The sharp taktaktaktaktaktaktaktak of gunfire in the distance. It was hot and dry, and flourescent light above him filtered in through his eyelids and made it hard to keep them either open or closed comfortably.
No, that wasn't it.
He was back in the war- it turned out that the doctors and nurses and psychologists were just mistaken, the bullet missed his shoulder by mere inches, whized by and became inbedded in the sand thousands of feet behind him, we're sorry for the inconvenience, you're welcome back if you'll have us.
In some short moments he would have to leap up from where he was propped up with his eyes closed and his gun cradled firmly in his arms- he would have to exit the safety he'd found and run across the way to the next barrier- but for now he could close his eyes and breathe as if he was sleeping. He didn't know the next time he'd be able even feign rest, and so he figured it was better than nothing.
"Captain."
John squeezed his eyelids shut, as if that would make the man's voice go away. Instead, the creeping feeling of eyes on his face made such notions as 'a few moments of shut-eye' impossible.
He opened his own eyes and turned to meet face to face with the face of a dark-skinned private, young and promising, peering at John with a determined lack of fear in his eyes. He'd been with this man for seven weeks now but didn't really know a hell of a lot about the kid- he was twenty three, a fiancé and six month old son back home that he'd never yet held. He felt like he belonged when he served in the military but didn't want to make a career of it.
No, wait, he knew this story. The story of the Captain and his Last Remaining Private.
"Ready when you are."
This was the part of the story when the kid can't keep his head down and gets shot, right in the sensitive part behind the ear, with enough force to send bits of his brain at John, to be discovered under his collar when the helicopter finds him alone in the middle of the desert two days later, limping fiercely and putting pressure on the wound in his shoulder that he'd managed to clean and sew up himself.
He knew this one well.
John pulled on his shoulder straps, strengthened the grip on his gun, and looked back over to the private to give him the go-ahead.
Icy blue eyes stared back at him.
Sherlock's curls spilled out from under the private's helmet. He'd forgotten his pack somewhere; they'd have to share rations. He felt a small pang of annoyance, but he knew he had himself to blame- what was he thinking, taking Sherlock back to war with him? They'd told him it was a bad idea. He doesn't belong in Afganistan, he's a civillian. If anything happened to him, it'd be on John, did he know that?
Sherlock didn't know where to put his hands on the gun, and his jacket was done up all wrong- John sighed, fighting the urge to both yell at him for indecency and reach over and fix it for him. John thought that Sherlock looked scared, but suddenly he looked very far away. It was hard to focus on his face.
"John-"
"It's okay, Sherlock. It's going to be okay."
He took a last, deep breath, shifting his position to better jump up- he kept looking back at Sherlock, who kept forgetting that he needed to stay down- curiousity was constantly getting the better of him and soon someone had to take notice of the head that kept poking out from where they were hiding. They needed higher ground.
"Okay, Sherlock. On three, okay?"
"John, I have a plan-"
"One-"
"John, stay where you are-"
"Two-"
"I've got four plans right now that could possibly work depending-"
"Three!"
A sharp pain in his shoulder.
He couldn't open his eyes- hard as he tried, he was too drowsy, lids too heavy. He couldn't move his arms, whether for fatigue or paralysis he couldn't tell. There was a thin blanket cast over him and the soft murmur of machines near his head.
He caught up with the situation just long enough to wonder where he was and what had happened before he was out again.
He woke up in his bedroom at 221B. The walls were different- they were the same wallpaper pattern as the living room wall downstairs, but, wait, hadn't that always been like that? Or had Mrs. Hudson done that recently? She must have fixed it up a bit while he was out.
It was the middle of the day. Why was he sleeping in the middle of the day?
Oh, yes. He'd had quite the fall yesterday- he must have been rather tired. Well, sleep was best for that, right? A nice sleep through the day, but four o'clock was really rather unacceptable.
Four o'clock? His watch said eight thirty right now.
He rubbed his face, putting on his shoes and socks before making his way down the stairs.
He turned into the kitchen, pulling things down from the cabinets- bread and jam, butter and eggs from the fridge. He put the kettle on and called for Sherlock- he could hear the violin from the bedroom.
Bedroom?
There was no bedroom down here. Just the upstairs, just his.
"Sherlock?"
He was not worried, but he was confused- the violin was coming from somewhere. He wheeled out and checked the hallway, the stairwell- the bathroom, even- but the only conclusion he could come up with was the bedroom, which was rediculous because there was no other bedroom at all.
"Sherlock?"
And then, the sound of music stopped, leaving the ringing din of silence and the boil of the kettle. Somehow, this was more disconcerting than a noise with no source.
"Sherlock!"
From somewhere far above him, an unfamiliar voice cooed him back to sleep as he felt something new and heavy enter his bloodstream:
"Shh, Dr. Watson. Just relax."
In the sleep of the dead, one does not dream. You are not entirely unaware of the passing of time, however- there is always some part of you that sits awake and in waiting, tapping one's feet, checking the clock on the wall, maybe flipping through a magazine or two.
It is as such for John Watson, who does not feel or know what it is that is happening to him, exactly, but knows somewhere that something is indeed happening, that he did not just take a small nap and will wake up with that disorienting feeling that occasionally assrises. He knew, somewhere in that brain of his, that while there was very little cranial activity (very little activity at all, one might say; his body was working at less than fourteen percent its average) he was still home, just had all of the blinds pulled down and the lights turned off and was accepting no visitors, thank you very much.
In the sleep of the dead, one does not dream, nor think of things that have passed or have yet to come. But one has a hazy awareness of what happens at present.
Small words and images would flit in John's consciousness as time wore on (and time, indefinitely, wore on, but far too slowly for him to make much sense out of it, like staring at a picture right up to your eyes) and stick to his brain for the moments that it could afford to exert itself for things like thinking;
The telephoned sound of a nurse's voice: professionally concerned;
The sting of a new IV needle pressed into the skin of the inside of his elbow;
Something being tied around his neck, a little too tight for his liking;
The hum of a car motor under him.
There are some times, even, that he resurfaced from the blackness and became quite aware of his surroundings for a few moments before fatigue brought him back down- a light room with the buzz of isolation, a car ride with a person breathing beside him, cold fingers on his wrist.
And just now, a dark, small space.
If he'd had the energy to do so, he'd probably feel it a good time to be alarmed.
Instead, he let himself settle into the white silk pillow.