, but he still found himself wishing and praying that they would at least have the upper hand on them via weaponry and team. Sure, it wasn't the weaponry or team that would make them victorious, but he hoped that it would give them some sort of advantage.
He silently backed into a wall and waited for Captain Gregson's men to surround the perimeter, pausing for Joan and Sherlock to slide in next to him, guns ready to fire. John gave the Captain a nod, a go-ahead for slipping in the door.
The door was unlocked –which should've been their first clue that something was wrong, but John moved ahead, powered by adrenaline.
He slipped in the door noiselessly and began to sneak against the walls, using them to navigate the maze that was the dark hallways. He held his gun tightly and pointed it in front of him, sweeping it across the hallway, wall to wall. He would click his tongue once to assure that it was clear –this alert being planned just in case the hallways were dark. He knew that that would be the only thing to alert them to a clear pathway, knowing that if he spoke the enemy would hear him –and not to mention, it was pitch black. They wouldn't see any sort of hand gesture in the black to guarantee them a safe path so he resorted to tongue clicking.
John turned a corner, silently and swiftly, and clicked his tongue when it appeared safe. He made entry to a huge room through a large doorway, the door hanging by its hinges. He slowly stepped further into the room, eying a suspicious glowing light in the middle. He looked back and could barely make out Joan and Sherlock's faces, both sets of eyes directed toward the strange white light.
Joan looked over at John and gave him a questioning look.
John shrugged and held up a hand, telling them to wait.
He approached the light, knowing that what he was doing was endangering the team, but his mind was too occupied with other thoughts. He cautiously stepped toward it and tried to make out what exactly it was, gripping his gun tighter just in case.
He tentatively reached out, his fingers grazing with the surprisingly cold metal that was glowing white.
All of a sudden, a blinding white light flood the room, causing all the officers –John included- to moan in pain by the sudden light. A pain shot through John's memories, the white light triggering another painful reminiscence –stress on painful.
John is searching the Baskerville lab, looking for the ominous hound. Light is flooding the room and blinds him, his eyes sensitive to the sudden unbearable white light. He races to the door and tries to swipe the key-card, causing it to beep in protest.
Denied.
Denied.
Denied.
He angrily searches for another way out. The machines blare on, the grinding and beeping feeling like needles against his eardrums. Suddenly, everything goes black…
"Earth to Johnny boy!" Jim is emerging from a side-door as John comes to.
"What…?" John looks down at the object that had been emitting the strange white light and jumps back.
"Oh, what, Johnny boy? A little scared about a teeny tiny bomb?" Moriarty strolled further into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, Irene by his side. "You didn't seem so scared of it when it was dark. You were fascinated by it, actually."
Irene emits a soft laugh, her green eyes catching Sherlock's. "Ah, hello there, dear. I knew you'd be with this sad lot. You really think we weren't expecting you?"
"We knew you were expecting us, Moriarty." Sherlock growled.
"Then you must be more moronic than I usually thought. The 'great' Sherlock Holmes plunges into a strange environment, not observing the risks and the warning signs? Wow, Sherlock, Hun…Just wow." Irene smiles, an evil spark in her eyes.
Moriarty smirked, his eyes traveling to the woman behind John, beside Sherlock. "Nice to see you again, Miss Watson."
"I can't say the same," Joan sneered, closing the distance between her and John, placing a hand on his back.
"It's fake," John spoke, eying the bomb in front of him, "anyone with half a brain could see that."
Moriarty grinned, "Good, Johnny boy, really good! I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out!" Jim pulled a switch from his pocket and aimed it at the device. "See?" He clicked the button and the, now dimmed, white light disappeared.
John smirked. "So, that's it then? No master plan? No dastardly plot that could endanger the country?"
"Nope. Nothing like that." Jim smiled. He snapped his fingers, "Just this."
A team of masked men swarmed the room and restrained the few officers in the room (the rest were surrounding the building), shoving Sherlock aside and yanking Joan away from the crowd. They handed her over to Jim and Irene, Jim positioning a gun to her temple as soon as John protested.
"You see, the 'bomb' was just a distraction. We knew that you wouldn't have entered the room by yourself so we just had to have something to coax you in. Hence the white light." He gestured toward the tiny bulb on the rectangular device.
John advanced toward Jim, his sharp movement causing Jim to press the gun further into her temple.
"Ah, ah, ah, Johnny! Don't want to have her brains blown out, do you?" Moriarty clicked the gun off safety.
"No! Don't…please." He pleaded desperately, his voice strained. "Kill me…not her."
Irene scoffed, "You should've really listened to your Sherlock. Sentiment can be so dangerous."
John shook his head. "No, I don't care. Kill me, not her. Sentiment isn't dangerous, it's the best thing a person can have." He stepped toward them. "Let her go. Kill me instead."
Joan felt a tear roll down her cheek. "John-"
"No," He cut her off, "Joan, you have people to go back to. I don't. Please, let her go…"
Moriarty turned the gun away from Joan and pointed it at John, stepping forward so that the barrel was against his chest.
Joan stumbled to the side and into Sherlock's arms. He dragged her away and brought her beside Gregson. Gregson grasped her arm and Sherlock did the same to prevent her from jumping in front of the bullet.
Moriarty laughed suddenly, "Really, John, it's funny…"
"What is?" John growled, his teeth grinding and fists clenched.
"Sherlock jumped to save your life, but now…you're going to die anyway." Moriarty leaned in, "You know what that means, don't you?" Jim paused, letting John have time to think, "He jumped for nothing…"
John was about to punch him in the nose, hoping the blood would stain the damned Westwood suit Jim insisted on wearing every day, but a gunshot echoed through the air.
John looked down at his chest and frowned.
No wound…
He looked up, his eyes meeting fearful dark ones.
Moriarty was scared, but why?
John looked down at Jim's shirt, now covered in blood.
Moriarty lost his footing and Irene went down with another gunshot from behind John.
He turned and saw Joan pointing the gun at where Irene used to be standing, her eyes full of fury.
"Y-you shot J-Jim?" John stuttered, his shock causing him confusion.
"No." Joan spoke softly, lowering the gun. Her eyes were soft, their attention directed behind John.
He turned slowly, not knowing what to expect.
A tall man was poised, his long coat draping down his lean figure. The dark curls upon his head were matted down with sweat and were longer than usual. His galaxian eyes were resting upon John's face, irises full of sorrow and longing.
"John…" His smooth baritone voice broke the stunned silence.
John gaped at the figure, his breathing quickening and sweat beading on his forehead. "Sh-Sh-Sher…" John's knees buckled and he fell onto his shins, his gun dropping to the floor. His hands came up to his face and he pressed the palms against his eye sockets. "This isn't real…you aren't here…" John repeated to himself over and over, his palms pressing harder against his closed eyes. "It's not true…you're dead…"
"John, I am here…" He perched beside John, a hand coming to rest on John's shoulder.
John jumped away from the touch, falling onto his bum. He pushed himself farther away from the figure. "No. You aren't here! You died! You killed yourself! You jumped…you're…you're not alive…"
Sherlock sighed, "But I am, John. It's me. I'm back."
Joan approached John and helped him up. "John, he's really here…we all see him…" She spoke softly, clutching his arm to support him and keep him from falling again.
"No…" John croaked, tears streaking down his face.
"John, um, I know what I did was…devastating…but you must know, I would've never done it if it weren't for Moriarty threatening your life." Sherlock approached John as though he were a scared animal, "What I did was for you, your life was in danger…I would do anything if it ensured your safety. I couldn't lose you, John…" A tear dripped off his chin just as a sob escaped his throat. "John, I didn't want to leave you all alone…but I couldn't bear to live without you if you died…"
"So instead you killed yourself and made me live without you?" John sobbed, releasing himself from Joan's hold, and advancing toward him. "Do you even know what I went through?"
Sherlock nodded solemnly. "Mycroft had government security cameras and undercover agents following your every move. They reported your condition back to Mycroft and Mycroft reported back to me." John began to walk away, having heard enough, but Sherlock grabbed his shoulder. "John, please."
John shrugged his hand off and began to stride toward the exit, shouting over his shoulder, "If you really cared, Sherlock, you would've revealed yourself to being alive years ago!"
"I couldn't tell you, John! Don't you get that? If I revealed my secret, you would've been put in more danger! Moriarty had snipers on you, John, snipers!" He stressed. "They were watching you just like I was. Except, they were watching to see if anything had gone amiss; if they had missed an important clue. If I would've told you, they would've seen your change in attitude and known that I had survived that day! They would've killed you, John…and that I would not allow."
John had stopped to listen, his back still to the detective. "What did you do?"
"The only thing I could. I killed off Moriarty's empire, one by one." Sherlock explained. "The only thing that kept me going was the fact that, once this task was done and over with, I'd be able to go home to you, but when I got there, you were gone."
John turned and sighed, "Yeah, well…" John ran a hand through his hair, averting his gaze.
"I tracked you down and found that you'd gone off to New York for holiday. I followed you to that gravesite, John…"
John snapped his head back to the detective, "You were there?"
"I was planning to reveal that I was alive there, but…" Sherlock looked over at Joan and gave a small smile, "you were otherwise engaged…"
John cleared his throat. "Did you follow me everywhere, Sherlock?"
Sherlock nodded, tears forming again. "I saw how happy you were with her, John…and I just couldn't stand the thought of invading on your relationship…" He gave a soft laugh, "I've done it too many times before."
John laughed softly, "Yes, yes you have." John sighed, "But, Sherlock, you should've told me…"
"I know…" Sherlock nodded, "I should've. I know that what I did was scarring, but is there any hope for forgiveness?"
John sighed, "Sherlock-"
"Please, John, do whatever you need to release your anger. Punch me, kick me, break my nose…I'm prepared for all three. Cuss me out, wish to never see me again, but please just forgive me, John. You can do anything you want to do to me as long as you forgive me." His voice cracked, assuring that what he said was sincere.
John clenched his fists, tempted.
Sherlock closed his eyes and waited, prepared for anything –well everything except for John's arms snaking around his shoulders. Sherlock cracked open an eyelid and found John's head below his chin.
"I've missed you, Sherlock." He mumbled against the detective's chest.
Sherlock shook his surprise and embraced John, his arms pulling John closer. He nestled his head in John's sandy blonde hair and closed his eyes, enjoying being in John's arms.
"I've missed you too, John."
A/N: Thanks for all the people who have stuck with me this far! One chapter to go -well, actually its an epilogue...but it'll still be important to the story. If you haven't followed me as an author and don't get new story alerts, I would like to take this moment to tell you that I did just post a Sherlock fic! It's called Old Habits Die Hard and has BAMF!John. ;D (if you don't know what BAMF means...it means bad-a** motherf*cker.)
One chapter till sad announcement...
So yeah, FAVORITE/FOLLOW/REVIEW! AND BE SURE TO FOLLOW/FAVORITE ME AS AN AUTHOR TO CATCH EACH STORY!