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An Unwanted Rest on an Uncomfortable Chair
A violent wave threw John into the corner that he was seated in. The middle-aged man next to him jolted awake, as he too was cannoned to the right, directly into John's wounded shoulder.
The man near immediately slipped back into a deep sleep, his head wound too intense to keep him awake for more than a few seconds at a time.
The large naval ship was ferrying the wounded back from Afghanistan. The rectangular ship held smaller rectangle boxes in, which held smaller boxes that carried the infirm back from battle.
Hidden in the midst of the box maze, a John Watson was huddled in the corner. He was entitled to a stretcher, but upon seeing some of the more gruesome tragedies, he had given it up for a shiny, blood stained bench, along with several other equally as damaged men and women.
Cutting through the raging Mediterranean sea, the ship battled the ferocious wind and the dominating weather. The sky above was a mass of grey clouds, the texture as dense as scouring pads and as angry as drunk who felt they had been mistreated.
With each crash of an outraged wave, a loud tin-sounding ring would echo throughout the narrow passageways and through each winding turn.
To the men and women being bought back from the hot, dry, crisp climate of Asia, the screeching of the water and metal collision sent chills like icy daggers through their bones. Yet, the more accustomed navy soldiers laughed at the weathers feeble attempts to throw them off course with rain bullets, and the seas attempts to push them past breaking point made a mere affectionate shove upon their confident attitude.
John looked around the room, deciding whether the people within resembled matchsticks in a box, dull sandy-brown uniforms with an occasional splash of red, or if they looked more like the inside of a slave ship.
…
Sherlock had been sitting in the row of plastic chairs, labelled as the waiting room, whilst he waited for Lestrade's decision on whether he was fit enough to continue working.
The room had nearly resumed its previous hard-working atmosphere, but there was still a quiet buzz of chatter, as they discussed the recent events.
Shortly after introducing one another, the new couple had left the building (with permission from Lestrade) and had gone to find out more about one another, and maybe why fate had chosen them to meet.
Meanwhile Sherlock, denying any sense of envy, had continued to aggravate Lestrade, until he gave up and agreed to at least consider taking him back on.
So now he sat, impatiently tapping his foot on the floor and looking for any links between previous cases.
Outside, the humid weather was making repeated attempts at worming its way through the walls, and gliding in through the open windows. Summer storm clouds gathered in the sky above, weaving a thick blanket of heavy pressure over London. The bad weather hadn't come as a surprise, a mixture of a few hot summer weeks and reports of violent storms throughout Europe had given them a short period of time to prepare for the torrential onslaught.
The sticky-sweet air was enough to get Sherlock remove his coat and blazer, leaving him bored, impatient and boiling. A metallic whirring coming from his left was almost trace like, the large, industrial fan swung from left to right, left to right, left to right.
His curls rustled restlessly in the light breeze, his eye lids fell shut.
…
John rested his head against the cool wall behind him.
He took a deep breath, then another, and willed the pain to fade away. As if by a miracle, the pain seemed to grow fainter, still present (the aching back and shoulder was a constant reminder) but John felt…Distant, almost like he was watching himself.
A light breeze blew across, tickling his skin, crawling over his exposed face.
John assumed that the wall behind him had the hot pipes running through them, as a comfortable warmth was seeping through his heavy coat, warming his wrecked skin and muscles. At first he had wondered whether he had caught an infection, or if his body had finally gained enough rest and in a sudden burst of energy, had begun to heal his injury, as the heat grew and spread down every vein and limb.
A little uncomfortable, he shifted slightly in his seat, arching his back and pulling at the material that clung there. It was no use, quickly, he ripped off the coat and sighed contentedly at the relief the metal wall offered for his sizzling skin.
The cool breeze was still present, the lull in John's thoughts stopped momentarily, as he suddenly realised that only a moment ago, he could have sworn that the wall behind him was the object that was giving off heat.
Looking around him, his eyes flitting from side to side, he searched for a source of warmth, only to find that no one else seemed bothered like he was. Everyone else was still wrapped up in layers of thick army clothing, and a few were huddled to get more warmth into their bones.
Noticing that he was only wearing a standard shirt, and was glancing around himself with confusion, one of the navy doctors made her way over to him.
'Are you feeling okay,' she asked, kneeling down in front of him.
'Yes,' John snapped, he recoiled slightly at his harsh tone, and then repeated more lightly, 'Sorry, yes I'm fine, I think my injury might be getting to me.'
She rested the back of her palm against his forehead, she was surprised to find the skin warm and damp, 'I think maybe you had better come lie down, you've had quite a trauma-'
She wasn't able to finish her sentence before John cut her off rudely, 'I happen to think I'm quite fine here.'
'I was merely suggesting that you move somewhere more comfortable, and you of all people should know when to rest, you are a doctor?'
She stood, bristling with annoyance, as John jerked his head up to meet her gaze, 'Yes, I am, so I also know when I'm fine. Why don't you continue to pester Lieutenant Stanley, you seemed to be-' he paused, shook his head and looked at her again, 'I-I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me. Thank you for your kindness, I'll tell you if I begin to feel any different.'
By the time he had finished he was staring at the floor, she straightened her back and replied, 'Please do. If you hadn't been injured I would have knocked you out by now, but others might not be so forgiving, I suggest you watch your tone.'
Before he had a chance to apologise again, she had walked away.
Where the hell did that come from, he wondered. He rested his head on the palms of hands and let the cool breeze wash over him as he closed his eyes.
Presuming that he had slipped into sleep, he was contented to let his mind wander.
He found himself in near the same situation that he was sat now, only he was in a light coloured room, and there was blur of people passing by, forming a wash of rainbow colours. It was the kind of blur that's formed when you aren't looking, or when weren't paying attention and someone asks you what colour top that person was wearing, and you realise that although you were just talking to them, you have no idea.
A young man and a young girl were seated next to him. At least, from the angle he was looking from, that was the closest guess he could make. The pinkish haze surrounding them made it hard to see their faces, and when he tried to ask them where he was, they didn't answer, only continued their intense conversation.
John attempted to rise, but found himself unable to move the lower half of his body, he felt heavy and stiff with exhaustion. His stomach rumbled, and a sharp pang of hunger shot through him, enough to make him hunch in pain. But surprisingly, his back no long ached, and he was free to move his left arm without any discomfort.
However, the heat still clung to every pour on his body.
Almost at once, he changed from being confused and curious, to envious and frustrated, with what he didn't know. John looked up again, but instead of a smudged mess of soft colours, everything had become ten times sharper, details jumping out as clear as day.
A creased sleeve, a broken keyboard, a small dent on a bin, and everything was linked, lines drawing his thoughts in different directions, certain places were enlarged as he looked past them. It was uncontrollable and terrifying , but at the same time it was exhilarating and made him want, nay need to see more.
He realised that instead of caring for the people, John had briefly only cared for the story.
'No!' John called out to no one in particular, 'This isn't me.'
Everything had stopped, and John watched as the colours merged back into the unfamiliar haze they were before. Any previous trace of sticky heat slowly melted away, until its greasy texture had been replaced with the bite of ocean temperatures, and the once cool breeze only got stronger and colder.
The couple next to him grew brighter and brighter until they were a blinding light that John had to shield his eyes from.
As he opened them again, he could have sworn he saw the outline of a tall figure with a long coat and untamed dark hair.
Before he had time to draw their attention, everything became darker, and he awoke to the cold, tin ship.
He put his coat back on.
…
'Sherlock,' he barely heard the voice, 'Sherlock!'
He groaned, 'What.'
'Do want to work again or not?'
Sherlock turned all attention to the silver haired officer in front of him, 'Yes, you know I do.'
'Then don't give me attitude and you can,' seeing Sherlock's eyes sparkle slightly with the beginnings of a mischievous grin, Lestrade added quickly, 'I warn you, it's a boring, standard issue case.'
'Don't care, give it to me,' by this point, he was standing with his coat and jacket in hand, ready to leave.
Lestrade turned to a woman behind him, 'Tracy get a team together, we're going to the navy docks.'
…
Sorry it was late, but it was my birthday among other things.
Why not leave me a comment as my birthday present ;)