Origin
Prologue
Caught in the Crossfire
Afghanistan
Present Day
John
"Fall in!" John ordered with a shout above the din. He was the troop leader and as soon as he was sure that he was uninjured and that he could move. He drew his weapon and was poised to attack. There was another explosion somewhere off to his left, the air had yet to clear from the first. Gun fire rained down upon him as the sand kicked up again further obstructing his vision causing everything to once again disappear in a haze of sand and dust.
The sand was everywhere. John coughed into his elbow and squinted. He heard Colonel Sholto over the radio ordering him to report. Before John could answer, the sound of one of his soldiers groaning after another round of gunfire caught his attention, McKay. First tour, only 24 years old. He clutched his chest before falling lifeless to the ground. John felt the rage building. He channeled that anger and let it fuel him without allowing it to control him. They would pay for that. John sighted the enemy, aimed, and pulled the trigger. He shot to kill and felt an almost sick sense of satisfaction as he watched their bodies drop one by one to the ground. John sighed once he heard the tell tale click of an empty magazine. He took comfort in the fact at that at least he had managed to take out 10 enemy soldiers, but it hadn't been enough. It seemed as though nothing he ever did was enough. John froze and dropped to his knees when he felt the metal barrel of a gun dig into his neck with a hard shove. He met the man's gaze coldly. This, it seemed, was it. He was about to meet his end.
It was ironic that he had managed to survive the initial blast and then had avoided being immediately killed by enemy fire and for a moment he wished that he hadn't been so lucky. At least it would have been a swift death. The AED had caught his troops by surprise. They were supposed to have been in a safe zone. Their vehicle had been destroyed by the blast and a good number John's fellow men were killed instantly. Those that had survived were quickly ambushed by enemy fire. John had shot off all of his rounds until he ran out of ammunition. He had always been a crack shot, even in basic training all those years ago; it was a skill that had come naturally to him. John closed his eyes ready to die feeling the scorching desert sun beating down on him. He wet his dry lips and could almost taste the blood in the arid air. He knew that this had been a long time coming. Death, it seemed, which he had been wagering with ever since Sherlock had fallen, had finally found him. He had taken too many risks and it had finally caught up with him. Truthfully, though, John couldn't bring himself to care. He should have died with his best friend. He was surprised that he had managed to survive over a year in a warzone without any sense of self-preservation.
John, however, could take comfort in the fact that in his most recent 18 months of active military service, he had managed to save more lives and take out more enemy combatants than in all of his previous tours of duty. While he was still occasionally called upon to use his medical skills, medicine was no longer his main focus of his job. He was no longer enlisted with the RAMC. He was now a full combatant, at his own request. He wanted to be on the battlefield fighting alongside his men. He longed to get his hands dirty, and not to be stuck in a field hospital. Though the healer in John was satisfied as he still treated battlefield injuries until help could arrive if there were no other corpsmen available. He accomplished more in these 18 months than he had in all of his previous tours of duty. He had been promoted to the rank of Major within his first six months back on active duty and was due for another promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Colonel after completing his supplementary SAS training which he had been hand selected by Sholto to complete the elite training. It seemed that he wouldn't live to see that promised promotion.
The sounds of gunfire still surrounded him as he was blindfolded, bound, and gagged as he overheard enemy soldiers arguing loudly in Pashto. This one, Officer, the deeper voice of the two insisted as John was pulled roughly to his feet. Too old, kill him. The other countered as he shoved the barrel of his rifle into John's side. But look at the scars. This one is a fighter, a survivor. The deeper voice pointed out as he ran a hand over the expansive scar, which decorated John's chest and shoulder in a distinctive starburst pattern. John grit his teeth and bucked uselessly against the bindings. Very well, we'll take him as prisoner, but I still think you're wrong. He'll never survive the treatment.
The voices echoed ominously in John's head as he was carted away by the enemy, now destined to become a prisoner of war. In all his years of military service, he had always managed to avoid enemy capture. First time for everything, John thought bitterly. It would likely be over soon. John took a moment to recall how he ended up back in a warzone in the first place. Sherlock, it always came back to Sherlock, it seemed.