The near to last instalment of my fic, so enjoy it while it lasts!

…

Another Unwanted Lapse

The wheelchair jolted violently over every small crack or bump in the ramp that lead down to the solid concrete (equally as bumpy), so as a result, John grumbled to himself at the misfortune of being friendly and letting another soldier have the more comfortable chair.

This one had been hidden behind moth eaten uniforms and spare blankets in the very darkest corner of the supply closet. The once spongy cushion was now crispy and holey, the thin threadbare covering smelt of dead things and one of the wheels squeaked in protest as the harsh terrain threw both the chair and passenger about.

Despite the tortuous metal contraption, the sudden burst of sunlight and flood of warmth that hit John as fast as any bullet had, lifted his spirits considerably. Closing his eyes and tilting his head back, he allowed himself a contented sigh, followed by a moment of peace, the first in months since his departure to Afghanistan.

After leaving the Mediterranean sea behind, the injured had been moved onto trains which sped across France from Marseille to Calais in record time. Fortunately, there were no causalities on board that required urgent surgery, and no deaths had taken place on the rushed trek across the continent.

During the train ride through France, John had nearly forgotten his brief lapse in kindness, it was now a mild niggle in the back of his head, something to ponder on when he had more time, and wasn't chained to rusting, four wheeled seat, like a criminal on the electric chair.

'So, got anyone to go 'ome to?'

John was dragged from his warmth filled day dreams by the heavily built navy soldier who was in charge of wheeling him along, 'Uh, no. Well, I have my sister, but she doesn't know I'm returning.'

'Aye, I get what ye saying, sometimes family don't understand what happens out on the battlefield,' his heavy Scottish accent was as thick as syrup, with the bitterness of Marmite.

'Something like that.'

Sensing an end to the conversation, the Scotsman continued to push him down the ramp, until they reached the rough concrete platform, 'You ready for your first touch back on 'ome soil?'

John grinned and answered with a huff of laughter.

As they were in the middle of the queue to leave the boat (they were departing in emergency order) they waited patiently as documents were exchanged and registers were ticked before each person was loaded into an ambulance at rushed off to the nearest hospital.

John's eyes had just finished adjusting to the light (he had spent another hour buried in the dark corners of a ship crossing the channel before arriving in Dover), he looked around, studying the variation in boat sizes, from bug sized orange flashing rescue boats, to lumbering oversized people carriers.

The vast array of vessels were the opposite to people who sat hunched in chairs, or lay flat on stretchers like sitting ducks. Far too vulnerable for John to allow himself more than a minutes peace, he wouldn't be able to let himself out of his soldier mentality for quite a few months, maybe even years, maybe never.

It was for this reason that John was beginning to wonder whether he would class now as his right time to meet the girl he was destined for. That is of course being that they were a girl, and they were going to have either a killer friendship or a romantic relationship.

He had always allowed himself to imagine their meeting, which eventually lead to how she looked, what she'd wear and what kind of person she was. But to prevent these day dreams from becoming his downfall, he would then finish by repeating a phrase he'd come to know well over the years, 'This is all great, but I won't meet her,' here he always slipped up, 'I mean – them, until I've finished with the army and have enough time and money to settle down with a family. Besides, who said we'd have a nice relationship, they may well be the one who sticks a bullet in me.'

Well at least he now had the comfort of knowing that this time, they weren't the ones who had stuck a bullet in him.

The Scottish sailor parked John in front of the check in desk, he leant over the sign in sheet and began to search for his name.

He paused, blinked once and inhaled the crisp sea air, which was suddenly taken over by a peculiar smell, almost like…Dead body?

…

'You stink,' Lestrade remarked.

The police car pulled into the navy docks, with a flash of a badge they flew through security and continued their path through the corrugated metal containers.

'Why did you even make us go the morgue first, you didn't walk out with anything.'

Sherlock was typing furiously on his tiny phone, he only stopped to glance up with an eyebrow raised in disapproval, 'This is the exact reason why you leave the deducting to me.'

'Don't test my patience Sherlock, I'm the one who bought you here remember,' Lestrade glowered at him from the driver's seat, then pulled into the space next to the taped crime scene, 'What did you bring anyway?'

By the boot of the car, Sherlock stopped mid stride.

He smiled pointedly at Lestrade, turned a sharp ninety degree angle so that he was facing the boot, and flicked the door upward.

Laying there, were two right hands in a tupperwear box.

'Jesus Sherlock! Did you steal those?'

He dramatically rolled his eyes and replied, 'Of course I didn't steal them, I am aware of some social obligations.'

'My apologies, I often forget that it's good practice to ask before taking two hands from the mortuary.'

'You're mocking me,' Sherlock said, straight-faced.

Lestrade sighed heavily as he turned and walked down to the nearest officer. As Sherlock neared them he overheard the officer asking if Lestrade had signed in yet, with a huff he said, 'Why do we need to sign in? We're working on a crime scene, I'm fairly sure that's a higher priority.'

'I'm sorry sir, but everyone had to,' he pointed to a sign in desk near the closest desk, 'It's just over there, it won't take a minute.'

As both men walked over towards the single table, Lestrade felt himself being scanned by the machine to the right of him.

'What was the argument about,' Sherlock got no reply, 'Obviously it was with someone close to you, not a family member because last time that happened you wouldn't stop talking about it for ages. A friend or a lover…both? Hmm, you've used a different washing powder. I'm going to say, you had an argument with a close friend, the one you were staying with briefly when you went on holiday, about something personal to you. Oh! How could I be so blind, about a relationship, and now you're staying with said person but you're having trouble sleeping as you're upset about the argument, not with the person you're staying with.'

Lestrade cleared his throat and quickly said, 'Right so the victim was found-'

Sherlock wasn't finished, 'But you're annoyed at me, the body parts don't usually bother you that much. Unless your argument was in some way related to me…Related to me. You argument was about my bro-'

Lestrade had begun a reply, but Sherlock was already too distracted to notice. He attempted to focus on his excuse once, but all he could here was a muffled garble of words, everything sounded as if he was underwater, it was hollow and empty. Suddenly, his hearing returned to what it was, if not ten times better, sounds became sharper and more crisp, a loud growl rumbled through the earth from the ship's hull, and a distant screech from a sea gull echoed around his head.

Dazedly he looked at the line of injured soldiers also making their way to the desk, but he could only see what any normal person would, no details, just what they wearing and what they looked like, not what they were like.

He felt Lestrade reach forward and hold his arm, but before he could register the sensation, an entirely new one swept through.

Pain burst every cell where Lestrade's hand was, his pulse skyrocketed as his body tried to heal the imaginary pain that clenched his muscle in a vice grip.

Then he was fine. Lestrade's voice came became as clear tap water, and all pain vanquished with the blink of an eye.

'I knew I shouldn't have let you work again, this is my fault. They tried to tell me it was too soon, too close to you meeting your person, why didn't I listen! I'm taking you to the hospital.'

'No you are not! A brief lapse that's all, it won't happen again,' Sherlock looked desperately at Lestrade.

'That's what you keep saying, yet here we are. You may have recovered this time, but what if something like happens with no one around and you hit my a bus. I'm taking you to see a specialist, and you're not going to argue.'

…

One more Chapter!