He was alone, standing in the middle of a windswept street in Bastion, the blazing summer sun beating down on him. The wind wept as it brushed past him, but John felt nothing.
There was no sound other than the wind. No murmur of voices, no shouted orders, no helicopters landing, no vehicles rumbling past. The camp was empty of sound, empty of movement.
He stood surrounded by bodies. He was the only one left.
He had on his fatigues, his pack strapped to his back, his helmet resting heavily on his head. He could almost feel the red cross patches stitched to his sleeves.
He was supposed to help. He was supposed to be able to do something. He was supposed to prevent death.
But everyone was dead and he was alone.
John's vision swam. He tried to spot some movement, the telltale shift of shoulders or the rise and fall of a chest that meant someone was breathing. He tried to hear a weak plea for help over the forlorn cry of the wind.
There was nothing.
He focused on a Rover across the street from him, realizing with cold shock that he recognized the driver. John ran, avoiding the bodies of people he did not know, and pulled the door open. The creak of the metal was startling in the unnatural stillness.
A sergeant was slumped against the dash, motionless. John pushed him up then took a step back. It was Jamie. His eyes skittered over the mechanic's lifeless form, looking for a bullet wound. He had no idea why he expected one or why he thought it should be in Jamie's neck. His eyes were closed. There were no marks on him.
In the seat behind him, Bill Murray was slumped over, lifeless eyes staring at the upholstery in front of him.
"Hey!" John shouted, turning around, scanning the buildings behind him. "Hey! Anyone! Is anyone there?"
He waited for an answer that did not come.
Forcing himself away from the truck, John stumbled up the street with no real destination in mind. He had to get out of the camp. There would be people outside the base. Somewhere. Another base. Kabul. The rest of the world. London. Home.
He nearly tripped over someone, managing to catch himself at the last moment, looking down. John backed up fast, as if distance could negate what he was seeing. Then he forced himself back; he had to check for a pulse.
"Oh my god," he whispered when fingers against Tricia's neck found nothing. "Oh my god. Tee, come on, wake up. Come on. This isn't really happening."
He glanced up and doubled over; he hadn't noticed the others lying beside her. Henry was laid out next to her, looking incongruous in his suit amidst the sea of military uniforms.
Josephine was lying between them, small and still.
"Oh, Jesus," John whispered, his stomach clenching. "Oh my god. No, please."
He pressed his palms against the hard ground, setting his jaw, breathing hard. What were they doing here? They weren't supposed to be here. Bastion was no place for a child – why would Henry bring her? Why would he even come?
John lowered his head to rest on the back of his hands, his eyes burning, his breath coming in ragged sobs.
He needed to get out.
Vision blurred, he pushed himself to shaking legs and started to run. The street streaked past and he rounded a corner then stopped dead before collapsing to his knees.
It was utterly deserted except for Sherlock, lying on his back, staring blankly at the sky.
"No," John moaned, shaking his head. "No, no. NO! Sherlock!"
He crawled over, checking futilely for a pulse, noting the blue tinge on Sherlock's lips, the too-pale hue of his skin. Shaking his head frantically, John pulled off his pack and tilted Sherlock's head back with trembling hands. Trying to work calmly, he checked his husband's mouth for obstructions to his airway, then pressed the heels of his hands on Sherlock's sternum and started compressions.
This'll work, he told himself. It will. It has to.
He counted uselessly and Sherlock jerked beneath him with each pulse of John's arms. His face was hot where tears were streaking his cheeks and his eyes were burning.
No, no, no, no, he pled.
"Come on!" he yelled unsteadily. "Come on, Sherlock! Come on!"
Sherlock's grey eyes gazed blankly at the empty blue sky above them.
"Please, no," John whispered. "Sherlock, please, no."
"John."
John jerked so badly he stopped working, eyes frantically searching his husband's face. There was no hint of movement, but it had been his voice.
"Sherlock, Sherlock," John said, checking hurriedly for a pulse, finding none, hands moving to stroke that familiar face, as if contact could bring him back. "Sherlock!"
"John."
He snapped his eyes open with a gasp, startled by the sudden press of darkness surrounding him, by the lack of wind and the sensation of warmth that was focused on his left shoulder. He exhaled sharply, feeling a nauseating sense of dizziness as the world tipped and dove before righting itself so quickly it left him reeling.
"John."
Sherlock's voice.
John twisted his head; he could just make out his husband in the darkness and the warm feeling on his shoulder resolved itself into Sherlock's hand, holding tightly but just this side of being painful.
John blinked, remembering where and when he was, reality reasserting itself over the dream. He sucked in another deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly.
"Nightmare," he murmured. "Sorry."
What he could see of Sherlock's expression shifted from concern to irritation; John knew the detective disliked it when he apologized for his nightmares. Sherlock insisted it was not his fault because he didn't intend to have disturbing dreams. That was true – but he still felt bad when he woke Sherlock. The detective slept little enough as it was.
"Do you need to talk about it?" Sherlock asked and the ghost of a smile tugged at John's lips. Sherlock also disliked listening to John recount his dreams. It didn't bother John; the detective would listen when needed and the doctor didn't like talking about them much.
"No," John sighed. He rubbed his face, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, then dropped his hands away. He rolled onto his side, dislodging Sherlock's hold on his shoulder, and felt an arm settle around his waist.
He didn't want to relive it anyway. He knew why he'd dreamt it. He'd been alone before, hospitalized, removed from his life, isolated. But not like the John Doe at St. Thomas'. Nothing near that bad. Because at least he'd always had himself.
With long practiced effort, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
The rest was short lived; John blinked himself awake again and sighed when he saw he'd managed less than another hour. He was still caught in Sherlock's arms, curled against his husband's chest, feeling the faint thump-thump... thump-thump... of a steady heartbeat against his cheek. With his arm around Sherlock's waist, he could count the deep, slow breaths in and out, and feel the tickle of air on his skin when Sherlock exhaled.
John lay still for awhile in the peaceful silence, waiting for sleep, knowing it wouldn't come. He had work in the morning and he knew it was going to be a long day thanks to the nightmare and the restlessness it left in its wake. He sighed to himself, tracing absent patterns on Sherlock's back, then sighed again, this time with more resolve.
"I need to get up, Sherlock," he whispered, raising his head just enough so that his voice would be audible, not lost in the thin cotton that separated Sherlock's skin from his own.
There was a corresponding murmur – half protest, half acquiescence – before Sherlock released John. He rolled onto his back, his head flopping to the side, one arm outstretched so that his hand lolled over the edge of the mattress, his other hand resting on his stomach. John waited to see if he'd wake up, but he didn't – he never did, not when John asked him to move in the middle of the night.
John eased himself out of bed and shivered slightly in the cold night air, shuffling around for a discarded sweatshirt and some socks. As he headed from the room, Sherlock made another noise and John glanced back, seeing the fingers on the detective's dangling hand flex and release lightly. He reached out, running his own fingers over Sherlock's palm.
"It's all right," he murmured.
"Hmm," Sherlock replied, curling onto his left side and withdrawing his hand to tuck it under his pillow. John smiled slightly and padded out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar behind him. He went into the living room, took the afghan from the couch and settled it around his shoulders before curling into his chair. Faint street light from outside was just enough to see by. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, listening to the silence.
He remembered how strange the lack of noise had been when he'd first returned to England. He could remember having longed for it until he had it – and then it had enveloped him in its isolation. He'd never realized how suffocating silence could be until there was no other alternative but to endure it, minute after minute, day after day.
And then, Sherlock. John opened his eyes again and raised his head, letting his gaze sweep over the darkened flat. It had been almost eight years since he'd moved to Baker Street, but he could still remember those first few days as though they'd just happened. Despite the late hour and the stillness, John could almost hear the bustle and voices as police officers tore the flat apart, looking for drugs that may not even have been there. To this day, he still wasn't sure there'd been anything stronger than Mrs. Hudson's 'herbal soothers'. He could remember that first mad case, the realization that Sherlock had left with the murderer, the frantic attempt to contact Lestrade and to track Sherlock down at the same time, the desperate shot through two windows to save him from his own boredom and stupidity.
Eight years.
John thought of the notes Sherlock had left scattered about the day before their anniversary, all the memories they contained. It opened a flood – things Sherlock hadn't written down, good and bad. His expression seeing John step out of the cubicle at The Pool. The look of concentration on his face when he'd put John's wedding ring on his hand for the first time – here in the flat, to see if it fit. Holding him the darkness the first time he'd cried over his mother's death. Being held after Harry had died. The look of bliss on his face the first time John had stumbled on the thumb-on-the-back-of-the-head trick. The way he'd taught John's body to trust him their first night together as partners. The way John had instinctively trusted him from the first moment they'd met. Years of smiles, unexpected laughter, hugs, stolen kisses, simple touches.
He had it all, stored in memories – and he knew Sherlock did, too. John couldn't imagine not having it. Not never having met Sherlock, but losing the memories. He couldn't imagine waking up one day without any concept of who he was, where he was, what his past was.
Just the idea was terrible. But he knew, he knew, that if it had ever happened to him, Sherlock would have been there every step of the way, coaxing him back, making John fall in love with him all over again even if the memories had never returned.
Where were the people looking for John Doe? Was there someone somewhere who was frantically trying to find him, coming up against walls because no one with his name had been reported in any hospitals? Or was he as alone as he seemed?
A faint creak of floorboards told John he was no longer alone and he looked up to see Sherlock's pale form stepping into the darkness and shadows in the living room. He crossed the floor almost silently and knelt down in front of John. The barest smile tugged at the doctor's lips – no matter what, that action caused some reaction, even if the flicker of desire dulled before it really formed.
John spread his legs and Sherlock settled between his knees, resting his hands lightly on the doctor's thighs. John smiled again, reaching out to run his fingers through the dark, messy curls, then slid his hand down to cover Sherlock's. Sherlock twisted his wrist so he could grasp John's hand and raised it to his mouth, pressing a kiss into his palm. There was nothing suggestive about the lingering lips against his skin, only reassuring.
"I dreamt I was at Bastion and you were dead," John heard himself say. Sherlock nodded but stayed silent and John was grateful – he didn't want any vapid platitudes or obvious reassurances. He knew Sherlock was not dead, just as much as he knew that either of them could die unexpectedly. He was a former army surgeon. He knew how quickly things could change.
Two months ago, they'd had a painful conversation about updating their wills and end-of-life care that John never wanted to repeat. He knew it was necessary but thinking of it now made him feel worse. If he couldn't imagine life without meeting Sherlock, he could certainly not imagine life if he lost Sherlock.
What had the detective said to him all those years ago? Not much cop, this caring lark. A bitter smile touched John's lips; Sherlock had obviously changed his tune when it came to his personal life but not with the cases. He still saw them as puzzles to be solved that just happened to involve the complication of human beings – all of whom could be reduced to their actions and motivations.
"I want to help him," John said.
"Then help him," Sherlock replied.
"I'm not you," John said. He knew he was half-asking Sherlock to take the case and wanted to retract his words – for the second time in less than a day. He shut his eyes, feeling stupid all over again.
Brilliant, John. Remind him that his mum is dead and then remind him of the case you made him take that nearly destroyed him. If there was an award for spouses saying idiot things, you'd win hands down, he told himself angrily.
"I am not made of glass," Sherlock said and John opened his eyes again. "And no, you are not me."
John sighed, looking away, pursing his lips.
"You've known me for eight years, John. You know my methods, how I work."
John nodded and felt Sherlock's gaze drawing his own back. He sighed and met the detective's pale eyes in the darkness.
"Still..."
"Still, you are not me," Sherlock agreed. He pressed another kiss into John's palm and interlaced their fingers, a faint smile touching his lips. "I will deny saying this if you repeat it, but he does not need me, John. He needs you."