Sherlock Fanfic: Walking Against the Wind (JWP#26)
Title: Walking Against the Wind
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, pre-series, first person present tense, military
Warnings: none
Word Count: 330
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #26: Elementally, My Dear Watson. Use Earth/Air/Fire/water. Well I used water earlier, so let's go for earth and air.
Summary: I can't hear my fire team over the comms anymore, just the hissing roar of the sandstorm.
Walking Against the Wind
I can't hear my fire team over the comms anymore, just the hissing roar of the sandstorm. Grit grinds across my goggle lenses, sifts through my kerchief mask, the red sand a scouring maelstrom.
Someone grabs my arm, can't see who, but it's probably Murray. If it's a hostile, neither of us can shoot each other until the storm subsides anyway, so I don't worry about it.
The storm blew up too quickly, while most of the fire team had been scrambling to cover their gear and weapons and seek shelter. Murray and I lagged behind, wrapping our medical gear against flying dirt. You can kill a person with anything if you're determined enough, but you need clean medical gear to keep one alive.
Everything, everything is full of sand. I can feel my uniform rasping as I move, even though there's no hope of hearing it. Murray clings to my arm, carrying his own pack. The team was heading to a shallow cave spotted about a klick or two ahead.
Everywhere ahead is impenetrably rust-coloured now, granules of Afghanistan pushing us away, flying at us in gale force winds. There's a loose cuff or a tear somewhere on my left calf. I can feel the skin abrading in the onslaught. Murray's grip on my arm is painful, but I don't fight against it.
It must blow itself out soon. It must.
Murray raps on my helmet, then waves a hand in front of me, pointing off to our 3 o'clock. In the murky, howling red world, there is a light, flashing. The team signalling for us. We are close.
We turn right and are immediately broadsided by the full force of the sandstorm. Murray loses his footing and nearly pulls me over too, with the death grip on my arm. I duck low, plant my feet further apart and help Murray back up into a low crouch.
Braced against the blowing grit, gripping each other's arms, we hunker forward toward the light.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Postings: AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, pre-series, first person present tense, military
Warnings: none
Word Count: 330
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #26: Elementally, My Dear Watson. Use Earth/Air/Fire/water. Well I used water earlier, so let's go for earth and air.
Summary: I can't hear my fire team over the comms anymore, just the hissing roar of the sandstorm.
Walking Against the Wind
I can't hear my fire team over the comms anymore, just the hissing roar of the sandstorm. Grit grinds across my goggle lenses, sifts through my kerchief mask, the red sand a scouring maelstrom.
Someone grabs my arm, can't see who, but it's probably Murray. If it's a hostile, neither of us can shoot each other until the storm subsides anyway, so I don't worry about it.
The storm blew up too quickly, while most of the fire team had been scrambling to cover their gear and weapons and seek shelter. Murray and I lagged behind, wrapping our medical gear against flying dirt. You can kill a person with anything if you're determined enough, but you need clean medical gear to keep one alive.
Everything, everything is full of sand. I can feel my uniform rasping as I move, even though there's no hope of hearing it. Murray clings to my arm, carrying his own pack. The team was heading to a shallow cave spotted about a klick or two ahead.
Everywhere ahead is impenetrably rust-coloured now, granules of Afghanistan pushing us away, flying at us in gale force winds. There's a loose cuff or a tear somewhere on my left calf. I can feel the skin abrading in the onslaught. Murray's grip on my arm is painful, but I don't fight against it.
It must blow itself out soon. It must.
Murray raps on my helmet, then waves a hand in front of me, pointing off to our 3 o'clock. In the murky, howling red world, there is a light, flashing. The team signalling for us. We are close.
We turn right and are immediately broadsided by the full force of the sandstorm. Murray loses his footing and nearly pulls me over too, with the death grip on my arm. I duck low, plant my feet further apart and help Murray back up into a low crouch.
Braced against the blowing grit, gripping each other's arms, we hunker forward toward the light.
-.-.-
(that's it)