A/N: I wrote this story some time ago and came across it while clearing things from my computer. It is not my best work but I rather liked the idea and thought some here would also.

As usual, none of the characters belong to me.

The Land Over the Hills and Far Away

Sergeant Richard Sharpe ran. With ragged, heaving breaths he sprinted through the undergrowth. He couldn't think. He couldn't stop or turn to fight. It was all too familiar. He felt he had done this a thousand times before but the terror was not lessened. He lived through it again.

India. The lancers were coming for him. He was so terrified. Nothing he could do. He'd tried to fight but there were too many of them. On horseback they were too quick so he was running through the trees. But he was so weak. His legs wobbled and he stumbled drunkenly over the uneven ground. He was so tired. He knew he couldn't get away. Stumbling to a tree he turned to face the lancer that was coming with the gleaming point ready to burry it in his chest. The lancer in the reality of his nightmare was transformed from a human into a demon with a wicked bladed lance that thirsted for blood. The lance was coming and Sharpe braced himself for the thrust. But it never came. At the last instant a giant in a green jacket stepped from the underbrush and swept the lance aside with the butt of his rifle. From either side there was a sudden volley of musketry and the lancers disappeared in a cloud of fire and smoke. As it cleared the giant in his green jack smiled down on Sharpe.

"It's time to go, sir."

"Pat?" Sharpe breathed. This was all wrong. Pattrick Harper hadn't been with Sharpe in India. They hadn't met before Sharpe had gotten into the 95th Rifles. That cold winter retreat from the French where cavalry had stalked the British through the snow and butchered the stragglers. "What's happening, Pat?"

"You're going home, sir." Pat said as he extended a hand. "Come on. On yer feet, sir. We'll see ye find yer way, so we will."

"I don't understand." Sharpe was remembering now. All the battles through Portugal and Spain. The invasion of France and the final great battle of Waterloo where so many had died.

"Pat's right, sir." Daniel Hagman the old poacher from Cheshire came around the tree. He had a grin on his face and in the crook of his arm rested the well tended Baker rifle that was his pride. "Time we wuz gettin' on."

"Dan? But your dead." Sharpe stared at the man with wide eyes.

"I know, sir." Hagman's smile didn't fade. "I just don' feel dead, sir."

"Pat?"

"Aye, sir." Pat dusted Sharpe's uniform which somehow had gone from the red coat to the green. "We're goin' to where there's always plenty of rum, plenty of women, and plenty of food. Ye've done yer time an' so 'ave we, sir."

"Column's formed and ready to march, Colonel," Pvt. Perkins reported as he stepped up. He held a long butcher's blade of a sword and a rifle. "I thought you'd be wanting these, sir. So we can march into camp with style, sir."

Sharpe looked to the far side of the tree and there was the South Essex formed for march. The captured battle standard of Napoleon's eagle was raised next to the regimental colors. The men in green at the head of the light company and the rest of the regiment stretching out behind. In the distance there were the hills of Spain and above was a clear blue sky in early spring. With a smile Sharpe took his weapons and the four riflemen strode together to the head of the column and they marched toward the the land that was over the hills and far away.