It felt like a weighted blanket had been put over his brain. He was desperately trying to find his way out from under it, but he could never find an edge. He got used to being under the blanket, instead of being afraid of it, he actually found comfort in it now. He would drift in and out of consciousness not really understanding much of anything.
That was how it went for about two and a half more days. The doctor would come in and examine him and that man still sat next to him. Sometimes he was holding his hand when he awoke, but he always quickly untangled his fingers. He seemed sad when he said he didn't remember who he was. But John knew there was no sense in lying to him.
One morning though, John woke up and felt different. The weighted blanket was lifted.
The low rumble of bombs exploding in the distance and the heat of the desert sun were causing chaos to his senses. He could taste the iron flavor of blood in his mouth and the rapid gunfire beginning again caused him to drop to the hot sand.
"MEDIC!" he heard someone yell.
That was for him. He was the medic. A soldier needed him. Could be dying.
He felt stuck. He couldn't move. Paralyzed in the moment, his brain was screaming at his muscles but they were not responding.
He could hear the groans and calls of soldiers all around him and he couldn't bring himself to his feet. He stayed glued on his stomach in the sand with his eyes shut as the gunfire continued.
He finally managed to turn his head to the left and he opened his eyes. To his horror, light blue grey eyes stared back at him. The eyes were unmistakably those of Sherlock's. John was immediately on his knees leaning over the body. Instead of his normal tailored suit, Sherlock was wearing an army uniform. He'd been shot, in his abdomen and blood had seeped through his uniform.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?" John's frantic voice hitched as he began feeling for a pulse.
"MEDIC!" he heard from somewhere behind him.
"CAPTAIN WATSON!" a voice bellowed from several hundred yards away.
John could feel the adrenaline pumping through him. He knew Sherlock was dead and that he had to go help his other comrades but he couldn't give up on him like that. What was he even doing here? He looked around and he saw his friends from the army lying dead around him. Suddenly, he felt a searing tear in his shoulder. He looked down and saw blood pouring from his own shoulder now.
He looked down at Sherlock and was surprised to see blood on his face and caked in his hair. It looked exactly like when Sherlock had fallen…
John could feel himself hyperventilating and fading fast. He decided that he had to try to help the others and he began crawling across the sand to another soldier who had a leg wound. He tried to dress the wound quickly and move on, but the hand of the soldier reached down and grabbed John's arm.
"Did you miss me?" said that terrible, sickening voice…the voice of Moriarty. He pulled out a gun, aimed it straight into John's face and fired.