Sherlock Fic: The Principle's the Same - Chapter Five
Title: The Principle's the Same
Author: Narcoleptic_ll (Narkito)
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: Teen
Category: Gen, AU, World War II
Word Count: 17.000~~ this chapter: 3000~~
Summary: Sherlock gets wounded on the battle field and they leave him for dead. John, who's just escaped from captivity finds him. Together they start their journey out of enemy territory. Written for a prompt.
Chapter Five: He's Trying to Make Himself Lighter
They’re no longer in speaking terms. Well, John’s not in speaking terms right now, Sherlock’s been far too busy walking on a morphine-induced daze to even notice John’s mad. Sherlock has embarrassed John, but he has yet to realise about it.
They’re resting on a woody area with a narrow river that crosses it in the direction they’re going. They’ve taken the opportunity to fill their canteen and refresh themselves.
John hands another sulpha tablet to Sherlock and he silently takes it and swallows it dry, earning him a canteen to the chest and a murderous look.
“Don’t be a buzz-kill”, Sherlock says, and John suppresses the urgency to swat him over the head with his own cane. (It would greatly delay their journey if he did).
They have about four hours ‘til night, when they’ll start walking again under the safety of darkness. If they make good time, they’ll be on friendly territory by dawn, saving these memories in the anecdotes-to-tell-at-a-bar section of their minds. If everything goes well, that is. Please, god, don’t let me die in this hell-hole. John silently prays.
He looks up to Sherlock, who’s idly sitting on a rock by the river, pushing small pebbles into it with the tip of his cane. He’s been sitting there for half an hour at the very least, his mind light-years away, and even though John appreciates the lack of the I’m better than thou attitude every five minutes, he’s starting to get worried. His anger subdued as soon as a long list of opiates’ side effects starts to rattle around his head. Nausea being the most prominent and annoying so far, which is -coincidentally- the main reason he’s avoiding the stuff like the plague. He’ll give it another hour before really getting worried. If his timings are correct, Sherlock should be riding the highest point of the effects right now. He certainly looks the part.
Sherlock’s sudden intake of air startles him back. He looks like he’s about to talk, but then he shuts his mouth and looks the other way. John frowns at that, but doesn’t push, thinking about talking with him again makes him rather uneasy, and so he’ll avoid it if he can.
The problem with Sherlock is that he can’t make his head quiet. There’s usually a lot of noise and movement up there, but today, and for the past week, it feels like a roaring steam engine has taken residence in there. The thoughts keep rushing back, they haunt him. Being suspended from university, Mycroft taking him in into his office, mother falling ill, making the decision to come here. He just can’t stop playing memories in his head. He can’t shake his brother’s expression of utter regret, of actual emotional pain at the thought of having his baby brother mixed up in something as violent as the battle field. But what else could they do? The day after his suspension his mother visits him in his dorm room. They’ve given him ‘til the end of the week to clear the premises and he’s mostly stalling, except for the part where he’s carefully covering his tracks to make sure they don’t get into him whilst he’s gone, he´s already hanging in the balance with a suspension, making it into a expulsion should be a fairly simple affair if they find out his small “delivering” business on the side. He’s not there to make their jobs simple, that’s for sure! First he goes franticly about his room getting rid of evidence, and when he’s done dashing about, he opens the door to rush into the chemistry lab and get rid of the evidence in there as well. And there she is, casually leaning on the door jamb to the common room. The shame hits him so hard he feels faint. There’s an eerie heat coming up from the sole of his shoes, and he’s not sure if that’s the ignominy talking or the urge to sprint and leave it all behind.
“What are you doing here? You know you’re not supposed to leave the house.” He doesn’t mean to come off so harsh, and immediately regrets his poor choice of words.
“I came to see you, Sherlock, what else. Before you decide to disappear on us again, perhaps, talk some sense into you?”
“But, mum...”
“It’s OK, sweetheart, I understand. You’ve always been different, especial. I just hate to see you waste your life away.”
There’s a rush of blood to his head and everything heightens. The sound of the blood in his ears almost deafening. He feels like a small child again, in desperate need of comfort after being scolded by his father over a broken window.
The memory it’s too dense and heavy with emotional responses and feelingsto dwell on it again. He just can’t think about it anymore, which is why he surprises himself when he catches himself saying: “She’s sick you know” he says it to no one in particular, although John seems like the only possible recipient in there, obviously.
John doesn’t say anything back, he’s not quite sure what’s going on, but he can sense the vulnerability on the other man’s voice so he doesn’t want to interrupt.
Sherlock pushes another pebble forward and stops just as it’s about to fall into the river. “So we talked, my brother and I, we decided I should come and he should stay home.” One small push and the pebble rolls into water. “Actually, she might be dead already, I don’t really know. No thanks to the postal service in here, anyway.”
The sounds of nature fill the silence as it stretches for a couple of seconds. Truck-engine noises in the distance, the outskirts of town brimming with activity. Must be the Germans moving again.
John knows he shouldn’t ask, but his curiosity has spiked, still, he bites his tongue and sets himself into listening mode. Sherlock picks another pebble and presses it to the ground with the tip of his cane. He looks at John and bitter laughter rises to his lips. He then taps twice against the pebble and chucks it into the water.
“Because I’m expendable.” He finally says, and goes back to playing with his cane, tapping it against the ground.
How on earth did they get into this conversation to begin with?
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but, why are you telling me all this?”
Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by the question, slowing the tap-tap-tap of his cane.
“I…” for a moment there it seems Sherlock’s going to continue talking about it, whatever it was, but then, in a fraction of a second, something clicks and flickers inside, and his face assumes the stony mask of arrogance he’s perfected over time. As he talks, he looks past John and into the trees far behind. “We’re even now. I know something, you know something. Of personal importance, I mean. We’re even.”
John licks his lower lip and bits into it. Even, now that’s something.
“Well, since we are in the ‘of personal importance area’, why are you here? I don’t mean your work, I mean why come at all.”
“My brother was needed, but he was otherwise engaged. I came instead.” Sherlock answers automatically.
“Your brother? You mean there’s another one like you?”
“Of course there isn’t another one like me! Even if I had an identical twin, we wouldn’t be alike.” John’s about to give the best exasperated sigh of his repertoire, when he notices it; Sherlock’s smiling. Not a proper smile, but what he thinks passes as a smile for him. He half grins in return too. He has absolutely no idea about what just happened, but oddly enough, it felt a lot like bonding.
~~~
As soon as the sun begins to set they start arranging their things. John redresses their injuries one last time and coaches Sherlock through a series of deep breaths. His pain is very obvious and cuts deep in his face. Sherlock’s morphine’s wearing off, which is bad; they still have another four kilometres (give or take a couple) to walk and they need to get pass the enemy front. It’s going to be hard enough without adding the shooting pain and the inability to take a deep breath into the mix. Shut it, Watson, that’s quitter talk. He refocuses on kneeling by the river and filling up their canteen.
Sherlock’s leaning against a tree, waiting for John. He’s idly playing with the buttons of his coat. When John comes back he stands in front of Sherlock and looks at him in the eye.
“You ready?”
“Ready when you are.”
“How’s the pain?”
“You know, I could ask you the same question.”
“Yeah, I don’t have a couple of broken ribs, so, I’m OK. As long as I don’t have to aim higher than my shoulder…”, he mutters the last part and Sherlock looks to the ground trying to hide a smirk. He then disguises the movement by turning up the collar of his coat and wrapping his neck with his scarf.
“Don’t worry, John, I don’t think I can aim much higher than my shoulder either, but I’m not worried.” John actually laughs at that, a deep rumble that ends as his eyes wrinkle on the sides. Sherlock pushes off the tree and walks past John, “yeah, I’m not worried, at all.”
They’ve got another forty five minutes of light, tops.
When they talked about their escape route, they had decided to follow the river as far as the cover of the forest would allow, which, with some luck, would be to the heart of wherever the 11th and 82nd are. So they’re doing exactly that now. John’s leg is getting weird again, not to mention the dull throb of his shoulder is making him irritable, at best. He feels hot for no reason in particular and he just keeps telling himself it must be the exhaustion playing havoc on his body, as another different part of him unsuccessfully tries to silence the doctor within that just keeps cycling back to infection and septicaemia.
He’s already snapped twice at his medical bag out of pure annoyance and once at the rifle for not staying where he put it. Even though he understands it’s futile and downright stupid because they’re inanimate objects and definitely not at fault for his banged up shoulder, it does make him feel a bit better. When his rifle slips out of his grasp again, Sherlock intervenes before a long string of swearwords come out of John’s mouth.
“So, what to do you plan to do when you get home?”
John appreciates the effort to distract him, so he makes an effort too.
“Umm, not sure yet, go back to London, that’s for sure. Don’t know what after that, though. And you? You got a lady waiting for you at home?”
“No, not really my area.”
“Oh. So, you, ummm, have a job or something?” It’s not so much that he’s ignoring the quite dubious answer and downright awkward moment, as he’s just trying to refocus the conversation onto something else, something he’s actually comfortable talking about.
“No, not really, I’m a student… well, I was a student at Cambridge, before I got suspended. I don’t think they’ll be taking me back, though.”
“Umm, care to explain?” Please don’t let it be something outrageous.
“No, not particularly.”
Good.
They’ve been walking for about an hour and a half. They haven’t spotted light or movement around, which is good, very good. Their odds of survival are reasonably optimistic so far. Sherlock sits over a fallen tree and John goes to sit next to him. The air is pleasantly warm and it’s soothes him. He takes the rucksack off and puts it on his lap, careful as to not spill its contents, he opens it and searches the tin box with the sulpha tablets by hand.
It’s a dark night, their only source of light the full moon above their heads that’s partially covered by clouds. That put together with the eerily warm temperature means it’s going to rain soon; hopefully after dawn.
He finally finds the tin and opens it, the last two tablets waiting for him. He swallows one and chases it down with a big gulp of water. Then, he hands the other one to Sherlock by gently swatting him on the chest with his fist, when Sherlock looks down to see what’s the matter, John’s open hand is waiting for him with the tablet in the middle of it. He hands him the canteen next. Sherlock drinks all that’s left of the water and licks his lip after he’s finished, making a smacking sound with his tongue. John’s so close to Sherlock right now he can actually see the little curls beginning to form at the nape of his neck, bending out, defiant of gravity. He has an urge to put his hand there, to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real, but he refrains and goes to collect more water instead.
“So, do you have a girl waiting for you at home?” Sherlock asks as John’s getting back from the river.
“No. I’m on my own.”
“Don’t you have brothers?” Sherlock seems to stress that last word, but John deters from commenting on it.
“No, no brothers.” Sherlock cocks his head to a side and puts a hand to his face.
“Then who’s Harry?”
“Excuse me?!”
“You heard me, who’s Harry? You were calling for him in your sleep when we stayed at the cave.”
That, he did not see coming. What he is beginning to see is what kind of work Sherlock might be doing for the army, and he’s not sure what to think of it yet.
“Harry is short for Harriet, she’s my sister…”
“There’s always something…” Sherlock shakes his head and taps his cane against the ground. John can’t see his face from this distance, but he’s pretty sure he doing an eye-roll of sorts.
“So, how did you…?”
“Knew it had to be a sibling. Not usual to call one’s parents by name, and the context of your nightmare, from what I gathered, suggested family. If you have no idea what to do when you go back home, not even where you’ll stay, and there were no mentions of a son or cousins; sibling it’s all that’s left.”
“That’s… fantastic, not the trampling over my privacy bit, of course, but the rest? Quite extraordinary.”
John had found his way back to sitting next to Sherlock and he could see the satisfaction all over Sherlock’s features, a glaze on his eyes, very similar to the one he had sported after the second shot of morphine. At the thought, his hand instinctively goes to the upper left pocket of his jacket, to feel the leather pouch. He had completely forgotten there was still a good half-dose of morphine in there. He’ll save it for later, just in case.
“That’s not what people usually tell me.”
“No? Then what do they tell you?”
“Piss off”
“Ah, I might see that actually happening.”
Sherlock scoffs and looks the other way, amused. Something akin of anxiety bubbles up on his stomach and so John drinks more water to occupy himself, hoping to drown whatever feeling is beginning to form down there. Sherlock taps him on the leg with the cane and motions for the canteen. John passes the canteen and dries his mouth on his sleeve, exhaling as he scans the dark area in front of them. He’s still thirsty.
After resting for a while, they continue walking. Like a kilometre away from their last stop they catch sight of a campfire to their right, dangerously close to the only open space they can walk through past the camping. They quickly consult on it and decide to backtrack their steps a couple hundred metres up the river, to a narrow spot where they can cross without too much hassle. By the time they reach the crossing spot, a light drizzle has started.
They cross the river and start walking again. They should be close enough to the front lines now, they can sense the increase of movement around. The drizzle is starting to pick up, quickly becoming into rain, the drops soaking John’s collar, alleviating some of the heat in there.
They stop under a tree for both refuge and to orientate themselves. John takes the opportunity to remind Sherlock about the half-dose leftover of morphine.
“How’s your pain? No deflecting the question now, I need to know.”
“Seven.”
“I still have half a syrette in my pocket.”
“Don’t need it.”
“Yeah? Can you run then? If we have to, which, you know, we probably will, can you make a run for it?”
Sherlock’s quiet. And so is John for a while. Eventually the answer comes in the form of Sherlock shrugging off one of his coat sleeves and rolling his shirt to the elbow. John silently takes the syrette out and, finding a vein on Sherlock’s arm, inoculates him and pins the syrette on Sherlock’s lapel.
“In case you forget after we arrive, better be safe than sorry.”
They’re deviating from the river now, the place crawling with people they’re desperately trying to avoid.
A couple of hours later they find themselves at the edge of the forest. John goes ahead to explore. Beyond the forest, there’s a flat stretch of ground that’s populated by tall grass, a good hundred metres of it. The grass bends and quivers under the powerful strike of the wind and the rain. He can barely hear his thoughts as it is, even worse with the insistent tapping of droplets over his head. Right after the plain there’s people. He can make out a truck of supplies that’s probably serving as a HQ of sorts, and an old farm. He can also see people going in and out of the truck in yank uniform. He rushes back to tell the news to Sherlock.
“Right ahead, I can’t make out any specific marks, but it’s the yanks, all we have to do is cross the plain and we’re done.” Sherlock swallows and nods, once.
They’re on the edge of the forest, kneeling behind a tree, studying the path they’ll soon follow. The rain is viciously pounding the grass, fat drops of water colliding with the ground, creating thick mud in the process, making the terrain even more difficult to cross. John can hear his heart on his ears and he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s going through something very similar too.
Sherlock takes off his dripping wet coat, and whatever wasn’t soaked before, is drenched in pouring rain in under a minute now. He’s trying to make himself lighter in case they need to make a run for it. John rummages through his rucksack, that’s also drenched to the core, and produces a small blood-stained arm-band with a red cross on it. He puts it on and makes the sign of the cross over himself, finishing with a small peck to his thumb. And then takes a step front, still in his half kneeled position. He continues to walk like that until he’s well amongst the grass. Sherlock follows close behind.
Halfway through, the grass starts to make itself scarce and the terrain starts to elevate. To avoid misunderstandings he drops his rifle and prompts Sherlock to do the same with the Luger. They’re hiding behind a small knoll of dirt. Again, John takes the lead. He straightens his legs and gets up, slowly taking his arms above the head. His heartbeat is so fast it buzzes in his ears and neck. He looks back to Sherlock, who’s having difficulties standing up, and offers a hand. The hammering of the rain’s so hard and the rush of his blood so loud, he can’t hear anything past a few metres around. He feels, rather than hears the shot.
Sherlock propels forward and coughs into John’s jacket. The wheezing sound that comes after, cutting through the clamour of nature like a surgery scalpel.
This can’t be happening.