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 someones 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.
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 someones 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.
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