Yes, definitely. It was Afghanistan all over again.
John has spent a lot of time in places like this. In fact, at least half of the times the British soldiers were indeed at the base, a sirene would scream and all of them would run like rabbits into a hole such as this - plain grey walls, lot of dust and a simple block of the concrete instead of a seat.
He remembered Thorton making jokes about his cleverness - he was the only one who ate his precious dessert before all other dishes, and while other soldier´s lemon cakes were left in the now bombarded mess, his one rested comfortably in Thorton´s stomach.
Few hours later, Thorton was dead. Shot in his abdomen, as the enemy managed to get inside the base, before they were fended off to disappear in the dust.
Shaking his head, John tried to scare those thoughts away. Because this was not Afganistan.
"John, are you alright?" whispered a decidedly unsure voice next to him. A minute later, tiny flashlight beamed in the darkness and moved all over John´s body only to settle near his chest, illuminating a self-satisfied smirk.
"What are you so smug about?" grumbled John.
Sherlock smiled more brightly. "You are all right."
Lestrade, of course, recieved the call soon afterwards. All hell has come loose, apparently. He could imagine quite vividly the inhabitants of a quarter described by real estate agents as "the calm oasis in the middle of London" running wildly in the streets and panicking about a suspected terrorist attack.
It might have even been one. Greg wasn´t sure to what lengths would the "friendly Arabian people" go to insure the scandal didn´t happen. And if the Saudis had, indeed, anything to do with this, than God be with them. Because Mycroft looked like the sort of man who had the power to start wars. Especially if you hurt those he cared for.
But no, Greg shook his head. Mycroft wouldn´t. Not that he would restrain himself from finding out anyone who had anything to do with this, and dealing with them without remorse. But whole nations? No. He couldn´t believe that.
Officer Porter, although being dumbfounded and feeling as if thrown into a Monty Python sketch without warning, did what a good officer of the law does. Rule number one: Protect people.
So he leapt after the man, not sure if the driver who followed a few steps behind was trying to catch him or the fucking idiot in pyjamas.
It turned out a few moments later they were indeed on the same side, because the impressively bulky driver matched his pace with Porter and after some struggle they both managed to get the crazy guy away from the ruins and the fire and danger.
"Are you all right, sir?" asked the man, evidently not caring abou small pieces of ash and dust catching on his black suit. "What the fuck do you think you´re doing?" spat Porter and he had to admit, it wasn´t very proffesional.
But the pyjama-clad git didn´t answer. Instead he stopped resisting completely, just sitting there numb in the midle of a lawn. In fact, it rather looked as if someone sucked the life of him, because he became unbelievably still and closed. If it weren´t for the a bit laboured breathing and the eyes roaming insanely over the used-to-be house, Porter would have thought he was dead.
He must be getting into shock, Porter realised suddenly, and watched, rather ashamed, that the driver must have figured it out much sooner. The man took of his jacket and threw it over the still form of his employer and then proceeded to talk to him gently: "Sir, let´s go, sir. I´m sure you would be better in the office, sir."
"Safe," the man said finally. Had Porter any doubts that this man was insane, he was sure now. "The safe," the man repeated.
Porter was really glad the first police cars arrived then.