Fic: 1,800 meters [BBC Sherlock, John Watson]
Title: 1,800 meters
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating PG-13
Characters: John Watson, OC
Length: 221B
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP Prompt #9: Choose your own (mis)adventure. Use one or more of the following words in today's entry: pratfall, spit-take, faceplant, head-smack, double-take, slip. Unbeta'd.
Summary: The squad's new interpreter, Mohamed, was just a kid himself.
The quiet village was nestled in the foothills of the Safed Koh. John had spent the afternoon on check-ups and vaccinations. Now he sat slumped in the shadow of the town well, hoping to catch a breath of fresh air. The rest of his men were hiding from the glaring sunlight indoors, all except for Mohamed, the squad's interpreter.
Mohamed was playing tag with some local children. They spread out around him, acting like pigeons. Their strutting, bobbing walk reminded John of London. Mohamed would pretend not to notice them, oh no, not at all - then pounce. Each time, the boys would scatter, laughing. This time, Mohamed reached out to grab a toddler before lurching backwards in a ridiculous pratfall.
A second later there was a distant boom, almost lost in its own echoes. John found himself in a crouch, looking for the sniper. Could have come from the slopes to the north or east.
Mohamed hadn't reacted yet. John dashed for him, running in a zig-zag pattern. He grabbed onto the man's pack and dragged him, unresisting, across the square through the open door of the mosque. Safe inside, he checked Mohamed. Shattered skull, no pulse. Fuck.
The sniper must be over a mile out. The round hit before before the sound arrived. The kid never even heard the bullet.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating PG-13
Characters: John Watson, OC
Length: 221B
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP Prompt #9: Choose your own (mis)adventure. Use one or more of the following words in today's entry: pratfall, spit-take, faceplant, head-smack, double-take, slip. Unbeta'd.
Summary: The squad's new interpreter, Mohamed, was just a kid himself.
The quiet village was nestled in the foothills of the Safed Koh. John had spent the afternoon on check-ups and vaccinations. Now he sat slumped in the shadow of the town well, hoping to catch a breath of fresh air. The rest of his men were hiding from the glaring sunlight indoors, all except for Mohamed, the squad's interpreter.
Mohamed was playing tag with some local children. They spread out around him, acting like pigeons. Their strutting, bobbing walk reminded John of London. Mohamed would pretend not to notice them, oh no, not at all - then pounce. Each time, the boys would scatter, laughing. This time, Mohamed reached out to grab a toddler before lurching backwards in a ridiculous pratfall.
A second later there was a distant boom, almost lost in its own echoes. John found himself in a crouch, looking for the sniper. Could have come from the slopes to the north or east.
Mohamed hadn't reacted yet. John dashed for him, running in a zig-zag pattern. He grabbed onto the man's pack and dragged him, unresisting, across the square through the open door of the mosque. Safe inside, he checked Mohamed. Shattered skull, no pulse. Fuck.
The sniper must be over a mile out. The round hit before before the sound arrived. The kid never even heard the bullet.