It was a year since he had been told. Six months since Sherlock had left him. Six months since he had been able to form tears.
If John had believed in destiny or fate anymore, he would have found it, perhaps, amusing that he was to die that day.
It was hot, but it was Afghanistan in the summer, so what the hell did he expect. Sunny too, just like that day when Sherlock had told him. It makes him smile to think about that last moment before his world was shattered, innocently admiring how much Sherlock reminded him of a cat.
It was typical. Really. As typical as any day at war could be. They were out on patrol.
He saw it. He saw it and no one else did. That's what living and working with Sherlock would do to you. A gift and a curse. But he couldn't just ignore this. He'd never be able to live with himself. Because if he did nothing, they would die.
All of them. (Marie, mother of two young kids. Nathan, wife at home, she wants children. Sammy is practically just a kid, doesn't even need to shave. Jackson, ageing mother at home who he promised to return to. Katia, Katia... John knew all about her. She wanted to become a doctor. Young and full of promise. Eager to learn. Beautiful girl with a boy waiting back home for her. Wants a family.)
Or John Watson. Half of an equation. Unbalanced. Non-whole. Incomplete.
It was hardly a choice.
Blessedly, the next bit was a blur.
It was bright and loud and upside down and inside out and so so painful and he wondered if that was it; if he was dead. But he opened his eyes again and all that sand was still there, bright and harsh.
There was nothing below his chest. He was thankful for that. Other than that... he couldn't really tell. Except perhaps his neck. It's bleeding. Not pumping though, just... gushing. Irrelevant.
He realized in that second how much his heart was hurting. Had been hurting. He'd been in shock for six whole months, wandering around seeing only grey. And now that the world was in colour again it was so bright and happy and agonizing that it hurt him to see. So he closed his eyes and prayed for the agony inside of him to stop, and perhaps let some of the bodily pain in, because he knew it was waiting in the wings.
He was colouring the sand. Blood and tears.
He was crying.
Odd. He hadn't been able to cry since that day in the kitchen, and it had disappointed him. Shamed him. Now he was, but it was all going to be wasted.
Just going to be soaked up in the sand next to the rusty spot where he poured his heart out in more ways than one.
He could see them off in the distance. Safe. Because of him. Safe. And in the end, isn't that what anyone wants?
They were running towards him, which was thoughtful of them, but entirely unnecessary. He was going to die here. He felt it.
Strangely enough, he was completely fine with it.
He didn't think please god let me live, because that wasn't what he wanted.
Instead, he closed his eyes and waited.