Sherlock Fic: The Principle's the Same - Chapter One
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.
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Chapter One: That's a Division Mate, Try Again
His head hurts. That’s all he can attest for so far, as most of his other senses, such as the sense of survival, have clearly blinked out of existence after the grenade went out. (Well, perhaps survival was left at home long before this happened). His head hurts, and all the yelling around is not really helping. He opens his eyes against his better judgement, and the headache threatens to split his skull wide open (assuming the explosion didn’t). He can barely see through the wave of dizziness and nausea, and then, he’s out of it again; dead to the world.
When he comes to again, there’s a profound silence that sends a jolt of panic through his body, which, on the bright side, manages to wake up the rest of his senses. It’s later than before, judging by the length of the shadows, and colder, much, much colder. His legs are freezing and his face feels like it could shatter if moved too quickly. He tries to pull himself up, but as soon as he tightens his muscles, all the strength drains out of him in favour of resisting the urge to cry out loud in pain.
He manages to lift his neck and take a look at the place; the scenery has changed quite a bit. A jeep is on fire a good 30 metres away, one third of the wall that was providing cover during the ambush is laying on the ground. A solitary hand attached to what at some point might’ve been an arm, is right in front of him, and Sherlock audibly swallows and tries very hard not to think about it, just like he’s been trying very hard not think that these might be the last things he’ll ever see from this earth; the others have clearly left him for dead, and if he wasn’t dead before, he’s going to be soon, or at least as soon as he’s done bleeding to death. He’s never been a sentimental man, but he figures this would be a decent time to shed a few tears and try his best to repent of all the bad and stupid he’s done in his time, you know, just in case there is an almighty and divine upstairs. He’s had enough fire and burning for a lifetime (and he’s only been officially part of the war for three weeks).
After he’s decided that the coast is as clear as it’s going to get, he tries to move again, this time to roll on his side and, if he can hold the pain long enough, maybe crawl closer to what’s left of the wall, seek some cover.
He’s drenched in sweat by the time he’s fully on his side, so getting to a better position is out of the question by now. He’s got good news, though; he’s not going to die by exsanguination, then again, he’s not going to die by exsanguination, so he needs a plan, fast, and so far shouting for a medic seems like an extremely bad idea. Carefully not to jolt his leg, which is probably broken (just like god-knows how many ribs), he goes through his pockets looking for anything that might help him make an improvised bandage, he might not be in any immediate danger, but he’s bleeding both from the head and his right side, where one of the many sharp shards that were flying around him must’ve graced him. In one of his many back pockets he finds a scarf that goes completely against regulation, and he’s extremely grateful for that. He’s about to pull it out, when he hears steps from the far left, where the jeep had been burning. For a fraction of a second, he absolutely panics, and his heart rate seems to sense the danger of the situation even before the rest of Sherlock’s mind does. So far, he had been trusting to be alone, and have enough time to leave before someone got there.
He then steels himself, closes his eyes and listens. Steps; still distant, combat boots, a limp, a man, quite possibly wounded. Can’t tell height from this distance, not with pain clouding cognitive skills. Now, this it only leaves the matter of asserting whether it’s a friend or a foe.
As the stranger gets closer, he continues to play dead (which is fairly easy, considering he’s been doing just that for the past three to four hours; laying on the ground with dirt up to his nostrils). With his eyes more closed than otherwise, he’s absorbing the environment through every available pore, trying to deduce the stranger’s alliance. By the time the stranger is halfway between the burning jeep and him, Sherlock’s certain this is a friend, definitely a friend. This man was still carrying his Lee-Enfield and a handgun at his side. Which, considering Sherlock had all but completely forgotten about the existence of such things until now, was quite impressive.
As the stranger got closer, it became more obvious he was also heavily injured. A huge stain of blood ran down from his left shoulder, where his uniform was ripped and a small lump under there indicated what would most undoubtedly be a bandage. The limp seemed to be something else entirely, though, probably a sprained ankle or something equally innocuous.
Sherlock starts to move, trying to get his attention, to which the stranger quickly reacts by pointing his rifle at him.
“Don’t, I’m on your side.”
“Rank and regiment?” The rifle doesn’t come down, but it’s an action that inflicts enough pain on the stranger that the lines of his forehead deepen with each passing second.
“I’m with the 11th...”
“That’s a division, mate, try again.”
“As far as I know, I’m part of the 11th, plus, I’m a consultant, I don’t have a rank”
“Do you have a name?”
“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good, I’m John Watson.” The stranger, John, lowered the rifle with a groan and limped closer to Sherlock. “So, your buddies left you for dead I imagine?”
“Yes, I’m in a bit of a quandary, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Here, let me take a look, I’m a doctor.”
John kneeled beside him and started to go over Sherlock’s head with his hands, feeling it for any other yet undiscovered bumps and assorted injuries. Sherlock took it as an opportunity to have a better look at the doctor. His uniform was ragged and in pretty bad shape. His neck was heavily bruised, especially on the left side, where the bruise turned and angry red way past his collar. And old gunshot wound, then. A couple of days, at least. As John started to go over his ribs, Sherlock’s eyes wandered more south and...
“That’s a Luger.”
“Yes it is.”
“What are you doing with a Luger where your regulation gun should be?”
“Let’s just say I lost my regulation gun and had to make do with what I had at hand. I’m done. You seem lucid enough, but you have some nasty cuts in your forehead and torso. I’m thinking one or two broken ribs, all the rest heavily bruised. And your knee is busted. Do you have any medical supplies?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. Here, take the gun, I’ll go rummage around for something we can use, if you see a German, shoot it, don’t ask like you asked me, just shoot. Got it?”
“Yeah...”
“Have you ever used a gun before?”
“Yes, at my father’s state, but not this kind.”
“Principle’s the same. I have to go, we’re losing light.”
And with that, John’s gone.
A couple of eternities go by, and the light starts to fade fast enough to be noticeable to the naked eye. By the time John comes back the sun has already hidden behind the mountains, leaving him amongst sombre shadows. He’s also started shivering from the cold; it’s positively freezing and every breath he takes comes out in the form of a white fog. John kneels at his side and pats him on the arm.
“Sherlock, you OK?”
“Alright, what took you so long?”
“What are you talking about? I was gone 20 minutes, max.”
“No, the sun… it’s late… I’m supposed to, I’m supposed to…”
“Shit, you’ve got a fever, dammit!” John starts to frantically go over his bag of recovered goods. He rips open a small paper packet, and pours its contents over Sherlock’s forehead and the rest over his torso. “Listen to me, you need to stay awake. You hear me? Stay awake. I’m going to stabilise your leg and ribs, so we can get out of here, but you need to stay awake. Where you sick before this? Did you have a cold or something?”
“No, I mean, I wasn’t sick yet, but, umm…”
“You hadn’t been feeling well?”
“Yeah, what you said.”
“Alright, well, you probably just upgraded it to pneumonia staying in the cold like this. I’ll work on your leg now, and I’m not going to lie to you, it will hurt, a lot. So here, bite on this belt, ‘cause I don’t want you shouting our position to anybody.”
Sherlock seems to sober up a bit at the idea of that kind of pain. He nods once and promptly bites on the leather belt. John goes to kneel at the side of Sherlock’s leg, asks permission with his eyes one more time and then, with one swift, short motion realigns the articulation with the rest of the leg. Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin, and tears involuntarily go out of the corner of his eyes. For all the cold he’d been feeling lately, his body is soaring in heat now, a pool of it settling far down his throat, threatening to make him sick. For all purposes, his leg has being replaced by a hot rod of incandescent metal that throbs in tandem with his heart. Biting on a flimsy strip of leather is hardly enough to channel all the pain and desperation he’s feeling right now. As the pain wave subdues, he’s mildly aware of John saying something to him, actually, now that his mind catches up, John has been saying something for quite some time.
“Breathe, Sherlock, breathe, but whatever you do, don’t move too much, I haven’t stabilised your ribs yet. Come on, it will pass, just keep breathing.” It goes like a mantra that anchors Sherlock to this reality and soon he’s lucid enough to nod his agreement to John for him to continue.
John bandages the knee and then ties it to a couple of tree branches, also immobilising the foot in the process. Sherlock remains silent during the entire process and hisses under his breath once or twice whilst Johns bandages his ribs.
“You’ve been quiet, how you feel?”
“Like a hand grenade exploded near me.”
“Headache, dizziness, nausea?”
“Yes to all, but less than before.”
“OK, think you can drink water without getting sick?”
“Oh, yes, please!”
“Here, small sips first, alright? Then I need you to swallow one of these.” John produces a small tin box from his bag with yellowish tablets on the inside. Sulpha tablets, not in their original package. Odd. Sherlock does as he’s told and after satisfying his initial thirst, he swallows one of the pills with a big gulp of water. He’s about to drink some more, but John catches the canteen and lowers it from his lips.
“This is all the water I could find. We better save some.” Sherlock slumps a little at that, the remnants of the heat wave are still lingering on his system and his body is aching for relief. But he’s right, of course John’s right. “You ready to move?”
“I guess. Yes.” He looks down at his legs and hugs himself more tightly on his coat. John seems to follow his trail of thought and searches the ground, eventually he comes up with walking stick, a proper walking stick, and hands it to him. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I don’t know either; I found it near the door, over at what’s left of the house. There were a few more shattered on the ground. I guess life is funny like that sometimes. Here, let me help you get up, don’t make any sudden movements and we’ll be fine.”
Once they’re both up and panting against the wall. John puts on the bag across his chest, and hangs the rifle from his good shoulder. He asks Sherlock about the handgun, and he promptly waves it in front of him. John frowns worriedly at that, but shakes out of his mind, there’re more important things at hand.
John starts walking in the same direction he was going before; south. Sherlock takes a few steps and hesitates.
“We’re going south.” John nods and takes another step. Sherlock just leans on his walking stick, making him look like a rather whimsical tree by the side of the road. “But the convoy where I was was moving north, I need to go north.”
“Sorry, kid, I was there before and trust me; it’s all Germans all the way.” Sherlock casts one last look back and follows John.
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Notes:
According to Wikipedia the Lee-Enfield was the main rifle used by the British army around that time.
And this would be a Luger.
Also, the yellowish powder and the tablets are sulpha, an antibiotic, you can find more information about it on this awesome site: History of WWII Medicine.
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 One: That's a Division Mate, Try Again
His head hurts. That’s all he can attest for so far, as most of his other senses, such as the sense of survival, have clearly blinked out of existence after the grenade went out. (Well, perhaps survival was left at home long before this happened). His head hurts, and all the yelling around is not really helping. He opens his eyes against his better judgement, and the headache threatens to split his skull wide open (assuming the explosion didn’t). He can barely see through the wave of dizziness and nausea, and then, he’s out of it again; dead to the world.
When he comes to again, there’s a profound silence that sends a jolt of panic through his body, which, on the bright side, manages to wake up the rest of his senses. It’s later than before, judging by the length of the shadows, and colder, much, much colder. His legs are freezing and his face feels like it could shatter if moved too quickly. He tries to pull himself up, but as soon as he tightens his muscles, all the strength drains out of him in favour of resisting the urge to cry out loud in pain.
He manages to lift his neck and take a look at the place; the scenery has changed quite a bit. A jeep is on fire a good 30 metres away, one third of the wall that was providing cover during the ambush is laying on the ground. A solitary hand attached to what at some point might’ve been an arm, is right in front of him, and Sherlock audibly swallows and tries very hard not to think about it, just like he’s been trying very hard not think that these might be the last things he’ll ever see from this earth; the others have clearly left him for dead, and if he wasn’t dead before, he’s going to be soon, or at least as soon as he’s done bleeding to death. He’s never been a sentimental man, but he figures this would be a decent time to shed a few tears and try his best to repent of all the bad and stupid he’s done in his time, you know, just in case there is an almighty and divine upstairs. He’s had enough fire and burning for a lifetime (and he’s only been officially part of the war for three weeks).
After he’s decided that the coast is as clear as it’s going to get, he tries to move again, this time to roll on his side and, if he can hold the pain long enough, maybe crawl closer to what’s left of the wall, seek some cover.
He’s drenched in sweat by the time he’s fully on his side, so getting to a better position is out of the question by now. He’s got good news, though; he’s not going to die by exsanguination, then again, he’s not going to die by exsanguination, so he needs a plan, fast, and so far shouting for a medic seems like an extremely bad idea. Carefully not to jolt his leg, which is probably broken (just like god-knows how many ribs), he goes through his pockets looking for anything that might help him make an improvised bandage, he might not be in any immediate danger, but he’s bleeding both from the head and his right side, where one of the many sharp shards that were flying around him must’ve graced him. In one of his many back pockets he finds a scarf that goes completely against regulation, and he’s extremely grateful for that. He’s about to pull it out, when he hears steps from the far left, where the jeep had been burning. For a fraction of a second, he absolutely panics, and his heart rate seems to sense the danger of the situation even before the rest of Sherlock’s mind does. So far, he had been trusting to be alone, and have enough time to leave before someone got there.
He then steels himself, closes his eyes and listens. Steps; still distant, combat boots, a limp, a man, quite possibly wounded. Can’t tell height from this distance, not with pain clouding cognitive skills. Now, this it only leaves the matter of asserting whether it’s a friend or a foe.
As the stranger gets closer, he continues to play dead (which is fairly easy, considering he’s been doing just that for the past three to four hours; laying on the ground with dirt up to his nostrils). With his eyes more closed than otherwise, he’s absorbing the environment through every available pore, trying to deduce the stranger’s alliance. By the time the stranger is halfway between the burning jeep and him, Sherlock’s certain this is a friend, definitely a friend. This man was still carrying his Lee-Enfield and a handgun at his side. Which, considering Sherlock had all but completely forgotten about the existence of such things until now, was quite impressive.
As the stranger got closer, it became more obvious he was also heavily injured. A huge stain of blood ran down from his left shoulder, where his uniform was ripped and a small lump under there indicated what would most undoubtedly be a bandage. The limp seemed to be something else entirely, though, probably a sprained ankle or something equally innocuous.
Sherlock starts to move, trying to get his attention, to which the stranger quickly reacts by pointing his rifle at him.
“Don’t, I’m on your side.”
“Rank and regiment?” The rifle doesn’t come down, but it’s an action that inflicts enough pain on the stranger that the lines of his forehead deepen with each passing second.
“I’m with the 11th...”
“That’s a division, mate, try again.”
“As far as I know, I’m part of the 11th, plus, I’m a consultant, I don’t have a rank”
“Do you have a name?”
“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”
“Good, I’m John Watson.” The stranger, John, lowered the rifle with a groan and limped closer to Sherlock. “So, your buddies left you for dead I imagine?”
“Yes, I’m in a bit of a quandary, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Here, let me take a look, I’m a doctor.”
John kneeled beside him and started to go over Sherlock’s head with his hands, feeling it for any other yet undiscovered bumps and assorted injuries. Sherlock took it as an opportunity to have a better look at the doctor. His uniform was ragged and in pretty bad shape. His neck was heavily bruised, especially on the left side, where the bruise turned and angry red way past his collar. And old gunshot wound, then. A couple of days, at least. As John started to go over his ribs, Sherlock’s eyes wandered more south and...
“That’s a Luger.”
“Yes it is.”
“What are you doing with a Luger where your regulation gun should be?”
“Let’s just say I lost my regulation gun and had to make do with what I had at hand. I’m done. You seem lucid enough, but you have some nasty cuts in your forehead and torso. I’m thinking one or two broken ribs, all the rest heavily bruised. And your knee is busted. Do you have any medical supplies?”
“No. Do you?”
“No. Here, take the gun, I’ll go rummage around for something we can use, if you see a German, shoot it, don’t ask like you asked me, just shoot. Got it?”
“Yeah...”
“Have you ever used a gun before?”
“Yes, at my father’s state, but not this kind.”
“Principle’s the same. I have to go, we’re losing light.”
And with that, John’s gone.
A couple of eternities go by, and the light starts to fade fast enough to be noticeable to the naked eye. By the time John comes back the sun has already hidden behind the mountains, leaving him amongst sombre shadows. He’s also started shivering from the cold; it’s positively freezing and every breath he takes comes out in the form of a white fog. John kneels at his side and pats him on the arm.
“Sherlock, you OK?”
“Alright, what took you so long?”
“What are you talking about? I was gone 20 minutes, max.”
“No, the sun… it’s late… I’m supposed to, I’m supposed to…”
“Shit, you’ve got a fever, dammit!” John starts to frantically go over his bag of recovered goods. He rips open a small paper packet, and pours its contents over Sherlock’s forehead and the rest over his torso. “Listen to me, you need to stay awake. You hear me? Stay awake. I’m going to stabilise your leg and ribs, so we can get out of here, but you need to stay awake. Where you sick before this? Did you have a cold or something?”
“No, I mean, I wasn’t sick yet, but, umm…”
“You hadn’t been feeling well?”
“Yeah, what you said.”
“Alright, well, you probably just upgraded it to pneumonia staying in the cold like this. I’ll work on your leg now, and I’m not going to lie to you, it will hurt, a lot. So here, bite on this belt, ‘cause I don’t want you shouting our position to anybody.”
Sherlock seems to sober up a bit at the idea of that kind of pain. He nods once and promptly bites on the leather belt. John goes to kneel at the side of Sherlock’s leg, asks permission with his eyes one more time and then, with one swift, short motion realigns the articulation with the rest of the leg. Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin, and tears involuntarily go out of the corner of his eyes. For all the cold he’d been feeling lately, his body is soaring in heat now, a pool of it settling far down his throat, threatening to make him sick. For all purposes, his leg has being replaced by a hot rod of incandescent metal that throbs in tandem with his heart. Biting on a flimsy strip of leather is hardly enough to channel all the pain and desperation he’s feeling right now. As the pain wave subdues, he’s mildly aware of John saying something to him, actually, now that his mind catches up, John has been saying something for quite some time.
“Breathe, Sherlock, breathe, but whatever you do, don’t move too much, I haven’t stabilised your ribs yet. Come on, it will pass, just keep breathing.” It goes like a mantra that anchors Sherlock to this reality and soon he’s lucid enough to nod his agreement to John for him to continue.
John bandages the knee and then ties it to a couple of tree branches, also immobilising the foot in the process. Sherlock remains silent during the entire process and hisses under his breath once or twice whilst Johns bandages his ribs.
“You’ve been quiet, how you feel?”
“Like a hand grenade exploded near me.”
“Headache, dizziness, nausea?”
“Yes to all, but less than before.”
“OK, think you can drink water without getting sick?”
“Oh, yes, please!”
“Here, small sips first, alright? Then I need you to swallow one of these.” John produces a small tin box from his bag with yellowish tablets on the inside. Sulpha tablets, not in their original package. Odd. Sherlock does as he’s told and after satisfying his initial thirst, he swallows one of the pills with a big gulp of water. He’s about to drink some more, but John catches the canteen and lowers it from his lips.
“This is all the water I could find. We better save some.” Sherlock slumps a little at that, the remnants of the heat wave are still lingering on his system and his body is aching for relief. But he’s right, of course John’s right. “You ready to move?”
“I guess. Yes.” He looks down at his legs and hugs himself more tightly on his coat. John seems to follow his trail of thought and searches the ground, eventually he comes up with walking stick, a proper walking stick, and hands it to him. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I don’t know either; I found it near the door, over at what’s left of the house. There were a few more shattered on the ground. I guess life is funny like that sometimes. Here, let me help you get up, don’t make any sudden movements and we’ll be fine.”
Once they’re both up and panting against the wall. John puts on the bag across his chest, and hangs the rifle from his good shoulder. He asks Sherlock about the handgun, and he promptly waves it in front of him. John frowns worriedly at that, but shakes out of his mind, there’re more important things at hand.
John starts walking in the same direction he was going before; south. Sherlock takes a few steps and hesitates.
“We’re going south.” John nods and takes another step. Sherlock just leans on his walking stick, making him look like a rather whimsical tree by the side of the road. “But the convoy where I was was moving north, I need to go north.”
“Sorry, kid, I was there before and trust me; it’s all Germans all the way.” Sherlock casts one last look back and follows John.
------------
Notes:
According to Wikipedia the Lee-Enfield was the main rifle used by the British army around that time.
And this would be a Luger.
Also, the yellowish powder and the tablets are sulpha, an antibiotic, you can find more information about it on this awesome site: History of WWII Medicine.