A/N Hello! New chapter, hurrah! I might not be posting as regularly as I did, given that I'm now getting firmly stuck into a postgraduate course. Sorry everyone!
This is the second of the 'medal' chapters, and it's quite long...
There's a nice wee bit of Greg-Sherlock-John banter at the beginning, plus a whacking great piece of battlefield writing. Thanks must go to hjohn302, TYRider, Rachaell D, johnsarmylady and ArtyDiane for their reviews of the last chapter. It's always so lovely to hear what people think and know that someone took a wee bit out of their day to read something by little old me.
Trigger warning: Minor OC death, not graphic. Battlefield scene, injury, a little bit of blood. Erm, also swearing. (Sorry, Mum.)
Sitting in the hotel bar, Sherlock wrinkled his nose as John turned from the bar, balancing a pint of bitter (Lestrade's, obviously), a Martini (his) and a cider (John's own selection). They had only been in Manchester for two days, and already the case had turned from a labyrinthine mess into a straightforward parricide. Barely even a three...
John had been dull and gone back to the hotel to catch up on sleep, having come home from a thirteen-hour A&E backshift only to have a train ticket and a holdall shoved into his hands. (They had to hurry before Forensics got their grubby little fingers into the evidence-couldn't he see?) He had been pleasantly surprised to be woken up by Greg (with whom he was sharing a suite), bearing the news that the case was over and he'd managed to corral Sherlock into something as pedestrian as going for a drink.
"Ugh, this is impossibly-"
"Don't say it. Nope, just don't."
John spoke with military coolness, knowing that it was practically the only thing that would make him shut up. Sherlock let his mouth close with a snap, scowling as Greg's eyes twinkled with amusement.
The DI broke the silence by holding up his pint for John to clink his glass against. "Well, here's to another case solved in record time, and a bit of time to relax."
"Hear bloody hear!"
Suddenly there was a commotion behind them at the bar. The blonde girl behind it (missing someone, toys with hair when nervous, college student, working to pay fees, mother to a toddler: boring) let out a muffled shriek and clapped her hand over her mouth. Rushing round the bar, she pelted down the ramp to the front door as a tall, dark-haired figure stepped through it. Lifting her into the air, the figure carried her up to the bar where her boss was waiting, as the simpering 'awwws' and cooing started. What finally got his attention wasn't the sentiment.
It was the uniform.
Standard desert combat dress, just returned, sand under the epaulettes, insignia of a Lance Corporal. Navy beret, so not in a regiment with colours-belt. Look at the belt. Familiar, but where from?
Just as he was about to go into his mind palace, John (who somehow knew what he was thinking) interrupted his train of thought in a dreamy, faraway voice.
"Crimson Red, Sable Blue and Old Gold. He's in the RAMC."
Although he'd spoken quietly in order not to ruin the moment, the medic's head swivelled in their direction. Looking sheepish and shrinking into his collar, John murmured, "Sorry," before turning back to their table and sipping at his drink.
Sherlock smirked. He wasn't going to get off that lightly.
"Lance Corporal James Lyons. You are?"
Sighing, John stood, turning to face the younger man. "Captain John Watson, retired. Served until 2010."
The other soldier's eyes widened. He shifted to attention in seconds, snapping out a salute. John responded in kind, drawing admiring glances from around the room.
A voice boomed out from behind the bar-the owner.
"Alright, ladies and gents, nothing to see there. Just two gentlemen talking."
Embarrassed, the other patrons turned away, murmuring into their drinks.
"Captain Watson, sir? Major Murray's told me a lot about you, sir. Said you were the best surgeon he'd ever seen, top of your class and everything!"
John ducked his head, blushing a deep crimson as Greg's eyes turned the softer brown of pride and Sherlock's narrowed.
Speaking more quietly, almost reverently, the young man spoke again. "He said you'd saved him, back in Chaghcharan. And that you'd gone into the suck in Herat, and in Kabul and Kandahar."
John nodded, tightly, slowly.
"So it's all true, then? You were really that brave?"
Looking distinctly uncomfortable by this point, John smiled painfully.
"Major Murray likes to tell stories. He always was one to exaggerate other people's courage. He was pretty bloody good himself, all told. Anyway, shouldn't you be getting back to your leave?"
He nodded over his shoulder, where Lyons' girlfriend (definitely girlfriend, not wife, and still faithful after all this time) was waiting, being shooed away from the bar by her boss.
Turning back to Greg and Sherlock, the young man leaned in conspiratorially. "If you get the chance, ask him how he got the nickname Three Continents."
Noticing that John was looking at him evenly, head high, Lyons took his leave.
"Oh, Lance Corporal? Next time you see Major Murray, ask him to tell you about 'that time in Chaghcharan with the goat'. And ask him to write to me and tell me how the Hell he got that rank..."
Grinning (slightly evilly, Sherlock thought), John shook his head and slouched into his seat. An unsolicited refill appeared at his left elbow.
"I hope he does ask. He'll get beasted for it."
Sherlock willed John to realise that Greg was looking at him expectantly. Thankfully, although John could not observe he was still a consummate empathiser. Sighing, he nodded and raised his eyes to the heavens.
"Alright, I'll tell you about bloody fucking Chaghcharan. But not here, and only once I've finished my drink."
Half an hour later they sat in the fading light, looking out on the lights of the city in the hotel's rooftop garden. Greg and John were bundled up against the cold as the wind whipped through their hair. John opened his mouth, rolling his eyes as the others leaned forward to catch his words.
Slamming the doors on the truck shut and hauling himself into the back, John stretched out his taut shoulders and neck. The mother and baby clinic had been long and emotionally draining, as had the queue for food supplements when they'd handed the building over to the Red Crescent. The clinic had been the first in the area for a while thanks to increasing Taliban attacks; even now, Pete Carling (one of their best shooters) had gone ahead with Bill to scout out the road ahead.
Bentley and Butler, two privates from the Fifth Northumberlands, were driving. John leaned against the hot metal of the truck bed, mentally totting up their remaining supplies to combat his boredom. Suddenly, a screech of brakes and squeal of tires made him sit bolt upright as the truck lurched to a stop. The air had turned electric, and his first thought was: ambush.
Bentley tossed him a sidearm and he cautiously made his way around the side of the truck, arriving at the front end just in time to hear Butler curse fluently.
"No ambush, sir. False alarm. But Lieutenant Murray's in trouble."
John's eyes followed the trail of the young man's finger as it swept from the road in front of them, the trip wire glinting dangerously in the relentless sunshine. The Jeep had careered off the road...
Straight into a minefield. Fucking hell.
"Bentley, radio for backup and an ordinance disposal team. Butler, keep watch."
The two men complied instantly; Butler drew his weapon and took up a defensive position at one end of their vehicle while Bentley posted himself at the other. He shot a curious glance at John, who was peering intently out into the mined stretch of sand, obviously thinking. He couldn't yell out in case it drew the insurgents to their position...radio instead, then.
"Beta Mike Seven, this is Juliet Whisky. What's the situation, over?"
"I'm fine, but Carling's concussed and confused. I'm trying not to let him out of the car, he'll wander off."
"Received, on way."
John took a hard look at the field. If he could skirt round the edges, where the tussocks of grass and windblown bushes lay, he'd be much less likely to come across anything nasty. Laying mines was bloody difficult in sand, but to lay them amongst vegetation was nigh on impossible. The Taliban often used older VS-50 mines; on their own, they were nasty enough, but with the ammo Pete carried on his belt...he didn't want to think about the consequences. He had to get them out of there.
"You can't go out there, sir. You'll get blown up, and then where would we be?"
John knew they had been incredibly lucky not to hit any explosives on the way over the ridge, but that the slightest shift in pressure could cause an almighty bang. Just then, the passenger side creaked open and Carling stumbled out. Ignoring protocol, he bellowed.
"CARLING! CARLING, GET BACK IN THE CAR. GET BACK IN THE FUCKING JEEP!"
It was too late. Pete stumbled, there was a click-
-and flames licked at the surrounding sand.
"Pete! Pete! Ah, naw, man! For God's sake!"
Belatedly, he remembered that Butler had shared digs with Carling. He turned to meet the young man's eyes, but he was grimly focused on the road behind them. His only concession to emotion was the shake in his shoulders and a slight bowing of his head. Bentley looked faintly green, but radioed in the casualty calmly anyway.
The only comfort was the absence of screams. As the smoke cleared, John spotted Carling with a shrapnel wound to his head and the peculiar limpness that spoke of death. At least it had been painless.
A groan to the right startled him into action. He'd almost forgotten Bill was there, and would have been thrown by the blast.
As if knowing what he was thinking, Bentley looked at him incredulously.
"You can't be serious, sir? We've already lost Pete, we can't lose the only medic who's not stuck."
"Bentley, keep in radio contact. Butler, keep going."
As they chorused a "Yes, sir!", John moved forward, hunkering down into a near-crouch next to the thorn bushes at the perimeter.
Coming to the vehicle from the front rather than the sides, John saw his friend slumped in the driver's seat. Running, fleet-footed, up to the door, John scrambled in, shaking Bill's shoulders roughly and shouting for him to wake up. He was rewarded with a grimace. Bill was sleepy but conscious, blood trickling down his face from a jagged gash at the top of his scalp. John listed the injuries for the handover in his mind: concussion, laceration to the scalp approximately two inches in length, query burst eardrum, query abdo bleed, lower left quadrant (he couldn't be sure if the absence of guarding behaviour was a result of confusion or a good sign). GCS approx 13. Stable, responsive to pain and voice but unable to follow commands.
Satisfied that moving him wouldn't do more harm than good, John hefted Bill up, hands under his arms, and hauled him back through the driver's side. Dragging him back the way he'd come, John staggered under Murray's weight. He winced as the thorn bushes scraped across his back, but pressed on.
Suddenly, he was hit by a rush of sound, the muted tunnel vision receding as he turned his head towards the road. A chopper had landed for a medivac, and three of their colleagues from the nearby field hospital leaned out over the bank to help him hoist Bill up onto the stretcher. The clamour receded slightly, and John allowed the babble of voices to wash over him as he sank onto his haunches next to the truck. Another medic came to crouch beside him.
"Second Lieutenant? John?"
A woman about his age was peering intently at him. He turned his head, slightly confused as to why she was checking on him instead of looking at the two privates for shock. He vaguely recognised her from his work in Kandahar, as an Intensive Care registrar. She'd obviously been on all-duty call when the info had come in.
"Morstan, right?"
She smiled, cheeks dimpling as she pushed her strawberry blonde fringe out of her face. "Yep. Medical Officer technically attached to the Welsh Guards, but based at Bastion. You've got a good memory, that was nine months ago."
"I don't need checking, I'm fine. Butler and Bentley'll need a good look over for shock, though."
She sounded half-amused, half-exasperated as she shot back, "And I suppose for you lot a severe bleed isn't cause enough to see a doctor?"
He looked down to where she was pointing. Oh.
Not only was his back covered in stinging welts from the thorns, but there was also a deep gash on the side of his right leg. He could feel the sticky scarlet pooling under his foot, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"It's a fair cop. When I'm in the suck I just...get on with it, y'know. No time for checking yourself when you've got bigger things to worry about."
She nodded in understanding. One of the advance snipers sent out with the ordinance team, a Lieutenant Moran, put a beefy arm around his waist and hoisted him into a standing position, depositing him in the back of the Warrior for the trip back to Bastion. John shivered as his eyes met the gunman's; they were cold and beetle-black, and Moran smiled grimly as he slammed the door.
A few hours later, dressed in clean uniform and in possession of the neatest row of stitches he'd seen since neuro rotation at Barts, John limped into Bill's room. His superior was sitting up in bed, idly flicking through the BMJ and sipping at an icy glass of water. He looked up as John eased 'round the door.
"Glad you could join me. Bentley's already been in and told me what happened. It's a bloody shame about Pete." He sighed, settling back on his pillows as John pulled up a chair. John blushed crimson as he fixed him with his 'I am your superior and you'd better listen to me' stare.
"Bill, I-"
"I know what you're going to say, so you can haud yer wheesht, Second Lieutenant. You saved my life back there; you put yourself in the middle of a bloody mine field, after seeing a comrade die, and brought me back out. I'll not forget that any time soon. Now go on, get, or you'll miss dinner."
Nodding silently, John left without another word, following his nose to the mess hall.
Later that night, on his way out to the chopper back to Chaghcharan, John was stopped in his tracks by a flustered Corporal.
"Sorry, sir, Corporal Feely, sir. Captain Macaulay and Major Jenkins need to see you, sir."
Turning to follow the antsy young man at a fast clip, John paused outside the door as he was introduced.
"Enter."
He marched in, coming to a standstill directly in front of the desk and standing sharply to attention.
"At ease, Watson. I'm sure you've heard rumblings about this afternoon's events around camp?"
"Can't say I've listened, sir."
Macaulay's eyes crinkled up at the corners in amusement, as Major Jenkins let out a booming laugh.
"You did tell me he was spirited! Now, about your actions today: that was the stupidest," John swallowed, "most reckless," (he gulped), "bravest piece of comradeship I've seen in a long while."
John's face, which had been set, broke into an expression of mild surprise.
Macaulay actually smiled.
"Mentioned in dispatches. Well done."
He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again.
"Er, thank you sirs."
"Dismissed."
John turned on his heel, marching smartly out of the door and walking straight out to the helipad. It was only when he was curled up in bed, looking at Murray's darkened tent, that he let himself relax and sleep.
A/N II: To recap: John has been promoted by a rank. Eighteen months or so have passed between his first commendation and this one.
We've met Mary Morstan and Lieutenant Moran (I refuse to give him a rank higher than John's)-thoughts, ladies and gents?
Just to be clear: greedy reader mentioned that the George Cross is a civilian medal; it is, but it's also awarded to combat troops for extreme courage not directly in the face of the enemy (bomb disposals and that sort of thing). The VC is only given to people who have done these things in direct contact with the enemy (that is, face to face). I did check, honest!
Lastly, for those of you not from my dear wee homeland, 'haud yer wheesht' is a Scots phrase that means 'be quiet'. If you are from Scotland, review! Come for a wee blether!