Come Alive

"Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it…what the world needs is people who have come alive."

Howard Thurman

John felt the pain shoot up his leg as he fell, and the explosion nearby didn't help matters, but it was all over in seconds, so he felt it was better to duck and wait it out.

"John!" He looked up at the shout but for a second he wasn't sitting in a street in west London after a gas explosion, he was crouching in the desert looking up the barrel of an AK-47, held by a very angry looking insurgent. John blinked and the picture resolved itself into the concerned face of Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"John, are you okay? Were you hurt?" His voice sounded echoed far away, but cleared after a few seconds.

"I think I twisted my ankle," said John, "I'm fine." He took the offered hand to stand up, and looked at Lestrade, he had a cut over his left eye. "Are you okay? Was anyone else hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Lestrade, "and so is everyone else, just cuts and bruises, we were supposed to have another 30 minutes to clear the area."

"Well Sherlock's timing must be off," said John, and looked around the scene, fire crews already had the situation in hand, and paramedics were making the rounds with the minor wounds, "Where is he anyway?"

"Doing his happy dance probably, or trying to figure out why the time was off," said Lestrade with a shrug.

"I don't dance," said Sherlock, striding over the rubble, "And I wasn't off they blew it early."

"Why?" Lestrade asked.

"Because they could," said Sherlock, his gaze moved to John who still had a hand on Lestrade's shoulder for support, "Are you injured?"

"It's just a sprain," said John, "an Ace bandage, some ice, and a good cup of tea is all I need."

"Let's go home then," said Sherlock, "I've texted you all the details you need Lestrade." Sherlock put out his shoulder and John transferred to him and they made slow progress out of the debris field.

Not to much time later, John, much to his surprise, found himself comfortably seated on the couch at Baker St. his foot was elevated with ice on it and he sipped from a cup of tea that Sherlock somehow knew how to make, and it was pretty good too.

"I ordered Chinese," said Sherlock sitting down in his armchair, "Lestrade texted and said he might call by."

"Oh, did he need some more help with the case?" asked John.

"I don't think so," said Sherlock, "I gave him everything they needed. Do you need anything else?" John blinked at this sudden concern for his wellbeing, but shook his head.

"I'm fine, just a little tired, I think I'm going to close my eyes for a little while, let me know when the food gets here."

The sun was in his eyes, somewhere along the line he'd lost his shades, and helmet and he knew he was headed for heatstroke if he didn't get shelter soon, but that choice wasn't his at the moment. John knew he was focused on the heat, because if he focused on the pain then he'd breakdown and not get up. As it was he was barely standing, it probably wasn't too bad and he knew he should feel grateful that he still had a foot, but right now the only thing that foot was doing for him was causing him pain. Lefert was doing well holding him up but John could see he was fading too, his head wound had bled considerable amount, and they were both dehydrated.

Someone was yelling at him, but John's understanding of Arabic was limited, and he struggled to understand what the speaker wanted he kept repeating one of the few phrases he'd picked up.

"John!" That wasn't right, these people didn't know his name. "John wake up!"

John sat up with a jerk, "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock frowning at him, "The food's here."

"Oh," said John, shaking himself from his dream, "great, I'm starving, pass the fried rice."

"Knock, knock." John looked up at from his meal and saw that Lestrade was standing in the hallway.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock setting down his own food, "I assume you wrapped things up satisfactorily."

"Yes, disgruntled former employee, right where you said, all wrapped up with a pretty bow," said Lestrade with a humorless grin.

"So what brings you here?" asked John.

"On my way home thought I'd check-in make sure you were okay," he slid a look at Sherlock.

"Sherlock is taking very good care of me," said John smiling.

"Oh, that's good, I'm glad," said Lestrade surprised, "You just seemed a little out of it when I got to you that's all."

"Out of it?" Sherlock frowned, and turned to John, "Did you hit your head?"

"No I'm fine, I've got ice, and once the swelling goes down I'll wrap it in an ace bandage, no problem. Actually, we should probably take the ice off for a bit." He reached out for his extended leg, but Sherlock beat him to it he pulled the ice pack off and immediately took it and put it back in the freezer.

"Wow," said Lestrade, "that's a heck of a scar."

"What is?" asked Sherlock walking back into the living room. Lestrade was leaning over John's leg looking at a clear white scar showing clearly against the angry red swelling on the ankle.

"It's nothing," said John, "an old injury."

"You were shot in the shoulder," said Sherlock.

"I was," said John, "you want to stay for dinner Greg?" he asked Lestrade, "We've got plenty."

"I ordered enough for him," said Sherlock, "it's why he came, his wife is out of town. Now stop avoiding the issue."

"What issue?" asked John turning back to his food. Lestrade just shook his head and sat down on the couch next to him. Sherlock just stared at John without speaking.

"What Sherlock means to say, is how did you injure your leg John?" Lestrade said through a mouth full of orange chicken.

"Your limp was psychosomatic," said Sherlock, "I proved that, you walk perfectly fine."

"That's right," said John, "you were right, my limp when I met you was psychosomatic."

"You knew, at that time, what it was," said Sherlock frowning.

"Of course I did," said John, "I'm a doctor, I knew the injury I sustained couldn't possibly be causing the pain I was feeling, but I couldn't do anything about it."

"But you were shot in the shoulder the reason you were invalided was because of that injury," said Sherlock quite certainly.

"Yes," said John taking in a sip of tea, "mostly."

"Mostly?" asked Lestrade.

"Can't you deduce this?" asked John getting irritated.

"Clearly the circumstances behind your leaving the military are different from those you've lead us to believe," said Sherlock.

"I never told you anything," said John, "you deduced and assumed you were correct."

"What did I get wrong?" asked Sherlock now offended.

"Nothing," said John placating, "you just sort of missed a few details that's all."

"That's all!" cried Sherlock, "We've lived together over a year and now I find out you've been hiding things from me! How can I be the world's greatest detective if I can't even detect when my roommate is hiding things from me?" He devastated by this thought.

"Honestly Sherlock, I assumed you knew and didn't care to discuss it," said John, tiredly, "Mycroft had my service record and my therapists notes, it's not a secret or anything."

"I don't take things from my brother," said Sherlock sounding insulted.

"Why don't you just tell us, and put him out of his misery," said Lestrade.

"Fine," John sighed rubbing his eyes tiredly, "I was wounded in the leg, about three months before I was shot in the shoulder."

"You said, wounded," said Sherlock, "so you weren't shot in the leg."

"No," said John, "the medical convoy I was traveling with was ambushed, an IED took out the first Humvee and we were pelted with grenades and weapons fire. I was hit in the leg with shrapnel from a grenade that was thrown into our supply truck."

"Mystery solved," said Lestrade digging into the food.

"That's not the whole story," said Sherlock looking at John carefully, "the scar, it's not surgical, you weren't rushed off to hospital after it happened, it wasn't professionally treated."

"Yes, it was!" said John, "I took that shrapnel out myself, and I am a professional."

"Of course you are," said Sherlock.

"What Sherlock means to say is why did you have to operate on your own leg?" said Lestrade.

"That's obvious," said Sherlock, "he was captured."

"Is that true?" asked Lestrade, "I didn't know you were a POW."

"I wasn't a POW, I was KIA," said John.

"How does that work?" asked Lestrade.

"Almost everyone was killed in the attack, I guess they just assumed when they saw the burned out Hummer that it was all of us," said John.

"But it wasn't," said Sherlock.

"It was just me and this young medic name Lefort he'd been hit in the head by a rock fragment, but he was ambulatory. The insurgents were going to kill us both, but I kept saying, 'I'm a doctor, I'm a doctor' I guess one of them knew enough English and understood what I was saying. Apparently that meant I was worth something, they let Lefort live so he could help me walk."

Lefort helped John sit on the makeshift cot, John was just glad to be in the shade, a young man came in and left some water for them and another dropped in a box of medical supplies.

Lefort brought both over to John they both took long swigs of water and took a few minutes to catch their breath. Then John went through the medical supplies and pulled out a couple of wads of cotton gauze and a small penlight.

"Let me look at you," he said gesturing Lefort to come closer.

"Your leg looks worse than my head," said Lefort.

"You always have to be careful of head injuries," said John, "and I might not be able to check you over later, so come here." John shone the penlight in Lefort's eyes and checked for reaction, then he cleaned and dressed the cut on Lefort's brow, it wasn't deep but it was long and they didn't have any anesthetic. "Take it easy for a while," said John, Lefort was sweating from the pain and the heat now, "I don't think you're concussed but let me know if you have any dizziness or nausea."

"Yes, Sir," said Lefort, he sat on a stool nearby.

"Okay, let's get this over with," he sighed more to himself, he pulled out the basic medical tools they'd been given, and used the scissors to cut away his trouser leg from above the knee starting at the tear. Then he braced himself and poured some of the medical alcohol over the wound. John hissed from the pain and then proceeded to use tweezers to pull each small piece of shrapnel from his right calf.

When he was finished Lefort helped him bandage the wounds and clean up.

"So that's the story," said John.

"That's not the story," said Lestrade, "there's more, there has to be."

"When you were dreaming before," said Sherlock, "you were speaking in Arabic, you kept saying, 'I can help him', 'I can help him'."

"How long were you held?" asked Lestrade.

"Three months," said John, "they used me to treat their wounded."

"I thought you said this Lefort guy was a medic as well," said Lestrade.

"Lefort died," said John shortly.

"What happened?" asked Lestrade softly.

"After a couple of weeks my leg was getting better, he wanted to make a run for it. I didn't think it was a good idea since we weren't sure where we were, how far to the next city and we couldn't really put our hands on much in the way of supplies. When they moved us around they cuffed us together, and I still needed support even though I was getting better. Still from the little Arabic I could understand I figured out they were going to be moving the camp as soon as they got orders, Lefort didn't want to risk getting moved someplace more secure and further into enemy territory."

"They're letting use carry water bottles around and I've managed to pocket a few key supplies," said Lefort, "We should go in the morning before the sun has come up when they take us to the latrine. I can get us out of the cuffs when we're far enough away." John still had doubts, but he knew that Lefort was right, this complex was makeshift and temporary they couldn't risk being moved somewhere more fortified, so he nodded.

That morning they took their trip to the latrine, washed up and filled their bottles to the brim. Lefort was watching for a window when the guard wasn't paying attention, he looked away to salute another man. Lefort looked at John and said, "Run!"

They took off for some nearby woods hoping to find cover. John ran as fast as he could, but he was still leaning heavily on Lefort, they got about 500 yards before a shot rang out, John jumped, but didn't feel anything, until he felt Lefort starting to go down and dragged John down with him into the dirt. Lefort had been shot in the chest near the heart, the blood gushed out, John tried to put pressure on the wound but it ran through his fingers. Lefort gasped and groaned but he never uttered another word.

"They came and un-cuffed us, I was dragged back to the medical tent, and Lefort was left to die," John avoided looking at either man.

"There was nothing you could have done," said Lestrade.

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock, "lots of terribly helpful platitudes. What happened after that?" John smiled at him and shook his head and sighed.

"After that I was kept full time in the medical tent, only traveling to see patients that couldn't be moved. My leg was getting better, but I still needed a support to walk with. When the camp commander found out what had happened with Lefort he spoke to his lieutenant, I heard them in front of the medical tent briefing the guards. Now I don't know a lot of Arabic, but I got the gist, they said, when the Doctor can walk, kill him. After that I began exaggerating my limp, even though the wound had healed, I told the guard that my leg was permanently injured, they believed it. I guess faked it so long I believed it too," John grimaced, "It took a few months for the orders Lefort was afraid of to come through and they started packing up the camp, I didn't know if they planned to take me with them or shoot me, but it didn't matter, because two days after they said they were moving the Americans sent an airstrike, half the camp was destroyed and then they sent a platoon of Special Forces in, I was helping the wounded when they charged in, my guard saw them decided I'd outlived my usefulness put a handgun to my head, and pulled the trigger."

"Jesus," exclaimed Lestrade, "how'd you survive that?"

"Luck," said John, "the gun jammed, he went for his rifle, but I fought him for it, we were struggling the Americans came in firing, my guard ended up dead, but one of the bullets meant for him hit me too, in the shoulder," said John with an ironic smile at Sherlock, "I woke up two weeks later in an American military hospital recovering from a severe infection. I'd already been declared KIA they weren't even looking for me, they thought Lefort and I had been in the Humvee that exploded. So there you go, my last war story, Sherlock could you bring that ice out again for me?" Sherlock got up and so did Lestrade.

"I'd better make tracks," said Lestrade, "thanks for dinner, thanks for the perspective John, it's always so enlightening hanging out with you two."

"'Night Greg," said John. Sherlock brought the icepack back and applied it carefully to John's leg, John sighed in pleasure at the coolness.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, "I know you didn't want to tell the story."

"I haven't told that story since I gave my debriefing," said John as if he just realized this, "I don't think I ever let myself think about it."

"You were thinking about," said Sherlock, "the whole time, that's why you were limping. Part of you still believed, that as soon as you could walk you were going to die."

"Then why did your little stunt work?" asked John.

"I focused your mind on the new problem, you weren't focused on merely surviving as you had been in the desert, and since returning to London. You were focused on living not surviving so you didn't have time to think about the limp," Sherlock smiled.

"You've got it all figured out have you?" asked John smiling too.

"You and I are alike in this way John," said Sherlock, "our minds need engagement, true stimulation or they begin to play tricks on us."

"You know what that means don't you?" John asked smiling.

Sherlock frowned.

"It means," said John, "that while I'm laid up, you're in charge of entertaining me."

"I can do that," said Sherlock grinning, "I have some ideas, we'll have to experiment to see which ones work best, well how to do you feel about…"

John just grinned and let Sherlock's words wash over him, it was good to be alive.

END

A/N It occurred to me that a man with John's intelligence and medical training would be aware that his limp wasn't physical especially if he'd not suffered an injury. A healed injury could hurt, even if it was unlikely and that would be more plausible. Hope you enjoyed this at any rate, I also wanted to show that Sherlock is a good friend and would take care of John if he was hurt during a case.

Later

Cynic