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One minute, John was arguing with his dangerously bored and obnoxious git of a flatmate – hell, he’d had to confiscate the gun Sherlock had decided to play with indoors –, the next he was blasted by an explosion to his left side. Unable to react fast enough, he was thrown to the floor, shrapnel lodging itself into his face and arm, his head hitting the ground. For a moment, stunned and with black spots clouding his vision, he was unable to move. Lying on the ground, he could feel wetness on his cheek and left arm and he began to notice the sting of his injuries. His ears were ringing but he could still hear shouting and screams and sirens…
Overwhelmed, John tried to clear his head and get up, but he still saw stars and he was confused and his head hurt and that was a bomb. An IED, his mind told him and he began to panic. Hot, hot, why am I so hot? He felt rough sand under his hands and detected the scent of blood as he pushed himself into a sitting position and tried to focus his blurry vision. A groan from nearby had him zeroing in on a figure crumpled on the ground.
“Mark?” John shouted to his comrade over the sound of gunfire and screams. He crawled, glass and sand crunching under his hands and knees, over to the man that was just sitting up. "Mark. You okay, mate?” John’s eyes roamed over the soldier, relieved to see that he was without injury.
Mark was looking at John strangely. “John, what are you talking about?” His eyes narrowed as he took in John’s bloody appearance. “You’re injured.”
“I’m fine,” John replied impatiently, grabbing Mark’s arm and pulling on him. “We need to get to cover before another bomb hits.”
“Another bomb? What –”
Before he could finish his sentence, John tackled him back onto the floor, shielding him with his body. The army doctor’s muscles were tight to the point that he was almost shaking and a loud oath growled through his clenched teeth. He could feel the blazing Afghanistan sun beating down on his back as he waited for the ground to stop shaking.
“C’mon, we need to move!” he ordered, getting up and pulling Mark with him to shelter behind some rocks. He pulled his comrade down to a crouch next to him and then began surveying the surrounding area, looking for danger or victims. He could still hear gunfire, distant explosions and calls of both “help!” and “komak!” alike, but he couldn’t see anyone. “Stay down,” he instructed Mark. “These rocks should stop any shrapnel or bullets.” His shoulder ached and when he wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead, his hand came away bloody. A hand touched his right arm and John turned to see Mark staring at him intently.
“John, you’re breathing very quickly. You need to slow that down, or you’ll pass out,” Mark said calmly, keeping his hand on John’s arm.
“Mark, I’m fine. Besides, I lost my medical bag somewhere,” John admitted, but the younger soldier was shaking his head.
“I’m not Mark,” he said emphatically. John’s brow furrowed as he looked at him – maybe Mark had hit his head harder than he’d thought. “John, calm down and focus. Where are you right now? Who am I?”
John stared at him in concern for a moment, but a strange wailing mixed with shouting – closer now – and explosions pulled his attention away. Where were the rest of his troops? Had they been caught in the explosions? John’s chest tightened painfully at the possibility. Maybe they’d just gotten separated, he thought hopefully.
“John!” Mark said sharply, trying to get his attention. When that failed to illicit a response, he tried a different approach. “Captain Watson!” John looked at him instantly. “Look at me – really look at me. It’s Sherlock. I’m your flatmate and I’ve been your flatmate since after you returned from Afghanistan.” More loud banging had John looking towards the sound. “Those are not bombs, John. Those are car doors slamming. Do you hear the sirens? Emergency responders are coming.”
John shook his head, ignoring him now. He could hear slamming from somewhere nearby and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. “Don’t worry, Mark, I won’t let them get us.” He pulled his Browning out of his waistband. At the sight of the gun, Mark’s eyes widened in horror – strange reaction. John hoped they could get out of here soon so he could check the soldier’s head back at the base.
“John, listen to me.” The voice was trying to stay calm, but John detected an edge of panic. “You are not in Afghanistan.” Suddenly Mark grabbed John’s hand and pressed it against the rock next to him. “This is not a rock. Feel the texture – it’s rough isn’t it? And the temperature – it’s not cold though it’s under shade. Yes, it’s an armchair, in our flat, 221b Baker Street, in London.”
John had to admit that the rock did feel a little strange, but he didn’t have time to reflect on that because there was a sudden bang and two rebels stepped into view. They were holding what looked like medical bags, but could easily be holding weapons. John aimed his handgun at them.
“Stop!” he warned them. “Gom shoo!” Get back. They froze at the sight of the gun.
“John,” Mark said, trying to pacify the situation, and John’s jaw clenched in annoyance at the distraction to his focus. “John, you are having a flashback. Those men are not enemies, they are paramedics. Look at what they’re wearing. Do they look like something you’d see in Afghanistan?”
John, looking at them, had to admit that their appearance was odd. He clenched his eyes tightly closed for a moment, trying to fight through the confusion and headache.
“What caused the explosion?” Mark asked loudly so the two insurgents could hear.
“It’s believed to have been a gas leak, sir,” one of them replied nervously, not looking away from the gun in John’s hands. John started in shock upon hearing the response being in English and not Dari, but despite his confusion, the weapon stayed steady.
“A gas leak,” Mark repeated to John. “Not a bomb – not an IED, John. It was an accident.”
John was breathing very heavily now, taking deep, gasping breaths in his attempt to get as much oxygen as possible.
“Come back, John,” the man beside him continued. “You are not in Afghanistan. You’re with me, Sherlock, in our flat, in London. And right now you’re scaring the bloody hell out of a couple of paramedics.”
John, whose gaze had been fixed on the two strangers, closed his eyes again briefly and his hands shook just the slightest bit. He wasn’t entirely convinced, but he didn’t want to shoot anyone either, so he lowered the gun. When his knuckles touched the ground, his foggy brain managed to notice that it didn’t really feel that much like sand after all. No, more like a rough fabric. Carpet, his mind supplied.
“Give me the gun, John,” a deep voice ordered gently. Not Mark’s voice. No, Mark’s voice was more gravelly. And then a thrill of fear shot through John. He gasped as he remembered: Mark was dead - killed in action. How could he be here, then? John’s eyes glanced quickly to the man next to him in panic. The man smiled gently. “No, I’m not Mark. I’m Sherlock.”
Something was very wrong. Realizing he was in no state to be handling a weapon, John quickly gave the gun to Sherlock and crossed his arms in front of his chest, nails digging into skin. The sharp pain this caused in his left arm helped clear his pounding head a bit. Taking deep breaths, he tried to control his breathing, tried to stop the panting.
Once he had surrendered the weapon, the paramedics made to approach. This caused John to tense again, ready to attack without a firearm if need be, so Sherlock warned them to stop.
“He’s an ex-soldier and he’s having a very vivid flashback. If you approach you’ll be seen as a threat.”
John bristled at being spoken for. “I’m right here, you know,” he grumbled.
Sherlock paused. “And where is ‘here’?”
John looked around at his surroundings and finally saw what was really there. His eyes lost their unfocused appearance as he at last stopped seeing the superimposed image of bloody sand and ravaged landscape and instead saw only their messy flat and two very anxious looking paramedics in the doorway. Realizing what had happened, John started to shake and, quickly losing his battle with controlling his breathing, began to hyperventilate. Sherlock noticed this change in posture immediately and quickly grabbed John by the shoulders, helping him to stand and then leading him to sit in the armchair they had been crouched next to. Seeing the way his nails were digging into his already lacerated flesh, Sherlock then eased John’s hands out of their painful grip. Instead of gripping his arms, John moved to grip the arms of the chair.
“Alright, John. It’s alright now. You’re back, you’re back.” Sherlock was crouched so he was at eye-level with John and spoke soothingly.
John attempted to calm himself down and vaguely wondered why Sherlock was doing this instead of the paramedics. Not that he was complaining. He needed something to ground him at the moment – his death-grip on the chair, the feel of the union jack pillow pressing into his back, the sight of Sherlock’s familiar face in front of him… Then he realized, Oh, that’s why Sherlock was doing this. He knew, of course, what John needed. He was helping him stay focused on reality by providing him with something very much real. John could hear the care in the deep voice and see the concern in the aquamarine eyes. Finally getting his breathing under control and with only a slight shivering running through his body, John gave a small, grateful smile to the man in front of him.
Sherlock sighed in relief, stood up and smirked back at him. “Now that the dramatics are over with, do you think you could allow someone to look at your wounds? Of course you had to be standing next to the window when it exploded,” he said lightly, rolling his eyes and trying to ease the tension.
John was saved having to come up with a retort by the paramedic that had taken Sherlock’s place and began dabbing at John’s cuts with antiseptic. John’s left side of his face and his left arm really were stinging now and he hissed against the paramedic’s touch. As the glass lodged in his skin was getting carefully removed with tweezers, John noticed Sherlock harassing the second paramedic who was trying to check the detective for head injuries.
“You can’t complain about being bored now,” John shot at him, receiving an un-amused glare in response.
The paramedics wanted to take both men – but especially John – to a hospital for treatment (and maybe a psychological assessment). However, after some convincing – reassurance from John and some threats from Sherlock – they left, leaving John some over-the-counter pain medication for his head and lacerations.
With just the two of them in the room now, John stood awkwardly for a moment. “Um, thanks, by the way,” he said to Sherlock, not quite meeting his eyes.
“What for?” Sherlock asked, stuffing his hands into his blue dressing gown’s pockets.
“You know. For helping. For bringing me back.” John met his eyes then. “Thank you.”
Sherlock nodded but didn’t respond, perhaps sensing, correctly, that John was unwilling to get into detail about what had happened. Sherlock must have known about John’s nightmares, but this was the first flashback he had witnessed while John was fully conscious. John knew that Sherlock must have been itching with curiosity, so he appreciated his flatmate’s restraint by not pestering him with unwelcome questions.
“You should get some sleep,” was all Sherlock said.
John nodded and headed to his bedroom, where he promptly collapsed onto his uninjured right side on his bed. He could still hear muted sirens and shouts from emergency responders outside. The adrenaline out of his system now, he was exhausted, but he knew he would not have a restful sleep. Kicking off his shoes and crawling under the covers with his clothes still on, John closed his eyes and tried to think of anything other than the chaotic memories that kept flashing behind his closed lids.
The next morning he was woken by the sound of muffled voices and a violin. Getting up groggily with his head still throbbing faintly, he hissed as the movement pulled and stretched his newly healing skin. He walked downstairs and into the living room, stopping when he was met with the sight of Mycroft sitting across from Sherlock, who held his Stradivarius, both with their legs crossed.
Sherlock plucked a string on his violin in greeting. “John.”