Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Warnings: girl!Watson.

Joan wasn't afraid of blood.

Truth be told, Joan currently felt nothing for the hot, life-giving liquid that spilled through her fingers as she clutched the wound splitting her shoulder.

She had already field bandaged her leg. And thankfully, the bullet had missed her knee.

Her gun sat beside her, the true owner dead in the dusty Afghani street.

Joan was a doctor, and she shouldn't have been there, but Watson knew that life was a bitch like that sometimes.

Sucking in shallow breaths, she pressed her heels into the ground and grit her teeth. The shooting pain of her shoulder was getting to her. Her leg hurt too, but she could ignore that. The bullet had gone straight through. The one in her shoulder had caught bone.

Joan breathed like a drowning man as she snatched her ready roll of bandages and alcohol. Uncapping the bottle, she craned her head as best she could to watch as the burning hellfire pored into her wound. She bit her lip bloody, tears fogging her eyes until she was sure that her shoulder was as clean as could be. She tore at the bandage wrappings with her teeth, the cellophane crinkling as she worked on getting them out.

She shuddered and began wrapping.

She would get out of here. She would live, dammit!

Once done, she moved her bloody shirt back over her shoulder and strapped back on her combat vest. The helmet came next, her hands beginning to tremble with delayed shock. Joan ignored it, grabbing her gun and clicking off the safety.

The city was dark around her and Joan prayed that she wouldn't be seen.

That night, Joan passed four guard patrols unnoticed and unseen. She made it back behind friendly lines, where her wounds were treated.

Her shoulder and leg got infected, and she lost partial use of both. She was shipped back home, having completed her tour.

Then, life really got interesting with the introduction of one Sherlock Holmes into her life.