One would think you got used to waking up to burning sensations in your, well, everywhere. Nothing didn't hurt.
His legs from the constant sitting and being chained to a floor
His wrist from the rough metal constantly raking against his now sensitive and raw skin
His arm from the explosion
His shoulder from the awkward angle of his hands attached to the wall
"So nice of you to grace us with your consciousness." Then there was the now familiar drenching of water and once again the calling out of pain.
When Sherlock awoke he was warm and contently wrapped in blankets his arms encircling something warm and soft and smelling of John; to Sherlock's sleepy mind it was his husband.
"John, it's probably really late, why are you still in bed?" John never tolerated being held into sleeping more than was needed, because there were things that needed to be done and people that needed help. But Sherlock didn't get an answer from his slumbering husband, "John?"
Sherlock lifted his head to look at his short companion for life, but all he found was a pillow in his arms.
"John," Sherlock stuffed his face into the fabric that smelled faintly of the one he loved, "Please don't be this." he mumbled into the pillow, "don't be dead."
But today was the day.
Today was the day to bury John.
Today was the day to bury what was left of him, his memory; he was allowed to keep the mangled dog tags.
"Father?" Andrew stood at the door still in his pajamas and eyes red, "I don't want to go." Andrew felt foolish crying like he was, and at the age of 15, but this was the occasion.
Sherlock smiled and lifted the blankets for Andrew to lay in bed with him, as if his son were a little boy.
"I'll tell you a secret," Sherlock said quietly, "neither do I, but what would Dad think? If we left him waiting like this!" He tried to raise his son's spirits.
"We'll never know."
but his plan failed. Andrew left the room to go get ready for the funeral.
"So, how did you like Hamlet?" Mr. Brook asked as he casually sat in his teacher's chair.
Andrew sat in the desk stareing at the discarded book in front of him. School had long been let out, but here Andrew was; his Father was on a case and wouldn't be home until late that night, so he had nothing better to do than to sit here with his new English teacher and talk about Shakespeare's play.
"It was fine."
"I thought you would like it, or at least identify with it."
"Father killed by power hungry uncle? Son goes crazy and kills everyone? How would I identify with that?" Andrew's voice was hoarse from dissuse and crying.
"Well, you father was killed in action and the Americans call their government Uncle Sam." Mr. Brook leaned forward to try and get Andrew talking about his distress in a way that could be associated with the curiculum, "I'm sure there is something there that you could look at and-"
"My Father was not killed in action," Drew lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, "my Dad was."
"I'm sorry for the confusion. Can you tell me about your parents? Your Dad or Father. We can forget the play for now. I just want to get to know you so I can help." Mr. Brook leaned forward in his seat to hear every word that Andrew mumbled about his parents, the first and second pair.
Many people had come to the funeral: Molly, Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, and even Aunt Harry came with Aunt Clara. There were also military friends of Dad who came to grieve over the loss of one damn good doctor; the wives of these man offered help with anything that Father might need.
There were words spoken of bravery and words spoken of sacrifice for the betterment of all.
Father tried to speak, but for once words failed him.
Aunt Harry tried also, but all she was capable of was standing there with a dazed look on her face that portrayed the numbness of unexpected loss.
"I loved him, despite what people might think. I know I didn't make things easy for him, but he was always a brother to me and the only sane one between us."
Father tried again and failed, but the tears streaming down his face spoke volumes.
That was the ceremony, then the guns went off and Andrew was given a folded British flag in memory of his Dad; as if that could bring him back.
Andrew almost wanted to give it back and say "No Thanks, I want nothing more from you.", another part of him wanted to take the flag and burn it when he got home, but Mrs. Hudson would not like the ash.
So he smiled and politely accepted the piece of cloth, red like his Dad's blood, white like the heaven his Dad was now in, and blue like the tears that marked their trial down his face.
"I suppose you have suffered enough there, Captain Smyth, after all this silent waiting you are now in dyer need of a doctor," The man signaled behind him and two other man stepped forward, one of them supported the other, "Doctor, good of you to join us we were just making some lite conversation, but there are more pressing matters. Please feel free to heal your friend here."
There in bloodied uniform stood John Watson-Holmes being supported heavily from another enemy.
"You back stabbing bastard, Hadi, I thought we were friends." That was all he could say before he was shoved toward the deathly injured Captain Smyth.
I'm so sorry for the delay, but at the moment I am trying to write a book as I work on fanfiction as well, so it's been a little crazy...