These Roads Travelled
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Inspired by this prompt: "I'd really like to see a kind of Hurt Locker AU (except set in Afghanistan) where Sherlock diffuses bombs and solves military problems and John is the doctor who tags along to patch him up when things inevitably explode. Bonus points for plot! Any pairing is fine. I just really want to see Sherlock working on diffusing a bomb."
Author's Note: Yeah. It's about Afghanistan and there should be death and destruction all over the place, but I think I managed to just make it sappy and romantic anyway. Also, there's mentioning of Doctor Who in this fic :/
Words: 6669 (!)
Holmes is on the ground, looking at the IED. He's calm and focused and there is nothing in the world besides him and the bomb. He sees the cables going from the home-made piece of shit to the hole in the road, where the pressure plate is buried. He knows what to do and he knows he does it fast. He's aware his team hates it when he does that; they've all been taught to take it easy, to not stress things. Sgt Sherlock ”Crazy” Holmes isn't stressing things, he knows these things, he can feel them and read them, he knows what needs to be done. The bomb isn't more than a puzzle that needs to be solved. That's why he's usually the one they send forward when the RCV isn't enough, because he doesn't care about the reasons behind this bomb, his mind isn't full of Talibans and evil-doers; it's just him, and the bomb.
Once it's been defused and he's walking back to the team by the vehicle they're all cheering and telling themselves how awesome they are. Holmes doesn't join in. He gets out of the protective suit with some help from a team-mate and eventually they begin to get back to Bastion.
The desert is dry and hot as the sun sets. The inhabitants of Lashkar Gah are getting ready for the evening, trying to find something to heat their fires with as the night comes with its cold, so different from the day. Holmes is looking out through the window, trying to find anything out of the ordinary, anything that might give them reason to believe something's up and that he might have to use the weapon in his hand. He looks at the women in their burkhas, hurrying through the streets together with their brothers, husbands or sons. His eyes runs over the beige houses, built of clay and whatever could be found. The burkhas in their green, blue, white or red stand out against all the beige that is this country. He finds nothing interesting, and they make it back to Bastion in one piece.
John Watson, Doctor at Camp Bastion's Hospital, makes his way to the small library in the corner of the camp. It's just one container, not very big, but it's a shorter walk than to the main one. It doesn't hold that many books, but at least some magazines, and a TV. The TV is his goal for this evening. After a long day on his feet, he's looking forward to an evening in front of some mindless TV-show. He does enjoy keeping up with something British, and is silently happy they've managed to get a few BBC-channels here. Opening the door he's surprised to see another soldier in there. This place is usually deserted (few soldiers do actually enjoy reading through the night, and if they do they usually borrow books from the main library) and John isn't used to having some one else to share the small compartment with. And of course it's Sgt. Holmes, the EOD-teams most infamous member. The Sergeant, thin and tall with black hair and a surprisingly clean uniform, doesn't even acknowledge him as he makes his way to the couch, engrossed as he is in the book he's reading. But as the Sergeant is seated in an arm chair next to the couch, John feels he has to say something.
”Uhm, Sergeant, is it ok if I turn on the TV? You won't be disturbed?” An awkward moment passes, before the lanky man seems to realise John's talking to him.
”No, go ahead, ” he says, his eyes barely leaving the book. John gives him a small smile.
”Okay. Yeah, let's see what's on tonight.” For some reason he does feel uncomfortable next to the man nicknamed ”Crazy” (John had always winced when he'd heard it, it didn't seem sincere and a funny joke between friends, more like something said to actually make fun of the man), but not because of the nicknames and the stories, more due to the fact that he suddenly feels... scrutinized. He decides to shrug it off, and tries to enjoy the rerun of Doctor Who (the new version, it's quite good actually and he enjoys Christopher Eccleston's Doctor).
It's a few hours later (it must be, he's seen at least four episodes by now) that Sgt. Holmes puts down his book.
”You like this show?” John, surprised, looks up from where he's been stretching out on the couch, his feet in the direction of Holmes' chair.
”Yeah. Well, I mean, it's Doctor Who. It's simple enough to follow since you already know the basics from your childhood, you know?” He gives the Sergeant a smile.
”No. I've never watched it before, never heard of it.”
”What? You've never watched Doctor Who? Never heard of it?” John gives Sgt. Holmes a look of pure surprise.
”No, I've never been interested in television.” John sits up, this can't be real, can it? How can you be born in England and not know about Doctor Who?
”But... but it's Doctor Who! You must've heard of it at least! And why not watch TV?”
”It's boring.”
”Boring?”
”Yes.”
”So uhm,” John is a bit confused. He knew the man was... different, but he's never interacted with him before, so well, he's... confused, yes. ”What do you do to entertain yourself then?”
”I...”, the man gives him a long look. John gives him a steady look back, ”I play the violin. And defuse bombs.” John blinks.
”Bombs and violin?”
”Yes.” The man is still sitting rigid in his arm chair (it's an old beige thing) and hasn't moved an inch since they began talking.
”Oh well. The bombs makes sense, I guess, given your work. But for entertainment?”
”It's interesting. How they are made, out of what they are made, and how to turn them off. You're a doctor, aren't you interested in your field of work?”
”Interested yes, but it's not what I use to relax. It's hardly relaxing to perform surgery.”
”Hmm,” the man answers. Suddenly he gets up, gets out of the door and leaves. John blinks, perplexed. Then he turns off the TV and head to bed. What a strange, strange man.
It's a few evenings later when John has the time to go to the small library and once again surf through TV-shows. It's nothing on so he decides to pick something from the shelf with DVDs. He finds some old Doctor Who (the fifth doctor, he realises), pops the disc in and crashes on the couch. It's only an episode later when Sgt. Holmes enters. He looks a bit surprised, as does John.
”Uhm, hi Sergeant,” John says.
”Doctor,” the man gives him a nod before sitting down in his chair, a new book in hand this time, ”and please, call me Sherlock.” For some reason, John knows this isn't an invitation to a more friendly approach with each other, it's just a statement. Sherlock has hung his jacket over the arm of the chair.
”John,” he still offers. The man might not want him disturbing his reading, but John's a nice bloke and it is nice to be on first name basis. He goes back to watching his episodes and Sherlock continues reading his book. They don't talk for the rest of the evening, but John feels more relaxed this time.
For three more evenings, the ritual is the same; John gets to the library, puts some Who in the DVD-player and a few minutes later Sherlock appears. They don't talk more than a greeting, and it's usually Sherlock that leaves first. The fourth evening, Sherlock doesn't show up. John can only assume it's due to his team being on some long range-patrol somewhere. He only watches one episode before heading to bed early. The next day he hears the EOD-team is still out, so he doesn't even bother to go to the library. John avoids thinking about why, he just tells himself he isn't in the mood.
John has just put the disc in, when the door opens. Sherlock comes in, without a book this time.
”Evening, Sherlock,” John greets.
”Evening,” Sherlock says as he sits down in his chair. John notices his dirty uniform.
”Long range?”
”Yes.”
”Hmm,” John fiddles with the remote, choosing an episode, ”a lot of bombs, then?”
”Not really, no.”
”So, a boring trip then? I guess you couldn't bring your violin,” he smiles at Sherlock, who looks surprised.
”Quite, yes.” A smile, small and just in the corner of his mouth, but John sees it. ”So, any interesting surgeries while I was gone?”
”Hmm? Uhm, no, not really,” John replies, eyes darting from the TV-screen to Sherlock, ”I did have to send a soldier home due to his injuries, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, no.” Sherlock gives John a long stare, tips his head to his side and then back. John once again has that feeling of being scrutinized.
”But you've just called your sister while you were upset about something, and she hardly calmed you down. Was she drunk again?” John stares at the man, TV-screen forgotten.
”What?”
”You have a sister, I first thought brother but I've learnt otherwise, Harry, probably short for something, most probably Harriet. She gave you the phone you carry in your left pocket, I've seen you fiddle with it in the dining hall. You don't use it for anything but to tell time at the moment, but you wanted to have a phone for your next rotation home, which will be your last. Once in England you want to be able to contact your relatives, meaning your sister, and since you'll be stuck for two days at the regiment before being discharged, you need a phone. It's obviously originally not yours as it says ”Harry Watson from Clara” on it. The phone has been used, there are scrapes of keys on it, but they weren't made by you since all the keys you've got; your own container, the hospital and your office, are all hooked to your card-holder, not kept in your pocket. So who's Clara? Obviously Harry's ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, but no this is more of a wife gift, seeing as it's even engraved. It's a new phone, not more than 6 months old, so why give it away? Because they're divorced, probably due to her drinking. The scuff marks around the edge of the power connection are those made by some one with an unsteady hand, typical for a drunk. So, she's probably the only close relative you have, seeing as you got the phone from her, not from someone you might get along with better. You care for her, and calls her sometimes to make sure she's ok. The problem is, she never cares if you're ok, even if you hope so.”
John is shocked. He's never told anyone about Harry's drinking problems, he doesn't even want to acknowledge it himself sometimes. And here is Sgt. Sherlock ”Crazy” Holmes of the EOD-team telling him everything he didn't want to know himself about his life.
”That... was amazing,” he says. It's all he could think about, because it was.
”You think so?” Is Sherlock's reply after a moment.
”Of course it was... It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”
”That's not what people normally say.”
”What do people normally say?”
”Piss off.” John laughs. The whole situation is bizarre. Sherlock smiles, then looks grave again. ”So, did you call her?”
”Yes,” John gives a short nod. ”Yes.”
”About what? You said nothing important had happened.”
”I said, nothing interesting had happened.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow his way, John sighs. ”I had to deal with a private who had just brought in his friend, badly wounded. As he phoned home to tell them he was alright, he found out his fiancée had just died. They were in the middle of trying to contact his Company to let them tell him in person.” John looks down at his hands, at the uniform with it's dirty sleeves. ”It was just a horrible thing to watch. And then I decided to call Harry, to check on her.”
”Hmm,” is all Sherlock says. They get back to watching Doctor Who, Sherlock isn't reading this time, instead he's sitting comfortably in the beige char, his feet on the chair as well, his knees in front of his chin. He should be too tall to fit in it, but he's thin enough to make space for all the limbs. John realises after a while he's been looking at Sherlock a lot more than the screen, trying to see his reactions. It's no disappointment when Sherlock exclaims things at the TV, arms and hands underlining his reactions to the stupidity of the characters (it is more than often he mutters a ”stupid, stupid, stupid” under his breath as the Doctor and the current companion once again gets caught by some evil-doers). It's almost early morning when John says he has to go to bed. Sherlock looks up at him as he rises. John takes a deep breath and fiddles with his jacket.
”So, maybe breakfast tomorrow? Or are you having a sleep in?” John sees the surprise on Sherlock's face. It only last for a beat, but John did see it.
”I eat at 0700.” Before John has the time to respond, the man is out, jacket in hand, and he's left to put away the DVDs.
It becomes a new ritual, their breakfasts. John isn't sure Sherlock ever ate with his team, before John. But now they always meet up if they're both on camp (sometimes John gets to leave base, either on a shorter patrol or in an ambulance when they need to pick up wounded soldiers near Bastion and sometimes Sherlock is on a long range). It's one of John's favourite times of the day, he soon realises. Sherlock is telling him everything he never wanted to know about the other people at Bastion, just by looking at them, and John is constantly amazed. He soon realises Sherlock enjoys his looks of wonder. He pretty soon also realises Sherlock doesn't seem to have many friends. He doubts Sherlock considers him a friend, but he's not willing to test it. He hasn't made any friends here either, really. John is usually just a nice guy, a good doctor but he hasn't been interested in getting to know his co-workers. He knows the basic things about them, he can make a good conversation and is definitely invited to play poker, grab a beer at the mess or watch a movie with them, but he probably won't call them once he's back in England.
No, John enjoys his time with Sherlock a lot more than with his co-workers these days. Sherlock isn't like other people, he's amazing. The things he can tell, the things he deduces from other people, simply stuns John and he himself tries to notice things about his co-workers and patients when Sherlock isn't around (he usually gets it wrong, but he enjoys it anyway). In the mornings they talk, and in the evening they watch Doctor Who. They sometimes walk around camp and John learns that no matter how much Sherlock might think other people are ”boring and stupid”, he seems to enjoy John's presence and even smiles the Doctor's jokes and his stories of everyday life at the camp. Sherlock tells him about is work, the parts he's allowed to tell. John learns about his team, and that Sherlock is with them because he's an expert, but they would hardly call him friend, or comrade.
There's one evening John will never forget. They've just walked around camp (with all of its white containers put together like rooms under roofs to make it look like houses) and it's still warm, but not too hot anymore, and the sun is about to set. The air smells of sand and the manure used to heat the fires in Lashkar Gah. The two soldiers are standing against one of the walls of the camp, and John has just said something to which Sherlock replied ”But we invaded Afghanistan” and it sends John into a fit of giggles. As he looks up at Sherlock his gray eyes glitter in the sunset and he laughs too, and after that he secretly thinks of Sherlock as his friend.
One morning Sherlock doesn't show up. John stands there, feeling like an idiot for a few minutes before getting his breakfast. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about heading out early yesterday as they watched Doctor Who (they're at Eccleston's Doctor again, sometimes Sherlock watches, sometimes he reads). John joins two of his colleagues, who looks surprised at his presence, but don't comment. John realises he's stopped saying yes to evenings with his co-workers quite soon after he and Sherlock began their Who-evenings.
It's a dry morning, the sun has risen, but it's not yet too hot when everything goes to hell. Sherlock and his team are, together with two other groups acting as their close protection, en route to defuse a bomb hidden on the Ring Road when they go over one themselves. It's obvious the people behind the bomb, and the SAF-attack afterwards, knew which vehicle was the EOD-team's as they came second and the bastards didn't pull whatever trigger they had (possibly radio controlled, but more likely a damn long cable) until the first vehicle had passed.
Thoughts of everything and nothing rushes through Holmes' head as his world is literally turned upside down. After they land (they must've landed) everything about him feels slow and he doesn't even object when he's carried out of the vehicle (by whom?) and there are men yelling and shouting orders and there's gunfire and eventually a helicopter and he can't hear properly and he's just clinging to his gun, which is the only solid thing in the chaos around him. Someone takes the gun from him and he knows he's objecting but no one seems to hear him (or is he only objecting in his mind, and not actually saying anything?) until a doctor (it must be a doctor, he can see the red cross on his arm) shows it to him, tries to tell him something and then puts it next to him (he can't see it, but he knows it there, it makes him feel safe). He's in a trolley, in a helicopter. He doesn't know how much time has passed since the explosion, doesn't know how his team mates are, but everything fades as the morphine runs through his veins.
When he wakes up, it's to the sound of the machines around him. He's having a hard time opening his eyes, which annoys him. Holmes can figure out a lot just by the sound of it (he's not in a big room with other patients, he's getting IV-fluids (blood?) and something for the pain, probably morphine, yes morphine, and his heartbeat is of course, supervised. There are people outside where he is and when he hears a loud ”Captain!” he's certain he's at Bastion) but he needs to see. And his mouth is dry too and his black hair sticks to the pillow, he's been sweating. Someone else is in the room with him. He can hear the breathing. The person (John? Yes, John, he can sense the other man, maybe it's the smell, it's something and he knows) is sitting very still. He manages eventually to open his eyes. The room (container made to look like a room) is white, sterile and nothing more than what he would assume of Camp Bastion's Hospital. And yes, it's indeed blood in the IV-stand. He's still dizzy and trying to focus properly when John rushes up from his chair and enters Sherlock's line of sight.
John hasn't slept properly since yesterday. There was a call over the radio: ”Sierra Tango Five, Sierra Tango Five” and John had answered, had run to the hospital and when he'd seen the two men on their trolleys it was like walking through cold water. He ran by Sherlock's side as he was taken into surgery and grabbed his hand, just for a second. He wanted to tell him it'll be alright, that they'll fix him. But he knew he couldn't promise that, because it looked that bad, and Sherlock would know a lie. So he became the soldier, the doctor, began preparing for surgery. He didn't do the surgery on Sherlock, and he was thankful for it. Instead he got assigned to Sgt. Thomas Lestrade, the team leader, and he stopped every emotional reaction and just worked. Stamford had taken care of Sherlock, John knows he's a magnificent doctor. But afterwards, when he would usually crash on his bed after what is actually a double-shift, he didn't. He went to Sherlock's room, fell asleep in the chair, worked for 10 hours and went back. When Sherlock sees him, he hasn't seen his bed for over 36 hours. And he looks like it.
”My God, Sherlock,” is all John says as he meets the dark-haired man's eyes. He feels all of those emotions he hasn't dealt with yet emerging, but he manages to suppress them for the time being. The battered, bruised and stitched man doesn't need his tears and fears right now.
”Hi John,” Sherlock tries to say, but it comes out as a long H-sound and a ”Dj”. John runs over to the sink and fills a plastic cup with water, puts a straw in it and goes to Sherlock's side. He helps the man to drink. It's awful to see Sherlock like this, all bandages and half of his skull is in bandage too and the rest is mostly blue and swollen. John holds the back of Sherlock's neck while he drinks, and helps him back against the pillow once he's done.
”Thank you,” Sherlock whispers. John musters a smile.
”Do you remember what happened to you?” Sherlock closes his eyes for a second. John has moved his chair so he's seated next to Sherlock's feet so he can see him.
”I believe so, yes.” His throat still hurts. He doesn't really want to talk about it, he wants to get out of here and work on his puzzles, his bombs, again. Already is his mind speeding up, and he knows that soon it'll be bored (but it isn't speeding up properly; the morphine might have something to do with that). John is in his Doctor-mode when he continues.
”You and your team got hit by an IED and you were rescued from the vehicle while your comrades tried to keep you safe. You were out for quite some time before the MEDEVAC got there and managed to pull you and Sgt. Lestrade out. He's next doors, waking up as well. You both ended up in surgery, and we've managed to keep all your limbs intact. But you will be in pain for a long time. We've administered morphine, and you'll probably sleep through most of your stay here. ” The doctor looks away, and Sherlock knows what next. ”Pte Anderson didn't make it. I'm sorry, Sherlock.”
Sherlock thinks about how to react, but he can't come up with a probable one. He knows he should be sad, because he and Anderson worked so close for all these months. But he and Anderson never got along, it was just Lestrade's angry face that kept them from ending up in fist fights even out in the field (they did end up in fights while on camp quite a lot though). Sherlock's never been good with emotions and he knows that if he wasn't so damn good at these bombs (of course he's good, everyone else is just stupid) he'd been sent home to mother England already (if ever sent away at all). He can definitely feel a certain sadness about Anderson; it's always a waste when some one at least decent on their job gets killed, but he's not really that sad. Mostly annoyed that he'll have to ”get to know” someone else (he never gets to know someone anyway, they just learn to stay out of his way).
”You didn't like Anderson, did you, Sherlock?” John asks. Sherlock notices he's upset. John is such a good person, and Sherlock knows he himself really isn't, but for some reason it does bother him that John is, what? Angry/ annoyed/ disappointed in him?
”No,” is the simply reply. Because it's true.
”So you won't be sad about his death?” John is getting up from his chair, runs a hand (left hand) through his hair and over his face. ”How can you not be sad another human has died?” John puts his hands against the back of the chair.
”You're disappointed in me.” He's still croaking, but John hears him well enough.
”Good. Good deduction, yeah.” Sherlock closes his eyes.
”Don't believe in heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.” A moment passes, Sherlock is still very tired, and his throat hurts. But it hurts even more to see the anger in John's face. ”I'm smart, and amazing as you like to put it.” He tries to collect his thoughts again, catches his breath. ”I'm good with bombs, not humans. I defuse bombs and yes, it helps people. But will caring for them help them more?” John gets him another glass of water, and Sherlock can feel his hand on the back of his neck again, can feel it touch his hair and the closeness of John. He's confused and tired and doesn't want John to be angry with him. But he can't lie, because he doesn't know what lies will make it better.
”No,” John whispers as an answer to his question when he helps him back to the pillow again.
”Then I will continue not caring for them.” He closes his eyes, feels the morphine work through his system. But he doesn't close them soon enough, he can still see the sadness in John's eyes, see the hurt. He still hears the door close before he falls asleep again.
John gets a cup of coffee from the machine. John gets a cup of coffee and goes to his office container. John goes to his container and he sits down in his chair. John does all of this in a haze. A haze of being too tired, too sad, too afraid, too upset. His head falls against his desk, his hands around it blocking the ugly fluorescent lights in the room. How could he ever believe that he, of all people, could ever be Sherlock's friend? Crazy Holmes doesn't have friends. Crazy Holmes doesn't care for people, doesn't care for John. John who's been away from his bed for over 36 hours, John who just wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him and ask if he was alright when he came into the hospital yesterday. John who suddenly finds wet tears running down his cheeks, and he can't tell if they are from exhaustion or from emotions.
It must be hours later when Sarah wakes him. He probably looks like hell, having fallen asleep on his table, and his neck hurts. She says something about him going to bed, that these last days has been hard on them all and he smiles and says that yes, he'll get to bed. It's early morning and she's here to take the day shift. He yawns, grabs a new cup of coffee, spills on his uniform (annoying, but he can't be bothered) and is on his way back when he decides to check on Lestrade first. The man's asleep. He's just as battered and bruised as Sherlock, but it doesn't sting in John's eyes as much. Lestrade looks like a man who can take things being thrown his way, whereas Sherlock looks like a man who should just sit and read books all day (like he used to when John first met him). He looks at the chart, sips his coffee, before hanging it back. It looks alright, Lestrade will heal properly. John sees the flowers, the ”get well soon”-cards and the stupid watch (shaped like a mosque) that they really shouldn't have in their rooms, but John knows is probably the EOD-teams' favourite joke. He leaves the room, his spirit a bit lifted, and before he can stop himself he's in Sherlock's room. There are no cards there.
It's evening when Sherlock awakes again. His room is darker than before, but he can still make out some things. He can turn his head enough to see the flowers and a card on the table to his left. Who sends him flowers? He knows they are plastic, because that's what they sell at the market stands on the outskirts of Bastion, and it's a typical gift for wounded soldiers from their team mates. But Sherlock's team mates haven't visited him, have they? His monitors must be wired to some kind of alarm, because the door opens after a few minutes. It's a young nurse, she looks a bit off in her uniform. He thinks she shouldn't be in this country, that she should be in some lab somewhere in England, not here where she might have to fight for her life.
”Good evening, Sergeant,” she gives him a smile. ”I'm nurse Hooper. You might've seen me in the pharmacy before.” Of course he hasn't, he hasn't ever visited the pharmacy. She speaks slowly and nearly in a whisper, which he welcomes. ”I hope you feel alright. Is there anything I can help you with?” She gives him an unsure smile.
”The flowers?” he whispers. Her face lights up and she goes over to get the card, understanding his underlying question. Sometimes, other people can be useful.
” 'Call me stupid, but I'll still believe in heroes, J.' ”she reads. She gives Sherlock a confused smile, but seems content with the one he can't stop his lips from forming. When he closes his eyes, she leaves. Yes John, he thinks to himself, that's really stupid. But he can't help but to feel satisfied about the card, about John not being angry any more. Because even if Sherlock might not be good with other people's emotions, sometimes John isn't just ”other people” and he knows what to say and what to do to make Sherlock understand how the other man feels, and sometimes John understands Sherlock too.
”You'll be sent home soon.” John is seated next to Sherlock's feet and he's been fretting over something ever since he entered, half an hour ago. He's told him about how he was just harassed by an angry Sergeant Donovan, staff assistant at G2, who'd said Sherlock really did deserve the nick-name ”Crazy”. Sherlock tells him she and Anderson have been on and off for quite sometime now, to which the good doctor exclaimed ”But he was married,” and Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. It's after they've been silent for a moment that John can't keep it to himself any more.
”I figured as much.” John is looking at his hands. Sherlock is looking out the window. It's early morning still.
”Yeah, someone from your Company will probably come and tell you in person soon, but... it's pretty standard.”
”Yes.” Sherlock's rasped voice doesn't give away any emotion.
”Sherlock.” Sherlock turns to look the Doctor in the eyes. ”I... I don't know much about your family, or how it'll be when you get home but...”
”I have a brother,” Sherlock states.
”Yeah?” John is surprised, Sherlock has never mentioned any family before. John had assumed he was, perhaps, just as lonely as John was. When Sherlock doesn't continue, John does. ”So, you'll stay at his place? Or do you have your own?” Sherlock smirks and let's out a huffed laugh.
”No, John, on both questions. But I think I'll be able to get a place to rent once I'm in London.”
”Oh, okay. Good. That's... good.”
”Yes.” It's silent for a moment. None of them looking at the other. John didn't think it would be this hard. He has gotten accustomed to Sherlock, to Sherlock's world, during the last month and a half.
”But you won't have your bombs.” John thinks about all those times Sherlock has told him about the different types of IEDs and sometimes UXOs (but those are boring, boooring) and he can't imagine what the man will do once he's home in England. Enlist again, once he's recovered? He's smart enough for the Army to want him back, but John doubts that without Sgt. Lestrade as his team leader, Sherlock could never function properly in a group.
No, Sherlock thinks to himself, no I won't have the bombs. And he starts to feel a panic form inside of him, one he had almost forgotten. It's the morphine and the wounds and the hurt that has kept what will happen from happening earlier. He will get bored. And when he gets bored, he gets dangerous. Mostly to himself but he cares a lot about himself and he remembers those episodes from years before, remembers the dark rooms and how his mind was screaming (maybe he was too) and how everything was chaos. The bombs saved him, he found something to focus on and he found endless puzzles to solve. He hears John sigh, he's looking out through the closed and curtained window again.
”I could have lost you that day,” John says still pretending to look out the window. ”You came in on that trolley and I just wanted to... to not be there. To not see it.” he huffs, it's like a laugh but not really. ”Whatever you do when you get home, please just stay alive.”
And something snaps inside of Sherlock. There is a pain in the heart he's been told he doesn't have and he knows he let's out a whimper, but he isn't sure what's real and what's not because suddenly he's back in that vehicle on that beige road, he hears the explosion and he sees the chaos and Anderson's dead body and he's carried out by someone from close protection who's made it to their vehicle. There's yelling and screaming but there is also blackness and voids. And why couldn't he see this coming? Why didn't he detect anything out of the ordinary? And he's somewhere on the ground and there's firing and people yelling at him to stay awake and there's a medic and he's hurting and it's hours later and he's been moved several times and finally the helicopter comes but it's evening now and there's morphine. But he still hears the screams and see Andersson's dead eyes and then there is a bright light and there is a hand on his and there is John and there's Doctor Who and there's giggles but it's still confusing and everything hurts and he could have died that day. And not like he had imagined he would (because he has imagined his death many times); but in a desert in Afghanistan, being sent home in a coffin and there would be soldiers, other soldiers, parading his funeral and he would have been just another soldier added to the list of many lost in this awfully beige country, and he doesn't want to die like that. It's a new realisation, but it's true nonetheless.
It's like coming up for air after having been underwater for too long when he can finally open his eyes again and feel his heartbeat and his breathing calm down. There is someone close to him, whispering words in his ear and his right hand is clinging to someone's left. He can smell that awful standard soap they all smell of, the washing powder they use for the uniforms so that they stay somewhat waterproof and warm skin. It's John, it's John's skin. John is holding his hand and resting his head against his as he's panting for breath, eyes staring at the ceiling.
”... and you'll be home again and even if there aren't any bombs there will still be the violin, right? And you'll find new puzzles and...”
”John,” he whispers. The man doesn't move, but he stops talking.
”I'm here.” And he is. He stays for the rest of the afternoon, sitting on a chair next to Sherlock, their heads sharing the pillow and their hands still together. Sherlock falls a sleep a few times, John probably does too. They don't speak much.
When evening comes there's a knock on the door. John gets up and Sarah's outside. He stifles a yawn and flex his hands.
”His Major is here,” she tells him and he nods. Sarah's a good soldier, John thinks. She's the kind of woman he would've called once he was back home, hadn't everything changed. He doesn't know when and he doesn't know how much, but something has changed. He tells Sherlock hos Company Commander is here, and he knows this is goodbye.
”I guess I'll have to watch the last season's on my own then,” he half-jokes. Sherlock gives him a knowing smile.
”You won't,” he replies and John knows it's true, because how could Sherlock be wrong? It's probably written all over John's face for all he knows. Sherlock's still sleepy, still covered in bandages and is soon being sent home to be taken care of in England. John is standing by the door.
”I'd love to hear you play the violin one day,” he says. It's a promise, a hope of sorts, that they'll get in contact when all this is over. He doesn't get a reply and silently leaves the room.
It's just a month later when John gets shot and he's being sent home a lot faster than Sherlock. He doesn't have time to say goodbye to anyone but when he wakes up in England there are cards and plastic flowers on the side table. He sleeps poorly and when he does all his dreams are horrible and of things he'd rather forget.
When he wakes one night there's a man sitting in the window. He recognises the shadow and their eyes meet as Sherlock turns to face him.
”Hello John.”
”Hi,” John musters. ”How did you know where I was?” His voice is barely a whisper, but it's so eerie and quiet at this time of the night Sherlock can still hear him.
”I never finished telling you of my brother.” And that's all the explanation John gets. Sherlock is dressed in a suit and he looks nothing like the soldier John once got to know. Well, he wasn't much of a soldier then either, he was a bomb expert.
”Any bombs in London lately?”
”No”
”So, what do you do?”
”I solve crime,” even in the dim light he can see John's surprised face, ”Lestrade has a brother, who works for Scotland Yard.” John nods, but sleep is pulling him in. ”And I play.” And as John's wounded body is resting and healing, his mind finally gets a good nights sleep as Sherlock plays for him.
---
Notes
And yep, that's it. Woah, I haven't written fics in years, this was fun :) I decided to not put John ”out in the field” because for me it didn't make sense. Yes, he might for some operations join the team, but mostly that would be a medic's job. It would be for a larger operation then, where a lot of groups and people are involved. Then it would make sense to have a forward surgical team joining. Researching EOD-teams was definitely difficult as for security reason they don't put out that much information on what they're doing.
I've based Camp Bastion upon my experience of military camps, but I have never visited Bastion. I don't know too much about the British Armed Forces either, but I tried to use what I know of the military and it's ways and make it plausible.
I have no idea about the plastic flowers but the mosque-clocks I would guess could be a fun joke for the EOD-team; they are very often mentioned as things you can easily use to make bombs.
Hope you enjoyed ;)
Summary: Inspired by this prompt: "I'd really like to see a kind of Hurt Locker AU (except set in Afghanistan) where Sherlock diffuses bombs and solves military problems and John is the doctor who tags along to patch him up when things inevitably explode. Bonus points for plot! Any pairing is fine. I just really want to see Sherlock working on diffusing a bomb."
Author's Note: Yeah. It's about Afghanistan and there should be death and destruction all over the place, but I think I managed to just make it sappy and romantic anyway. Also, there's mentioning of Doctor Who in this fic :/
Words: 6669 (!)
Holmes is on the ground, looking at the IED. He's calm and focused and there is nothing in the world besides him and the bomb. He sees the cables going from the home-made piece of shit to the hole in the road, where the pressure plate is buried. He knows what to do and he knows he does it fast. He's aware his team hates it when he does that; they've all been taught to take it easy, to not stress things. Sgt Sherlock ”Crazy” Holmes isn't stressing things, he knows these things, he can feel them and read them, he knows what needs to be done. The bomb isn't more than a puzzle that needs to be solved. That's why he's usually the one they send forward when the RCV isn't enough, because he doesn't care about the reasons behind this bomb, his mind isn't full of Talibans and evil-doers; it's just him, and the bomb.
Once it's been defused and he's walking back to the team by the vehicle they're all cheering and telling themselves how awesome they are. Holmes doesn't join in. He gets out of the protective suit with some help from a team-mate and eventually they begin to get back to Bastion.
The desert is dry and hot as the sun sets. The inhabitants of Lashkar Gah are getting ready for the evening, trying to find something to heat their fires with as the night comes with its cold, so different from the day. Holmes is looking out through the window, trying to find anything out of the ordinary, anything that might give them reason to believe something's up and that he might have to use the weapon in his hand. He looks at the women in their burkhas, hurrying through the streets together with their brothers, husbands or sons. His eyes runs over the beige houses, built of clay and whatever could be found. The burkhas in their green, blue, white or red stand out against all the beige that is this country. He finds nothing interesting, and they make it back to Bastion in one piece.
John Watson, Doctor at Camp Bastion's Hospital, makes his way to the small library in the corner of the camp. It's just one container, not very big, but it's a shorter walk than to the main one. It doesn't hold that many books, but at least some magazines, and a TV. The TV is his goal for this evening. After a long day on his feet, he's looking forward to an evening in front of some mindless TV-show. He does enjoy keeping up with something British, and is silently happy they've managed to get a few BBC-channels here. Opening the door he's surprised to see another soldier in there. This place is usually deserted (few soldiers do actually enjoy reading through the night, and if they do they usually borrow books from the main library) and John isn't used to having some one else to share the small compartment with. And of course it's Sgt. Holmes, the EOD-teams most infamous member. The Sergeant, thin and tall with black hair and a surprisingly clean uniform, doesn't even acknowledge him as he makes his way to the couch, engrossed as he is in the book he's reading. But as the Sergeant is seated in an arm chair next to the couch, John feels he has to say something.
”Uhm, Sergeant, is it ok if I turn on the TV? You won't be disturbed?” An awkward moment passes, before the lanky man seems to realise John's talking to him.
”No, go ahead, ” he says, his eyes barely leaving the book. John gives him a small smile.
”Okay. Yeah, let's see what's on tonight.” For some reason he does feel uncomfortable next to the man nicknamed ”Crazy” (John had always winced when he'd heard it, it didn't seem sincere and a funny joke between friends, more like something said to actually make fun of the man), but not because of the nicknames and the stories, more due to the fact that he suddenly feels... scrutinized. He decides to shrug it off, and tries to enjoy the rerun of Doctor Who (the new version, it's quite good actually and he enjoys Christopher Eccleston's Doctor).
It's a few hours later (it must be, he's seen at least four episodes by now) that Sgt. Holmes puts down his book.
”You like this show?” John, surprised, looks up from where he's been stretching out on the couch, his feet in the direction of Holmes' chair.
”Yeah. Well, I mean, it's Doctor Who. It's simple enough to follow since you already know the basics from your childhood, you know?” He gives the Sergeant a smile.
”No. I've never watched it before, never heard of it.”
”What? You've never watched Doctor Who? Never heard of it?” John gives Sgt. Holmes a look of pure surprise.
”No, I've never been interested in television.” John sits up, this can't be real, can it? How can you be born in England and not know about Doctor Who?
”But... but it's Doctor Who! You must've heard of it at least! And why not watch TV?”
”It's boring.”
”Boring?”
”Yes.”
”So uhm,” John is a bit confused. He knew the man was... different, but he's never interacted with him before, so well, he's... confused, yes. ”What do you do to entertain yourself then?”
”I...”, the man gives him a long look. John gives him a steady look back, ”I play the violin. And defuse bombs.” John blinks.
”Bombs and violin?”
”Yes.” The man is still sitting rigid in his arm chair (it's an old beige thing) and hasn't moved an inch since they began talking.
”Oh well. The bombs makes sense, I guess, given your work. But for entertainment?”
”It's interesting. How they are made, out of what they are made, and how to turn them off. You're a doctor, aren't you interested in your field of work?”
”Interested yes, but it's not what I use to relax. It's hardly relaxing to perform surgery.”
”Hmm,” the man answers. Suddenly he gets up, gets out of the door and leaves. John blinks, perplexed. Then he turns off the TV and head to bed. What a strange, strange man.
It's a few evenings later when John has the time to go to the small library and once again surf through TV-shows. It's nothing on so he decides to pick something from the shelf with DVDs. He finds some old Doctor Who (the fifth doctor, he realises), pops the disc in and crashes on the couch. It's only an episode later when Sgt. Holmes enters. He looks a bit surprised, as does John.
”Uhm, hi Sergeant,” John says.
”Doctor,” the man gives him a nod before sitting down in his chair, a new book in hand this time, ”and please, call me Sherlock.” For some reason, John knows this isn't an invitation to a more friendly approach with each other, it's just a statement. Sherlock has hung his jacket over the arm of the chair.
”John,” he still offers. The man might not want him disturbing his reading, but John's a nice bloke and it is nice to be on first name basis. He goes back to watching his episodes and Sherlock continues reading his book. They don't talk for the rest of the evening, but John feels more relaxed this time.
For three more evenings, the ritual is the same; John gets to the library, puts some Who in the DVD-player and a few minutes later Sherlock appears. They don't talk more than a greeting, and it's usually Sherlock that leaves first. The fourth evening, Sherlock doesn't show up. John can only assume it's due to his team being on some long range-patrol somewhere. He only watches one episode before heading to bed early. The next day he hears the EOD-team is still out, so he doesn't even bother to go to the library. John avoids thinking about why, he just tells himself he isn't in the mood.
John has just put the disc in, when the door opens. Sherlock comes in, without a book this time.
”Evening, Sherlock,” John greets.
”Evening,” Sherlock says as he sits down in his chair. John notices his dirty uniform.
”Long range?”
”Yes.”
”Hmm,” John fiddles with the remote, choosing an episode, ”a lot of bombs, then?”
”Not really, no.”
”So, a boring trip then? I guess you couldn't bring your violin,” he smiles at Sherlock, who looks surprised.
”Quite, yes.” A smile, small and just in the corner of his mouth, but John sees it. ”So, any interesting surgeries while I was gone?”
”Hmm? Uhm, no, not really,” John replies, eyes darting from the TV-screen to Sherlock, ”I did have to send a soldier home due to his injuries, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, no.” Sherlock gives John a long stare, tips his head to his side and then back. John once again has that feeling of being scrutinized.
”But you've just called your sister while you were upset about something, and she hardly calmed you down. Was she drunk again?” John stares at the man, TV-screen forgotten.
”What?”
”You have a sister, I first thought brother but I've learnt otherwise, Harry, probably short for something, most probably Harriet. She gave you the phone you carry in your left pocket, I've seen you fiddle with it in the dining hall. You don't use it for anything but to tell time at the moment, but you wanted to have a phone for your next rotation home, which will be your last. Once in England you want to be able to contact your relatives, meaning your sister, and since you'll be stuck for two days at the regiment before being discharged, you need a phone. It's obviously originally not yours as it says ”Harry Watson from Clara” on it. The phone has been used, there are scrapes of keys on it, but they weren't made by you since all the keys you've got; your own container, the hospital and your office, are all hooked to your card-holder, not kept in your pocket. So who's Clara? Obviously Harry's ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, but no this is more of a wife gift, seeing as it's even engraved. It's a new phone, not more than 6 months old, so why give it away? Because they're divorced, probably due to her drinking. The scuff marks around the edge of the power connection are those made by some one with an unsteady hand, typical for a drunk. So, she's probably the only close relative you have, seeing as you got the phone from her, not from someone you might get along with better. You care for her, and calls her sometimes to make sure she's ok. The problem is, she never cares if you're ok, even if you hope so.”
John is shocked. He's never told anyone about Harry's drinking problems, he doesn't even want to acknowledge it himself sometimes. And here is Sgt. Sherlock ”Crazy” Holmes of the EOD-team telling him everything he didn't want to know himself about his life.
”That... was amazing,” he says. It's all he could think about, because it was.
”You think so?” Is Sherlock's reply after a moment.
”Of course it was... It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary.”
”That's not what people normally say.”
”What do people normally say?”
”Piss off.” John laughs. The whole situation is bizarre. Sherlock smiles, then looks grave again. ”So, did you call her?”
”Yes,” John gives a short nod. ”Yes.”
”About what? You said nothing important had happened.”
”I said, nothing interesting had happened.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow his way, John sighs. ”I had to deal with a private who had just brought in his friend, badly wounded. As he phoned home to tell them he was alright, he found out his fiancée had just died. They were in the middle of trying to contact his Company to let them tell him in person.” John looks down at his hands, at the uniform with it's dirty sleeves. ”It was just a horrible thing to watch. And then I decided to call Harry, to check on her.”
”Hmm,” is all Sherlock says. They get back to watching Doctor Who, Sherlock isn't reading this time, instead he's sitting comfortably in the beige char, his feet on the chair as well, his knees in front of his chin. He should be too tall to fit in it, but he's thin enough to make space for all the limbs. John realises after a while he's been looking at Sherlock a lot more than the screen, trying to see his reactions. It's no disappointment when Sherlock exclaims things at the TV, arms and hands underlining his reactions to the stupidity of the characters (it is more than often he mutters a ”stupid, stupid, stupid” under his breath as the Doctor and the current companion once again gets caught by some evil-doers). It's almost early morning when John says he has to go to bed. Sherlock looks up at him as he rises. John takes a deep breath and fiddles with his jacket.
”So, maybe breakfast tomorrow? Or are you having a sleep in?” John sees the surprise on Sherlock's face. It only last for a beat, but John did see it.
”I eat at 0700.” Before John has the time to respond, the man is out, jacket in hand, and he's left to put away the DVDs.
It becomes a new ritual, their breakfasts. John isn't sure Sherlock ever ate with his team, before John. But now they always meet up if they're both on camp (sometimes John gets to leave base, either on a shorter patrol or in an ambulance when they need to pick up wounded soldiers near Bastion and sometimes Sherlock is on a long range). It's one of John's favourite times of the day, he soon realises. Sherlock is telling him everything he never wanted to know about the other people at Bastion, just by looking at them, and John is constantly amazed. He soon realises Sherlock enjoys his looks of wonder. He pretty soon also realises Sherlock doesn't seem to have many friends. He doubts Sherlock considers him a friend, but he's not willing to test it. He hasn't made any friends here either, really. John is usually just a nice guy, a good doctor but he hasn't been interested in getting to know his co-workers. He knows the basic things about them, he can make a good conversation and is definitely invited to play poker, grab a beer at the mess or watch a movie with them, but he probably won't call them once he's back in England.
No, John enjoys his time with Sherlock a lot more than with his co-workers these days. Sherlock isn't like other people, he's amazing. The things he can tell, the things he deduces from other people, simply stuns John and he himself tries to notice things about his co-workers and patients when Sherlock isn't around (he usually gets it wrong, but he enjoys it anyway). In the mornings they talk, and in the evening they watch Doctor Who. They sometimes walk around camp and John learns that no matter how much Sherlock might think other people are ”boring and stupid”, he seems to enjoy John's presence and even smiles the Doctor's jokes and his stories of everyday life at the camp. Sherlock tells him about is work, the parts he's allowed to tell. John learns about his team, and that Sherlock is with them because he's an expert, but they would hardly call him friend, or comrade.
There's one evening John will never forget. They've just walked around camp (with all of its white containers put together like rooms under roofs to make it look like houses) and it's still warm, but not too hot anymore, and the sun is about to set. The air smells of sand and the manure used to heat the fires in Lashkar Gah. The two soldiers are standing against one of the walls of the camp, and John has just said something to which Sherlock replied ”But we invaded Afghanistan” and it sends John into a fit of giggles. As he looks up at Sherlock his gray eyes glitter in the sunset and he laughs too, and after that he secretly thinks of Sherlock as his friend.
One morning Sherlock doesn't show up. John stands there, feeling like an idiot for a few minutes before getting his breakfast. Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about heading out early yesterday as they watched Doctor Who (they're at Eccleston's Doctor again, sometimes Sherlock watches, sometimes he reads). John joins two of his colleagues, who looks surprised at his presence, but don't comment. John realises he's stopped saying yes to evenings with his co-workers quite soon after he and Sherlock began their Who-evenings.
It's a dry morning, the sun has risen, but it's not yet too hot when everything goes to hell. Sherlock and his team are, together with two other groups acting as their close protection, en route to defuse a bomb hidden on the Ring Road when they go over one themselves. It's obvious the people behind the bomb, and the SAF-attack afterwards, knew which vehicle was the EOD-team's as they came second and the bastards didn't pull whatever trigger they had (possibly radio controlled, but more likely a damn long cable) until the first vehicle had passed.
Thoughts of everything and nothing rushes through Holmes' head as his world is literally turned upside down. After they land (they must've landed) everything about him feels slow and he doesn't even object when he's carried out of the vehicle (by whom?) and there are men yelling and shouting orders and there's gunfire and eventually a helicopter and he can't hear properly and he's just clinging to his gun, which is the only solid thing in the chaos around him. Someone takes the gun from him and he knows he's objecting but no one seems to hear him (or is he only objecting in his mind, and not actually saying anything?) until a doctor (it must be a doctor, he can see the red cross on his arm) shows it to him, tries to tell him something and then puts it next to him (he can't see it, but he knows it there, it makes him feel safe). He's in a trolley, in a helicopter. He doesn't know how much time has passed since the explosion, doesn't know how his team mates are, but everything fades as the morphine runs through his veins.
When he wakes up, it's to the sound of the machines around him. He's having a hard time opening his eyes, which annoys him. Holmes can figure out a lot just by the sound of it (he's not in a big room with other patients, he's getting IV-fluids (blood?) and something for the pain, probably morphine, yes morphine, and his heartbeat is of course, supervised. There are people outside where he is and when he hears a loud ”Captain!” he's certain he's at Bastion) but he needs to see. And his mouth is dry too and his black hair sticks to the pillow, he's been sweating. Someone else is in the room with him. He can hear the breathing. The person (John? Yes, John, he can sense the other man, maybe it's the smell, it's something and he knows) is sitting very still. He manages eventually to open his eyes. The room (container made to look like a room) is white, sterile and nothing more than what he would assume of Camp Bastion's Hospital. And yes, it's indeed blood in the IV-stand. He's still dizzy and trying to focus properly when John rushes up from his chair and enters Sherlock's line of sight.
John hasn't slept properly since yesterday. There was a call over the radio: ”Sierra Tango Five, Sierra Tango Five” and John had answered, had run to the hospital and when he'd seen the two men on their trolleys it was like walking through cold water. He ran by Sherlock's side as he was taken into surgery and grabbed his hand, just for a second. He wanted to tell him it'll be alright, that they'll fix him. But he knew he couldn't promise that, because it looked that bad, and Sherlock would know a lie. So he became the soldier, the doctor, began preparing for surgery. He didn't do the surgery on Sherlock, and he was thankful for it. Instead he got assigned to Sgt. Thomas Lestrade, the team leader, and he stopped every emotional reaction and just worked. Stamford had taken care of Sherlock, John knows he's a magnificent doctor. But afterwards, when he would usually crash on his bed after what is actually a double-shift, he didn't. He went to Sherlock's room, fell asleep in the chair, worked for 10 hours and went back. When Sherlock sees him, he hasn't seen his bed for over 36 hours. And he looks like it.
”My God, Sherlock,” is all John says as he meets the dark-haired man's eyes. He feels all of those emotions he hasn't dealt with yet emerging, but he manages to suppress them for the time being. The battered, bruised and stitched man doesn't need his tears and fears right now.
”Hi John,” Sherlock tries to say, but it comes out as a long H-sound and a ”Dj”. John runs over to the sink and fills a plastic cup with water, puts a straw in it and goes to Sherlock's side. He helps the man to drink. It's awful to see Sherlock like this, all bandages and half of his skull is in bandage too and the rest is mostly blue and swollen. John holds the back of Sherlock's neck while he drinks, and helps him back against the pillow once he's done.
”Thank you,” Sherlock whispers. John musters a smile.
”Do you remember what happened to you?” Sherlock closes his eyes for a second. John has moved his chair so he's seated next to Sherlock's feet so he can see him.
”I believe so, yes.” His throat still hurts. He doesn't really want to talk about it, he wants to get out of here and work on his puzzles, his bombs, again. Already is his mind speeding up, and he knows that soon it'll be bored (but it isn't speeding up properly; the morphine might have something to do with that). John is in his Doctor-mode when he continues.
”You and your team got hit by an IED and you were rescued from the vehicle while your comrades tried to keep you safe. You were out for quite some time before the MEDEVAC got there and managed to pull you and Sgt. Lestrade out. He's next doors, waking up as well. You both ended up in surgery, and we've managed to keep all your limbs intact. But you will be in pain for a long time. We've administered morphine, and you'll probably sleep through most of your stay here. ” The doctor looks away, and Sherlock knows what next. ”Pte Anderson didn't make it. I'm sorry, Sherlock.”
Sherlock thinks about how to react, but he can't come up with a probable one. He knows he should be sad, because he and Anderson worked so close for all these months. But he and Anderson never got along, it was just Lestrade's angry face that kept them from ending up in fist fights even out in the field (they did end up in fights while on camp quite a lot though). Sherlock's never been good with emotions and he knows that if he wasn't so damn good at these bombs (of course he's good, everyone else is just stupid) he'd been sent home to mother England already (if ever sent away at all). He can definitely feel a certain sadness about Anderson; it's always a waste when some one at least decent on their job gets killed, but he's not really that sad. Mostly annoyed that he'll have to ”get to know” someone else (he never gets to know someone anyway, they just learn to stay out of his way).
”You didn't like Anderson, did you, Sherlock?” John asks. Sherlock notices he's upset. John is such a good person, and Sherlock knows he himself really isn't, but for some reason it does bother him that John is, what? Angry/ annoyed/ disappointed in him?
”No,” is the simply reply. Because it's true.
”So you won't be sad about his death?” John is getting up from his chair, runs a hand (left hand) through his hair and over his face. ”How can you not be sad another human has died?” John puts his hands against the back of the chair.
”You're disappointed in me.” He's still croaking, but John hears him well enough.
”Good. Good deduction, yeah.” Sherlock closes his eyes.
”Don't believe in heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did I wouldn't be one of them.” A moment passes, Sherlock is still very tired, and his throat hurts. But it hurts even more to see the anger in John's face. ”I'm smart, and amazing as you like to put it.” He tries to collect his thoughts again, catches his breath. ”I'm good with bombs, not humans. I defuse bombs and yes, it helps people. But will caring for them help them more?” John gets him another glass of water, and Sherlock can feel his hand on the back of his neck again, can feel it touch his hair and the closeness of John. He's confused and tired and doesn't want John to be angry with him. But he can't lie, because he doesn't know what lies will make it better.
”No,” John whispers as an answer to his question when he helps him back to the pillow again.
”Then I will continue not caring for them.” He closes his eyes, feels the morphine work through his system. But he doesn't close them soon enough, he can still see the sadness in John's eyes, see the hurt. He still hears the door close before he falls asleep again.
John gets a cup of coffee from the machine. John gets a cup of coffee and goes to his office container. John goes to his container and he sits down in his chair. John does all of this in a haze. A haze of being too tired, too sad, too afraid, too upset. His head falls against his desk, his hands around it blocking the ugly fluorescent lights in the room. How could he ever believe that he, of all people, could ever be Sherlock's friend? Crazy Holmes doesn't have friends. Crazy Holmes doesn't care for people, doesn't care for John. John who's been away from his bed for over 36 hours, John who just wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him and ask if he was alright when he came into the hospital yesterday. John who suddenly finds wet tears running down his cheeks, and he can't tell if they are from exhaustion or from emotions.
It must be hours later when Sarah wakes him. He probably looks like hell, having fallen asleep on his table, and his neck hurts. She says something about him going to bed, that these last days has been hard on them all and he smiles and says that yes, he'll get to bed. It's early morning and she's here to take the day shift. He yawns, grabs a new cup of coffee, spills on his uniform (annoying, but he can't be bothered) and is on his way back when he decides to check on Lestrade first. The man's asleep. He's just as battered and bruised as Sherlock, but it doesn't sting in John's eyes as much. Lestrade looks like a man who can take things being thrown his way, whereas Sherlock looks like a man who should just sit and read books all day (like he used to when John first met him). He looks at the chart, sips his coffee, before hanging it back. It looks alright, Lestrade will heal properly. John sees the flowers, the ”get well soon”-cards and the stupid watch (shaped like a mosque) that they really shouldn't have in their rooms, but John knows is probably the EOD-teams' favourite joke. He leaves the room, his spirit a bit lifted, and before he can stop himself he's in Sherlock's room. There are no cards there.
It's evening when Sherlock awakes again. His room is darker than before, but he can still make out some things. He can turn his head enough to see the flowers and a card on the table to his left. Who sends him flowers? He knows they are plastic, because that's what they sell at the market stands on the outskirts of Bastion, and it's a typical gift for wounded soldiers from their team mates. But Sherlock's team mates haven't visited him, have they? His monitors must be wired to some kind of alarm, because the door opens after a few minutes. It's a young nurse, she looks a bit off in her uniform. He thinks she shouldn't be in this country, that she should be in some lab somewhere in England, not here where she might have to fight for her life.
”Good evening, Sergeant,” she gives him a smile. ”I'm nurse Hooper. You might've seen me in the pharmacy before.” Of course he hasn't, he hasn't ever visited the pharmacy. She speaks slowly and nearly in a whisper, which he welcomes. ”I hope you feel alright. Is there anything I can help you with?” She gives him an unsure smile.
”The flowers?” he whispers. Her face lights up and she goes over to get the card, understanding his underlying question. Sometimes, other people can be useful.
” 'Call me stupid, but I'll still believe in heroes, J.' ”she reads. She gives Sherlock a confused smile, but seems content with the one he can't stop his lips from forming. When he closes his eyes, she leaves. Yes John, he thinks to himself, that's really stupid. But he can't help but to feel satisfied about the card, about John not being angry any more. Because even if Sherlock might not be good with other people's emotions, sometimes John isn't just ”other people” and he knows what to say and what to do to make Sherlock understand how the other man feels, and sometimes John understands Sherlock too.
”You'll be sent home soon.” John is seated next to Sherlock's feet and he's been fretting over something ever since he entered, half an hour ago. He's told him about how he was just harassed by an angry Sergeant Donovan, staff assistant at G2, who'd said Sherlock really did deserve the nick-name ”Crazy”. Sherlock tells him she and Anderson have been on and off for quite sometime now, to which the good doctor exclaimed ”But he was married,” and Sherlock just raised an eyebrow. It's after they've been silent for a moment that John can't keep it to himself any more.
”I figured as much.” John is looking at his hands. Sherlock is looking out the window. It's early morning still.
”Yeah, someone from your Company will probably come and tell you in person soon, but... it's pretty standard.”
”Yes.” Sherlock's rasped voice doesn't give away any emotion.
”Sherlock.” Sherlock turns to look the Doctor in the eyes. ”I... I don't know much about your family, or how it'll be when you get home but...”
”I have a brother,” Sherlock states.
”Yeah?” John is surprised, Sherlock has never mentioned any family before. John had assumed he was, perhaps, just as lonely as John was. When Sherlock doesn't continue, John does. ”So, you'll stay at his place? Or do you have your own?” Sherlock smirks and let's out a huffed laugh.
”No, John, on both questions. But I think I'll be able to get a place to rent once I'm in London.”
”Oh, okay. Good. That's... good.”
”Yes.” It's silent for a moment. None of them looking at the other. John didn't think it would be this hard. He has gotten accustomed to Sherlock, to Sherlock's world, during the last month and a half.
”But you won't have your bombs.” John thinks about all those times Sherlock has told him about the different types of IEDs and sometimes UXOs (but those are boring, boooring) and he can't imagine what the man will do once he's home in England. Enlist again, once he's recovered? He's smart enough for the Army to want him back, but John doubts that without Sgt. Lestrade as his team leader, Sherlock could never function properly in a group.
No, Sherlock thinks to himself, no I won't have the bombs. And he starts to feel a panic form inside of him, one he had almost forgotten. It's the morphine and the wounds and the hurt that has kept what will happen from happening earlier. He will get bored. And when he gets bored, he gets dangerous. Mostly to himself but he cares a lot about himself and he remembers those episodes from years before, remembers the dark rooms and how his mind was screaming (maybe he was too) and how everything was chaos. The bombs saved him, he found something to focus on and he found endless puzzles to solve. He hears John sigh, he's looking out through the closed and curtained window again.
”I could have lost you that day,” John says still pretending to look out the window. ”You came in on that trolley and I just wanted to... to not be there. To not see it.” he huffs, it's like a laugh but not really. ”Whatever you do when you get home, please just stay alive.”
And something snaps inside of Sherlock. There is a pain in the heart he's been told he doesn't have and he knows he let's out a whimper, but he isn't sure what's real and what's not because suddenly he's back in that vehicle on that beige road, he hears the explosion and he sees the chaos and Anderson's dead body and he's carried out by someone from close protection who's made it to their vehicle. There's yelling and screaming but there is also blackness and voids. And why couldn't he see this coming? Why didn't he detect anything out of the ordinary? And he's somewhere on the ground and there's firing and people yelling at him to stay awake and there's a medic and he's hurting and it's hours later and he's been moved several times and finally the helicopter comes but it's evening now and there's morphine. But he still hears the screams and see Andersson's dead eyes and then there is a bright light and there is a hand on his and there is John and there's Doctor Who and there's giggles but it's still confusing and everything hurts and he could have died that day. And not like he had imagined he would (because he has imagined his death many times); but in a desert in Afghanistan, being sent home in a coffin and there would be soldiers, other soldiers, parading his funeral and he would have been just another soldier added to the list of many lost in this awfully beige country, and he doesn't want to die like that. It's a new realisation, but it's true nonetheless.
It's like coming up for air after having been underwater for too long when he can finally open his eyes again and feel his heartbeat and his breathing calm down. There is someone close to him, whispering words in his ear and his right hand is clinging to someone's left. He can smell that awful standard soap they all smell of, the washing powder they use for the uniforms so that they stay somewhat waterproof and warm skin. It's John, it's John's skin. John is holding his hand and resting his head against his as he's panting for breath, eyes staring at the ceiling.
”... and you'll be home again and even if there aren't any bombs there will still be the violin, right? And you'll find new puzzles and...”
”John,” he whispers. The man doesn't move, but he stops talking.
”I'm here.” And he is. He stays for the rest of the afternoon, sitting on a chair next to Sherlock, their heads sharing the pillow and their hands still together. Sherlock falls a sleep a few times, John probably does too. They don't speak much.
When evening comes there's a knock on the door. John gets up and Sarah's outside. He stifles a yawn and flex his hands.
”His Major is here,” she tells him and he nods. Sarah's a good soldier, John thinks. She's the kind of woman he would've called once he was back home, hadn't everything changed. He doesn't know when and he doesn't know how much, but something has changed. He tells Sherlock hos Company Commander is here, and he knows this is goodbye.
”I guess I'll have to watch the last season's on my own then,” he half-jokes. Sherlock gives him a knowing smile.
”You won't,” he replies and John knows it's true, because how could Sherlock be wrong? It's probably written all over John's face for all he knows. Sherlock's still sleepy, still covered in bandages and is soon being sent home to be taken care of in England. John is standing by the door.
”I'd love to hear you play the violin one day,” he says. It's a promise, a hope of sorts, that they'll get in contact when all this is over. He doesn't get a reply and silently leaves the room.
It's just a month later when John gets shot and he's being sent home a lot faster than Sherlock. He doesn't have time to say goodbye to anyone but when he wakes up in England there are cards and plastic flowers on the side table. He sleeps poorly and when he does all his dreams are horrible and of things he'd rather forget.
When he wakes one night there's a man sitting in the window. He recognises the shadow and their eyes meet as Sherlock turns to face him.
”Hello John.”
”Hi,” John musters. ”How did you know where I was?” His voice is barely a whisper, but it's so eerie and quiet at this time of the night Sherlock can still hear him.
”I never finished telling you of my brother.” And that's all the explanation John gets. Sherlock is dressed in a suit and he looks nothing like the soldier John once got to know. Well, he wasn't much of a soldier then either, he was a bomb expert.
”Any bombs in London lately?”
”No”
”So, what do you do?”
”I solve crime,” even in the dim light he can see John's surprised face, ”Lestrade has a brother, who works for Scotland Yard.” John nods, but sleep is pulling him in. ”And I play.” And as John's wounded body is resting and healing, his mind finally gets a good nights sleep as Sherlock plays for him.
---
Notes
And yep, that's it. Woah, I haven't written fics in years, this was fun :) I decided to not put John ”out in the field” because for me it didn't make sense. Yes, he might for some operations join the team, but mostly that would be a medic's job. It would be for a larger operation then, where a lot of groups and people are involved. Then it would make sense to have a forward surgical team joining. Researching EOD-teams was definitely difficult as for security reason they don't put out that much information on what they're doing.
I've based Camp Bastion upon my experience of military camps, but I have never visited Bastion. I don't know too much about the British Armed Forces either, but I tried to use what I know of the military and it's ways and make it plausible.
I have no idea about the plastic flowers but the mosque-clocks I would guess could be a fun joke for the EOD-team; they are very often mentioned as things you can easily use to make bombs.
Hope you enjoyed ;)