Screaming. Gunshots. Yelling. John collapses to his knees and covers his ears, trying to protect his head by hunching over. Tears drip from his eyes without his permission. The screaming intensifies until it's just a white noise. He pants a couple of breaths and risks looking up.

The scene before him is familiar. The enemy are around him, two of his comrades are on the ground with their hands on their heads. Captured. Fuck.

Two down. He's the only one forgotten about in this chaos. Seven insurgents surround them. Air slips silently between his lips. They don't pay him any attention, too focused on cuffing his brothers in arms. He looks up the tall one nearest to him. He will have to take him down quick if he wants to disarm him. He can't get captured. Not again. Her lowers his hands slowly. On the ground besides him he spots a large rock, small enough to throw, yet big enough to damage. Possibly a piece of rubble. His gun presses against his spine, where it's tucked down the back of his trousers. He's glad he had the foresight to hide it.

The taller man turns around and reaches out like a blind man. "John?"

Three others glance up and John freezes, his heart pounding. The remaining three lead his men away. No, please no.

"John?" queries anohter. "You alright, mate?"

"John?" calls the tall one again, reaching out further.

John doesn't think. He grabs the rock at his side and hurls it at his opponents it hits, John leaps forward and slams his palms on either side of his face and cuts off the other man's cries with a sharp punch to the throat. Silent, his enemy crumples and John whips out his gun, aiming it at the next closest man, freezing him in his tracks.

John hadn't realised how much noise there had been up until the point where he'd drawn his gun. Now, the silence is a loud reminder of how much danger he is now in. Breathe.

"John, mate? I need you to take a deep breath and put the gun, okay, Can you check Sherlock's vitals for me? John..."

"Shut it," hisses the man in question his eyes showing deadly intent. "Or I will end your pathetic existence."

The man swallows, frightened. A surge of adrenaline courses through John at the sight. He's never been in control before. He's never been so close to winning this scenario...

"Missing anyone?" he asks "I've killed a lot of your brothers in arms. I don't remember a lot of them. I doubt I'll remember killing you either."

"J-John," stammers the enemy, "you're a doctor."

John quirks an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?" he cocks his head.

There's a pause as the man tries to come up with an answer.

"The red cross on your arm." Smiling, he seems delighted he could come up with this answer.

John's grin turns feral. "I'm not wearing it today. I don't wear it on days I kill scum like you."

The man's outstretched hands start to shake. "You're a doctor, John."

The world sharpens and becomes even clearer. "I have bad days. And your day will get worse if your buddies don't lower their weapons."

The man turns alarmed. "Lower your weapons! Doctor Watson is having a flashback, kindly do not make this situation worse!"

John barely notices, feeling as if he hasn't explained himself propoerly. Something's... off. "I probably should have worn it that day. If I had their sniper wouldn't have blown my shoulder." He focuses back on the man he holds at gunpoint. "One bullet and it's all over. If I wear it I'll be captured to save your men but instead I don't and I get shot and I'm sent home with tremors and a limp."

There's a long silence, that's no longer glacial but pitying. "I'm so sorry, John."

John snorts, trying to ignore how the world tilts at the man's words to reveal flashing blue and red lights. "It's your sniper, mate."

The man licks his lips. John knows the enemy is trying to delay him and wait for backup. Personally he's surprised they didn't just shoot him when they had their weapons on him. He can't shoot his way out there are too many of them and they'll most likely have backup on the way. He has to get out of here.

"John, I know this is all very confusing for you, but I need you to check Sherlock's vitals." The world trembles. John doesn't flinch.

"Don't you have a medic? Your plan was to capture me, was it?"

The silence becomes concerned. "You're our medic, John."

There's a rumble from behind him and John, cursing, spins to face the new threat.

A long, sleek black tank pulls up and it's the weirdest thing John has ever seen. However he lowers his gun.

"Who's that?" hisses another insurgent.

"It's the Queen." replies John. The man he's no longer threatening looks relieved. John honest to God hopes the Queen throws her crown at him for his insolence.

The door opens and John straightens. He's a bit gutted when Prince Charles steps out. Not the best diplomacy the Queen could send, but it would do. The Prince straigntens, eyeing John carefully. "Doctor Watson, do you know where you are?"

John blinks. "Afghanistan, sir." He frowns. Prince Charles flickers briefly to reveal a younger man before returning.

"Do you recognize the man you were holding at gunpoint, doctor Watson?"

John turns back and raises his gun towards the man in question. He notices the look of panic that strikes the royal family members face.

"Should I?" his voice is hard; there will be no kindness from him today.

"Doctor Watson, should you harm that man, I can assure you that the consequences you will suffer shall be very dire."

John's hand trembles. Prince Charles has chickened out and abandonned him. The world swirls; the man before him raises both hands as if to tame a ferociuos predator. He suddenly has grey hair and kind eyes. Then it disappears again.

"John?" the man senses a change in his behaviour. "Do you remember me?"

An office. A desk. Wailing. "Mycroft fucked you." blurts John and he feels relief at the words.

The man shuffles uncomfortably. Prince Charles coughs quietly.

"Well, that explains why he refused to sit down throughout a three hour conference this morning." mutters a woman's voice.

Look everyone, Freak's petting the guide dog!

The world spins and John sees police cars and street lamps. He's loosing it. He turns back to the tank.

"I can't stop this." he tells Charles. Mycroft.

The man straightens. "Doctor Watson. In spite of the fact that you have incapacitated my brother and held my fiancé at gunpoint, I have complete faith in you."

The insurgent Lestrade splutters. "Fiancé? What the actual fuck, Myc?"

John doesn't know who he should point the gun at.

"I'm proposing now. Doctor Watson, put your weapon down so we may assist Sherlock."

Suddenly, he truly looks like Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes in his perfect suit, somehow green screened into Afghanistan.

"Shut up," hisses John, but he lowers his weapon, "You have no idea what I live with everyday."

No one says a word.

"Do you know," says John, and he can feel the tears escape again, "do you know what it's like to wake up everynight with the knowledge you've screamed yourself hoarse in your sleep and that no one truly gives a crap beacause no one understands well enough to care. To be scared of war but you go into it everyday because if you walk away you may aswell eat a bullet." He cocks his gun and points it at his temple.

Panic errupts. Mycroft's face twists with the emotion of fear that he expresses for the second in five minutes.

"No, John, no! Think what this will do to Sherlock!"

Afghanistan flickers to London and back.

Cheekbones. Violin. Running. Kissing. Dark curls. Cheekbones.

"Sh-Sherlock?" It's a question he deperately needs to be a statement.

Mycroft nods. John has never seen him nod before. "He's by your feet John."

Glancing down, John finally sees the answer.

Afghanistan disappears. John drops his gun. "Oh god."

Sherlock's face is covered in blood and there are bruises forming on his forehead, cheekbones and throat. John cries and gathers the unconcious form into his arms. He struggles to find a pulse.

"Help me!" he screams at the frozen members of Scotland Yard around him. "HELP ME!"

Hours later, John stands in the doorway of the private hospital room, Mycroft a strong presence looming behind his shoulder.

"You should hate me." he hears himself say.

"Which would only drive you away and give more of an excuse to my brother to hate me more than he already does. Go to him. He needs you." He leaves.

John walks to the bed, cataloging his friend's injuries. Ringing in ears, due to blow, causing temporary deafness. Punch to the throat damaged vocal cords, temorary inability to speak. John has just detroyed everything Sherlock loves about himself. A concussion the size of Mycroft's ego and stitches on his face are also things he will never be forgiven for.

"I'm sorry" he says. Futile words. Sherlock is almost sensory deprived. So he reaches out and takes his hand.

Sherlock gasps and John is worried he will try to fight him off like he did with all the doctors and nurses. But his lover smiles bright.

"J-J-J-J-" although he cannot hear himself, Sherlock is aware something is wrong. John brings his palm up to his mouth and places a gentle kiss.

L. O. V. E. U. he writes. Sherlock beams.