I was a Soldier! (and so was I!)

Clearing the harddrive

Hearing his name shouted in the background he continued to run, he had to see where the attackers were, where they were were being ambushed and what sides to inform the others to defend. Hearing his name shouted as an order by John the army captain before he felt a bullet year through him, his hands scrabbled to press to his own wound out of curiosity and lifting the bloodied hand to his face to inspect.

He was going to die, he could tell; he just wished he'd said goodbye. A whisper or anything, a true soldiers farewell but he doesn't because Johns there and after a failed attempt to carry him to safety, he's pressing against the wound to his stomach and it's all white noise. But there's a strong feeling in his chest that even when Watson is wounded he tends to others before himself.

It's with a shout of panic that he hears himself make, a noise that sounds inhuman even to his own ears as John takes a bullet to the shoulder and then they lay side by side, both fighting for their lives.

"John?" Sherlock gasp out but it comes out as a grunt as John reached his arm over to his side. Grasping his hand in his own.

"Don't let go" he hears before he too becomes on the brink of unconsciousness, woken by someone else pressing to the wound at his abdomen and some a makeshift bandage to slow the blood flow as he's dragged onto a gurney and carried across the sand and back to base in the back of a ambulance and then in the hospital and put to sleep.

William wakes up 7 and half hours later, in this time they had removed any shrapnel, cared for any damage else-wear, completed a health check, covered and bandaged the stitches that were sewn and then left him to sleep.

"Holmes! I believe it best to tell you now, you can't go back into service, due to your injuries, it will take around a month to recover from your wounds in which time you shall be returning home to London. You should be thankful that the bullet didn't tear apart your organs as it passed, however it did nick one of your ribs which has been treated to the best of our ability with the supplies we have."

"Where's John?" William asked, with little care to the damage his own body had suffered.

"Watson is in a coma, he should wake within a week from what we can tell from the readings, he'll live rest assured." The doctor informed him with a grim smile.

William stayed on bed rest for a week, well, that's what the doctors around thought. William actually crept out at night, when the night warden was but a young nurse in her twenties to keep an eye on the injured and ill. She was easily bypassed as Will crept to Johns bed and checked for himself if what the doctors said was true.

He stayed for as long as he could in the night, until the sun rose through the tent that surrounded them. He did this for a week until his discharge. Losing contact with John Watson.

Once he was back in London, he occupied his time with sleeping in his brothers place and working cases anonymously.

A week after arriving in London, his brother delivered news to him.

"William, I feel entitled to inform you, watson-"

"John" Sherlock corrected under his breath with a growl.

Mycroft sighed "john, has woken from his coma as was predicted"

William was about to cut him off before Mycroft held a hand and his jaw closed with a click.

"But" his older brother drew out the word for emphasis, "he can't remember anything since two months prior"

"What do you mean?" William asked with slight panic now crossing his features.

"I'm so sorry William, but he doesn't remember you"

"No, no don't lie to me! No!" William demanded as he grabbed at his hair, his fingers tangled in the short scruffy auburn wisp. He dropped to the floor and hugging his knees to his chest and arms now wrapped tightly around the other he rocked back and forth, shaking his head as his blunt nails dig at the freckled skin on his arms.

"William-"

William snarled in answer cutting him off, his eyes glaring daggers at his elder brother, "Don't call me by that name, never again!" He growled before rushing to his temporary bedroom and slamming the door, screaming at it when the softener on the door took the impact and therefore the noise didn't reverberate as he wished. There was no noise at all and therefore the satisfaction was lost and his anger worsened.

He didn't leave that room for nearly so weeks in which time he only ate enough to keep him alive but never enough to keep him healthy. His weight dropped in a rapid burst and he was left weak and tired, his eyes dry from tears. His throat raw from screaming. All while his brother watched him in this downward spiral as he slowly but surely killed himself.

Sherlock began to delete the two months that had happened. Began to erase John from his mind.

It wasn't hard deleted, just pushed aside to the darkest corners of his mind so as to only review it he were ever so lucky to be remembered by John. To have John breathe him in. To be remembered again.