Disclaimer – You recognise it, I don't own it.
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John woke up as they hauled him out of the vehicle. He was inside some sort of structure. It was cooler, but the cold was the cold of air-conditioning. Not the cold of the desert at night.
He knew it wasn't unusual for a mind to focus on odd things in stressful situations, but it was rather frustrating that the central thought running around his mind was that he was hungry.
He also wanted a bath and a clean set of clothes. So he could get Steve's blood off him.
He'd also like very much not to be a prisoner right now, thank you very much. But he didn't see that happening any time soon. So food, bath and clean clothes would be very much appreciated.
Oh, and the blindfold removed.
He walked where they directed him, mainly with pushes and shoves. But they caught him before he ever hit the floor on the one occasion he tripped. So they clearly weren't intending on him being harmed right then.
He was forced into a kneeling position on a stone floor. He easily settled, knowing that he could be in for the long haul in that position.
Then the blindfold was torn off, John blinked in the sudden light. He quickly took in his surroundings.
He was indoors, as he had guessed. A room with no windows, but bright lights. The walls were heavy stone. The men present were wearing blue marked with a red snake. Apart from the one who was probably the leader, he was dressed in red with a silver snake.
All faces were covered apart from the eyes and eyebrows on the lower ranks.
"Why have you brought him here?" The leader demanded, "Prisoners go in the Slave Pit."
"He's a medic." One of those who had grabbed him declared, "You said we weren't going to get a replacement for Peterson any time soon."
"So you stole one. Good thinking." The leader was proud, "That's the sort of thinking that leads to promotion. Will you serve us?"
"Do I have a choice?" John asked rhetorically.
"No. And for each one of my men you let die. I will kill a prisoner."
"Then I want a deal." John kept his voice calm and steady, despite knowing what rode on his words, "In addition to treating your men, I want permission to treat the prisoners."
"Why?"
"Because I'm a doctor." John replied, "Because they are my fellow prisoners. Because I can."
"It would save us having to replace slaves." One of the rank and file commented, "They're tough to break at first."
"Okay then. Agreed. What is your name?"
"Doctor Watson." John stated.
The RAMC usually didn't state their medical titles. Preferring to stress their military credentials. But it was best to play up the doctor image for now. Down play the soldier part. Might give him an advantage later.
After all, doctors were harmless. It was the military that were dangerous.
"Well then, Doctor, we'd best take you to your quarters."
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John was pushed, not too unkindly, into a room. His hands freed only moments before.
"These are your quarters." The captor declared, "There is no need for you to leave. There will be a guard outside at all times. Should you need anything ask."
"Can I have some food and water?" John asked instantly, his hands rubbing his wrists.
He knew he wouldn't have much damage on his wrists. He hadn't fought the bindings at any point. But they were still sore.
He looked around as the door shut behind him. Crucially without being told that he would get any food.
The room was clearly an infirmary. A dozen beds lined the room with blue blankets and white pillows.
It made him think of an old story that Harry had read to him years ago.
"In an old house in Paris." He murmured to himself.
He noted two doors leading off to the side, one on either side. Moving slowly he approached the door on the left. Opening it he saw a small doctor's office. Desk, chair, bookcase, filing cabinet, clock, computer, notepad, pen, pencil, calculator.
Two doors led away from the room. One to the left and one to the right.
He checked the left hand door first. It was a storage room, complete with a small pharmacy. He would need to do a stock-take later. See what he had to work with.
He moved to the second door. Behind it was a bedroom and just off from that was a bathroom.
Before he had fully realized what he was doing, John had stripped and was in the bathroom, warming up the shower water.
It was barely warm enough, before he stepped in, desperate to get the blood off of his skin, out of his hair.
He didn't know how long he'd been in there. But it was until he felt clean.
He grabbed a towel off the radiator. Started to towel himself dry.
Stinging in his palms drew his attention to them. Four crescent shaped cuts in the centre of each of his palms. Fresh blood oozing from them.
Once he was dry, with a towel wrapped around his waist, John moved into the office, in search of a basic first aid kit.
He knew what the marks were. Not too hard to figure out. He'd clenched his fists so tightly after they'd shot Steve that his fingernails had cut into his skin. He'd not even noticed at the time. He'd been so angry.
He found the kit and retreated to the bedroom. He applied antiseptic cream to the cuts and to the numerous cuts, scrapes and nicks he'd gained in the short battle.
He was initially surprised at the lack of bullet-creases, but quickly came to the answer.
The soldiers had been searching… Hunting for a medic. He'd been betrayed by the red crosses on his arm-bands. Marked for capture by his own uniform.
They'd deliberately tried not to harm him. He was no good to them dead.
He carefully applied a protective barrier over the cuts. No need to apply a bandage that way. It'd be sloppy as he could only use one hand. And bandaged hands would just get in his way.
His best way to survive his captivity was to be useful. Bandaged hands would reduce that. He needed to survive. If he survived, he could get out of this in the end.
Survival had to be his first priority. Whoever it was who had captured him would be found eventually. They weren't exactly being discrete. Attacking a British Patrol. Leaving potential survivors. Capturing slaves.
Somebody would know that there was an enemy in the area. And somebody would find them.
John pulled on his boxer shorts and looked at his clothing.
He wasn't going to put Steve's blood back on.
He opened the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. Looking for clothes that might just fit.
He found a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a cotton shirt that fit. Fortunately, for John's peace of mind, none of them emblazoned with the snake symbol. He did not want to identify with his captors. That way lay madness.
He ran his hands over his uniform. Carefully removing the badges. He laid them out on the top of the chest of drawers. Behind them he placed the belt, glad that it at least had been spared the blood.
His beret was still stuffed in his pocket. The feather was a little bent and battered. But generally okay. He hung it off the mirror on the chest of drawers.
He looked at his vest. Once the blood was cleaned off it, it'd be fine.
Same with his shirt and trousers. The boots needed polishing to be back to inspection standard. But generally everything would be alright after cleaning and a bit of sewing.
Not that John had any intention of wearing it any time soon.
It was the uniform of a soldier.
That wasn't who he needed to be right then… Or rather it wasn't who he needed to appear to be. The jeans and t-shirt and over-shirt would do the job good enough. Slightly overly large on him, they made him look smaller than he actually was.
He moved out into the main infirmary. A tray was resting on a bedside table, a sandwich, glass of water and chocolate bar on it.
Bare feet padding lightly over the floor, John moved to perch on the bed to eat his meal.
He looked around his gilded cage. He would stay strong. He would endure.
This would not be forever.
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Please Review.
I would like to thank my followers and reviewers. Thank you.
GabrielsDoubt – First reviewer! Thank you!
Johnsarmylady – Glad you liked.
Angelwings23123 – This one's not quite got the same urgency or immediate threat as the other. I'm trying to show John off a little.
YYHfan-KB – Thanks. I think I'll need it.
IzzyDelta – This soon enough for you?
Once again thank you.