WARNING - Swearing, violence, adult themes and upsetting scenes throughout this fic.

I do not own Sherlock. Apparently the BBC do (drat).

Cue theme music: 'Unknown Soldier' by Breaking Benjamin.

BORDERLINE

Chapter One

"The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed." - Earnest Hemingway

Barren scrubland passed by the tiny, dirty bulletproof window, a monotonous landscape interrupted only by the occasional piece of debris. The familiar signs of civilisation, plastic bags and corroded bits of roofing, even an abandoned football net, but out here they could have a much more sinister meaning. They could be hiding anything.

His bladder was full and the endless bumps and stones in the road only added to the discomfort of an already tense journey. Eight weeks to go and then he could swap the danger and heat and dust for the good old English countryside and crumpets. God, he missed crumpets, uniquely, eccentrically British. Oozing with yellow butter and just a little bit burnt around the edges. Thinking about food kept him going. It would be the vegetarian option from his rations tonight, or if they were lucky enough to get back to base before nightfall, some proper grub in the mess. Or maybe he'd treat himself to those ramen noodles from his sister's care package. They had never been regular, but they were coming even less frequently now. She had her problems.

Someone snorted, bringing him out of his daydream. A dry, nasal sound, exacerbated by the Afghan climate.

Watson looked across the interior of the armoured vehicle at Corporal Jiménez, tuning in to the soldiers' banter.

"This other time, when I was in Basra," Jiménez cleared his nose again, wiping it with the back of his hand, "I was deep in conversation with a bunch of CMTs when all hell broke loose and they wheeled in this grunt who'd apparently been shot in the head. Blood spurting everywhere, and I mean everywhere, like a fuckin' fountain. And the med-techs are like, 'I didn't know there was any fighting today.' Turned out he'd shot himself in the head, by accident, trying to make a key-ring out of a live round. Struck it with the hammer and it fired into the ground, bounced up and hit him in the temple."

"The fuck was he even thinking?" Sotelo squinted below his ill-fitting helmet. "Jesus Christ, s'not the fuckin' Taliban we gotta worry 'bout - "

"For the record," Drake's disembodied voice drifted in from the cab, "a woman would never do that - "

"He lived, but let's just say he left a part of himself behind in the desert that day." Jiménez looked into the middle distance for effect.

"All for a souvenir. Put it on a bench, hit it with a hammer and BAM!" Sotelo illustrated his point by slamming his fist into his other hand.

Watson gave him a look that said, stories about getting shot in the head, bad for morale.

Jiménez sank back against the wall, tail between his legs. "Yeah, well, guy was a pro anyway."

"Take two paracetamol and come and see me in the morning," smirked Phelps.

Watson couldn't help smiling at that.

"S'nothing," Sotelo adjusted his helmet, it was almost a nervous tick with him, "I trained with this guy in Gib, literally the thickest individual you ever met. One of those people you just know is gonna get you killed. Time for live grenade practice, but this guy has already managed to get himself completely covered in mud from the run, right. Pulls the pin, waits two bloody seconds and the whole thing just slips through his hands, plops out of his grasp like a huge brown explosive shit. And I'm like, da fuck, man. One second to get yourself on the deck before this thing goes off."

"Well?" Phelps' sweat glistening on his taut face and ran down onto his chin strap.

"Well, obvs I didn't get caught in the blast, dinkus."

Watson laughed in spite of himself.

"What about you?" Jiménez turned to him, "Bet you've seen your fair share of cluster-fucks."

"And I'm about as likely to share - "

And then - he wasn't really sure what happened next. It was like someone had turned an old TV to a snowy channel. There must have been a bang because his ears were ringing and he was in the washing machine and he'd been thrown out of the vehicle and there was smoke and dust rising up all around him and faces looking shocked and limbs not attached to people and his face was hitting the road and his right leg hurt oh my god my leg hurts -

Then his training kicked in, his head snapping around to assess the situation. He flipped onto his back and patted down his body armour. Okay, he was stunned and winded, and shrapnel had torn through his calf, but he was otherwise uninjured. He would still be able to help the casualties. The casualties… where are the casualties?

He could see the back door of the vehicle swinging off its hinges with smoke billowing out and shapes moving inside. Must get back, but then he stopped himself; there could me more IEDs under the road.

Shit, a hail of bullets ripped into the convoy and the shouting began. There was about fifteen meters of bare road between him the vehicle. He watched Jiménez shake the stars out of his head, leap up to man the machine gun on the roof and promptly crumple to the floor, his legs useless. Phelps pulled himself up to take his place only to hit the deck when his shattered tibias failed him. Each man in the vehicle attempted to stand, sustained only by the adrenaline in their veins, unaware of their own hideous wounds, and then fell like jelly.

Watson had no choice. He commando-crawled towards the vehicle, which he could now see, was savagely ripped open like a can full of people. Bullets hit the road all around him as the insurgents closed in. The convoy scrambled their vehicles to form a defensive semi-circle, and were soon consumed with the battle.

Ignoring the pain in his leg, Watson dragged himself up into the cab.

Drake was unconscious, slumped on the steering wheel, probably knocked out upon impact. He took her pulse and checked her legs, applying Celox from his pouch to an oozing gash.

She would live. She would walk again.

He moved on to the back of the vehicle, gasping at the carnage he found there, and felt around for some of the medical supplies they'd been transporting. Dust and fresh smoke still hung in the air. Phelps lay weeping on top of Jiménez. Their boots were totally shredded, bone and curiously dark clots of blood mangled with the leather.

Phelps just kept repeating, "da-fuck… da-fuck…" the whites of his eyes reeling.

"Breathe, mate. Help is coming. Here, hold this." Watson applied more of the Celox gauze. When he was sure Phelps was relatively stable he turned his attention to Gibbs. Already dead. Underneath Gibbs was Sotelo. His trousers had been blown off by the blast and his dark flesh gave way to shreds where his lower legs had once been, but somehow, somehow, he was still conscious. Watson steeled himself and dragged Gibbs' lifeless body off of Sotelo. Meanwhile Jiménez reached for the radio, grimacing as the adrenaline could no longer mask the pain.

Sotelo was in a bad way, his blood pressure dropping rapidly, so Watson moved quickly to stem the bleeding and get an IV in. The medical equipment was strewn all over the floor now, mixed in with twisted metal and bodies. It was a shambles. The only sound now was the ping of enemy fire hitting the vehicle and the pop-pop of her majesty's Royal Army doing their best to blow them off the face of the planet. He prayed for the sound of the Chinook. They needed the emergency response team now. But he wouldn't let Sotelo know how bad it really was.

"Just a flesh wound," he joked, as Sotelo drifted in and out, even as Watson was reeling from his own blood loss, his head cloudy. "You'll be up and about in no time."

It was then that it bit him. Watson had never been bitten by a snake, but this was how he imagined it would feel; a hot searing stab in the shoulder. How would a snake manage to bite him in the shoulder? No it wasn't a snake, was it? His mind struggled to reason properly within his state of shock.

It was a bullet.

A bullet that had whizzed through the gaping back door, burst the IV bag he was holding and ripped into his left shoulder, shattering bone and grazing the subclavian artery on its way through. Watson had treated men with similar injuries. He knew that meant he would lose blood quickly.

The floor, slick with other men's blood, started to rise up deliriously. He was falling. Falling and cursing and struggling to make sense of all that was around him; the heat and the dust and the smoke… the wrecked vehicle… only eight weeks to go… oozing butter… oozing blood… the injured men's faces… Phelps with soot under his eyes, pleading into the radio… faces spinning to the sound of the helicopter… Drake… Jiménez… Gibbs… Sotelo… Sherlock…

Wait, what the fuck? Sherlock?

"HO!" John jolted awake, the bedroom coming once more into focus.

Mary stirred beside him, her hand creeping up his pyjama top to find his throat in a quasi-comforting way. "Bad dreams again?"

The grey light of dawn crept through the window as the paralysis of sleep began to leave him. John found his voice, "I - I - it's fine. Nothing to worry about."

She rolled over and stroked his face with a yummy 'mmm', her fingers dropping away lazily. "It's my job to worry about you."

"I think I'll get straight in the shower." He was drenched. Oh-five hundred said the alarm clock. "You have a lie-in," he said, getting up, kissing her closed eyes, "if you want."

"I want." Mary continued her roll into his part of the mattress, where it was still warm with his scent.

"I'll bring you breakfast in bed."

"Crumpets?" she asked, eyes still closed.

"Crumpets."