Chapter Text
TIIC 4
It had been a false alarm, Mycroft said. Someone knocked over a bottle of something and it set off sensors for a possible biological something-something-something. John wasn’t really paying attention as Mycroft strapped him into the car, too drained from the adrenaline rush to listen to big words. He just wanted to go home and sleep in his bed with his bunny and make everything alright again. He was more than pleased to find that Mycroft seemed to understand this without having to be told. John reached out to grab his bunny from Mycroft and held it tight to his chest.
The ride home didn’t take too long and Mycroft was shuffling John through the mud room quickly. What had been a rather sunny morning turned dark and rainy. Mycroft pulled off John’s shoes and held his hand as they walked into the kitchen.
“Let’s get you some lunch and then we can take a rest, hum?” Mycroft asked as he walked towards the fridge and yanked it open.
John hummed an affirmation, sitting down at the table and laying his head into his arms on the table. He was tired and not very hungry at all, but Mycroft wouldn’t like if John didn’t eat. John tried his best not to fall asleep right there at the table, but it was getting hard. The panic from earlier just wasn’t sitting well in his mind. What has been a happy buzz in his head the past few days became what could only be defined as a hangover. A slap in the face of reality.
He felt ashamed of himself—of his tears, his clothing, his rabbit crushed between his arms and chest. His fear. He was acting as if he couldn’t handle himself, as if he needed someone to help him because he couldn’t do it on his own. His father and sister would be mocking him if they knew. So would Sherlock and Greg. Mycroft was just being nice to not say anything—not even a comment on how helpless John really was.
It had been nothing more than a fire alarm and John could feel his breaths coming in short and shallow gasps. He knew there could be delayed reactions to trauma after working with the armed forces for so long, but it had been a FIRE ALARM for Christ’s sake. Hardly anything worth getting worked up over, but he was. He was scared because he was back in a tent at camp, an alarm blaring overhead as shots were fired from only a couple hundred yards away. There were people in front of him again, begging for his help as he ran from the sound, dashing to his desk and pulling out his military-issued .9 mil. He was checking his chamber as he pulled back the slider then he tucked the weapon into his arm holster and ran for the door.
In front of him was a fellow armsman holding and AK that pointed into the distance and firing at something John couldn’t see. Wouldn’t see. Not until it was too late. John had blinked and suddenly the man was crumpled on the ground. Everything else had faded away, a black slate in the background as John raced almost in slow motion to his fallen comrade. Blood was spewing from a wound in the man’s shoulder, the bullet hitting right between his shoulder and neck. Already, John knew the man must not have taken proper stance, must have had his side turned when the shooter pulled the trigger. It wasn’t an uncommon wound, but could be life-threatening if not taken care of.
And then John felt something lodged into his thigh, sensing fiery pain down his leg and up his back, almost drilling at the back of his head.
“John!” Someone yelled, far off. Too far to help. “John!”
John was teaching for his comrade, trying to shake the man back into consciousness so he could pull solider to safety.
“John!”
John’s eyes suddenly landed on Mycroft who was holding both of his shoulders, worry etched into his face. Breathing in large gasps on air, John looked around the room—the familiar pastel green walls with white panels, white cabinetry, the old wooden table that was pushed away from him for some reason, the gray tiled floors.
“John?” Mycroft’s voice brought John’s gaze back upon the older man.
John could feel the air brush across his wet face and he knew he must have been crying, but he didn’t feel like crying anymore. He didn’t feel like anything. The world felt a million miles away and too close at the same time. He felt fire from the bullet that had ended his career in the military, but otherwise felt like he’d been dunked into ice water.
“John-John?” Mycroft said, this time softer. “You’re okay, you’re safe. Do you know where you are?”
John nodded his head, sniffling in before looking at Mycroft and, I’m his best Big voice, said, “I want to go home.”
Mycroft’s face folded into a type of worry John had never seen before. He had no way to define it and no way to address it. But he knew that he wasn’t Little, and that meant he had to reason to stay.
“John, you don’t have to—“
“I would like to go home, Mr Holmes.” John said harshly, standing from his chair and pushing it away at the same time, giving him plenty of room to move out of Mycroft’s reach.
Mycroft looked John, as if trying to decipher something. John watched, trying his best to look older, Bigger, stable—all of the things he wasn’t but knew he had to be. He’d been too vulnerable, too soft, too lax about who saw him. He couldn’t allow himself to continue the behavior when it was only bothersome to those around him. He was John Watson, ex-Army Doctor, private investigator, expert marksman. Neutral.
When Mycroft’s face folded back into it’s normal, steel stare, he nodded. “Right away, Mr Watson.”