The Struggling Sociopath

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Is this the end?

Three Years Later

"Get down!"

Bullet soared through the air overhead, the sounds of guns ringing through the air. John leapt at the ground just in time, pressing himself right against it so to get behind what little shelter they had to hide behind. The shots stopped for just second and in that time all the men jumped up, moving forward again and preparing their guns.

"Get down!"

It was a close call again as John flung himself down, eyes narrowed. He pulled his gun out as he was lying there, getting it ready and waiting. An agonising cry came from somewhere nearby. An injury. John's ocean blue gaze swept to his left. A young soldier, reasonably new. Gun wound to the lower chest. Possible chance of survival. John slowly began to crawl in that direction, moving one hand to check that his medical pack was in its usual place. Yes. Good. He didn't think of anything else. Just concentrated on the patient he had to get towards. He needed to get the man out and get him treated.

John reached him, shuffling around to pull out what he needed. The poor man was barely conscious; mumbling incoherent things and muttering in pain. He had to get him away. If there was going to be any chance of his recovery.

"Move back!"

John mentally cursed, standing up slightly so he could loop the man's arm around his neck. He waited a few moments before fully getting up, supporting the man as he stumbled back.

"Leave him, John!" He heard someone shout to his right. He ignored them. He wasn't just going to leave the man. No, that was not right. He liked to think that if he was the one injured someone, even if they didn't have doctor training, would try to get them back.

Bullet were shot around them but thankfully the enemy didn't have very good aims. There was one near miss, the bullet being a hairbreadth away from John's side. He was thankful that it didn't hit him. He was almost there. So close.

A sudden, sharp pain burst in John's shoulder. He fell forward with a gasp as it spread like fire. He fell to the ground, dust clouding around him. His other hand went over to his shoulder, gripping it in an attempt to stop the blood the just worked its way around his fingers. Damn there was a lot of blood. The pain was excruciating. So this is what being shot felt like.

He was going to die. The bullet had hit a major artery. It would take some major miracle for him to survive. Damn, he was going to die. He wasn't ready to die. Sherlock had been right. Right to worry. But then again, John had known it was a possibility when he signed up. But he still had done it. Now he wouldn't get to see Sherlock again.

God, please save me. So I can see Sherlock again. These were John's last thoughts before he slipped into darkness.

Everything was so white. Why was everything so white? He couldn't see a speck of another colour. Just sheet white above him. John blinked his eyes, feeling rather disorientated. Was this heaven? He hadn't expected it to be so... quiet.

John shifted slightly, groaning at the pain in his shoulder. No, that wasn't right. If he was dead, in heaven, then nothing would hurt. He would be better. Completely. No he must... still be alive? That was it. He was alive. He groaned again as he tried to sit up, blinking. A hospital. He was definitely in a hospital. And this wasn't any hospital in Afghanistan that he knew. They must have flown him back to Britain when he was unconscious.

He wasn't the only one in the ward. There were numerous beds on both sides, many occupied by one patient. It didn't take long for John to realise that they were all soldiers, like him. So a military hospital then. Great. He just wanted to know when he would recover. So he could leave and go back to the fighting. If they would let him go back. Maybe they wouldn't.

John sighed and sunk back down into his bed. The whole place was silent, the only light being that which peaked through the windows on the wall behind him. Early morning, John estimated. He hoped that he wouldn't be here long. He was dreadfully bored already.

He sat in his thoughts for hours before the place began to come alive, nurses bustling about as they brought breakfast to the waking patients. A doctor arrived beside John's bed, checking the wound and making sure he didn't have any brain damage due to blood loss. Of course he didn't. He was perfectly fine.

"How long until I'm released?" John asked the doctor, Dr Brown, as he ate the breakfast he had finally been given. Ugh. Hospital food.

"Around two weeks," Doctor Brown replied as he checked over his notes. Two weeks? God, this was going to be boring.

"When will I go back to the army?"

"You won't be going back to the army, Doctor Watson."

"Oh." John let it sink in. Brilliant. Well that was the end of his army career. What was he going to go now? Go back to normal hospital work. No, he doubted that would be the best idea. It would be so different... Damn, his leg hurt. Why did his leg hurt? He hadn't even been shot there. Anyway, he would dwell on that later.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, but it is just not possible. Once you are released you will be assigned to a therapist to make sure there haven't been any... effects on your mental health." Oh brilliant. Bloody brilliant. Another therapist. Damn, his leg really hurt.

John merely nodded in reply before asking for a book to read. To pass the time. The next two weeks would be fun. Planning out his future. What he was going to do with his life. Maybe he could find Sherlock... That may be hard, though. He didn't even know where the man lived. And he doubted he would have the same phone number. He would find someone he knew in London, he was sure.

That was the only area where he was certain. Where he wanted to live. London. It could on be London. But the rest... He really wasn't sure.

And his leg really did hurt.