I don't have a computer as of right now so I've been typing this on my dad's iPad. Also, not a writer! So ridicule all you want I just had a creative flow and needed to get this out. Not sure if it'll even get finished. But enjoy the ride anyway.
"Open cell block 221A," the mechanical female voice sounded over the PA followed by a series of metal clanks and bangs. A long, white, barred gate slid open, freeing up the next hallway of cells. The tall, neatly trimmed guard with graying black hair marched (more like shuffled) a small, limping, muscular man with an injured shoulder down the corridor and past the rabid prisoners.
"Open cell block 221B," came the woman's voice again when they reached the next set of barred doors. The white metal grid slid open loudly, and the two men proceeded down the tiled floor. The guard stopped the short limping man at the third door on the cell block. He fumbled with his keys for a moment before the door gave a loud sigh and heavy clunk.
"John Watson, welcome home." the taller man said with a smirk and shoved John roughly inside. The room consisted only of a rickety aluminium bunk-bed and a grimy steel toilet. John sighed as a painful realization washed over him 'Home,' he whispered. A sudden blur of black and ivory, coupled with a blunt pain in his back took the blonde man by surprise.
"Bloody- Fuck!" he yelped as a tall dark haired figure pinned him to the bars of the cell door. "What the hell, do you think you're doing?!"
"Who... are you..." he hissed "the warden promised me solitude."
"John Hamish," he gave the looming man a forceful shove backwards and stood up straight "Watson."
John eyed the stranger closely; tall, thin, but a hidden power in his slim muscles. He slunk back to his bunk cursing. John was breathing hard when he noticed he was bleeding through his jumpsuit. He unzipped it about half way down to inspect his bullet wound; it was bleeding through gauze and jumpsuit the same.
"Fuck, shit-" John's shoulder was throbbing painfully as he peeled back the wrapping. "Dammit, I broke a fucking stitch."
He slid down to the floor, the skinny dark haired man perked his head up and eyed his bleeding cell mate.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked quietly.
"A- Afghanistan..." John looked up, puzzled "Sorry, how did you-"
The thin man rolled over quickly cutting John off.
The two men sat in silence for a long while. John's heart was racing and his face had gone pale.
"So," John finally broke the emptiness, clutching his shoulder. "What's your name then, ay?"
"Interesting," the other man looked up "An army doctor. Why would and army doctor be in prison?" He mused.
"I... how-" John furrowed his brow "What are you playing at?"
The dark haired man popped up suddenly, sitting back on his heels in front of John and steepling his fingertips.
"Sherlock Holmes," He said holding out a wary hand.
"Captain-" John dropped off, a pained expression played across his face. He gripped Sherlock's hand "Er- Watson. John. Watson."
"Yes, so you mentioned," he said bluntly.
Sherlock's eyes moved swiftly over John's face and torso. John retracted his hand, staring skeptically at the strange man.
"Um, yes. What are you doing?" John asked, a twinge of annoyance in his voice.
"Sher- GAH!" John squealed when Sherlock ripped the army doctor's hand away from his shoulder.
"A bullet wound... fascinating. Why lock up a war hero-" Sherlock thought aloud "unless-"
Sherlock looked up to see John's terrified expression.
"I- erm..." Sherlock cleared his throat and moved his hands away "Sorry... John, your story is of a slight mystery to me and I must admit that's not a confession I make often, please do indulge me in your no doubt fascinating tale."
John looked flustered at the apparent intelligence of the man sitting in front of him.
"Um-" John started
"Though quite quickly," Sherlock said impatiently "and don't be boring."
"I was a- no..." John stopped abrubtly "Not until you tell me how you knew I was in Afghanistan. Please tell me it wasn't in the papers."
Sherlock scoffed "Paper indeed. I can read your military career in your face and your hair, and your medical experience in your unwillingness to call a guard when I- you busted your stitches."
"How?" John was intrigued.
"Your haircut, and the way you hold yourself says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above your wrists, you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your wound, much to powerful a gunshot to be police issue. Bullet caliber appears quite small, so automatic weapon. Your specific knowledge of what to do in event of excessive bleeding or an increase of pain says medical training. Where do you get a sun tan and a deep near crippling gunshot wound of an automatic origin? Afghanistan or Iraq."
John sat stunned for a moment "Brilliant!" He said at last.
"You think so?" Sherlock look overly surprised. "That's not what people normally say."
"What do people normally say?"
John smiled a bit and even risked a chuckle. Sherlock smiled too, he hadn't smiled in months, not since a prisoner from cell block 221C fell off the barbed fence in a feeble attempt at escape.
"So. You were saying?" John's face darkened, and his eyes fell.
"I'm a- I was, a captain. Formerly, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. We were stationed in an American military base in Afghanistan. Well-" He cut off his color drained from his face and his eyes shimmered with potential tears. "I was called off the premise to tend to some fallen comrades about 2 miles out. Half of our regiment stayed in the base with a group of Americans and about ten of us loaded into the jeeps. We were almost a half mile out when two of the jeeps struck land mines, and then the third crashed into the wreckage. I was in the second jeep with three others... then I was trapped under a junior officer and multiple parts of a ruined jeep, shrapnel had peppered my right leg and I could hear my sergeant calling out to any survivors. Then next thing I know there is an enormous explosion of to my right and a hot pain in my left shoulder. I can no longer hear my sergeant, just a piercing ring in my left ear."
John wiped his face, sweat now beading up on his forehead "I woke up in a ditch and no memory of how I got there. My leg was swollen and puffy from the shrapnel wounds and my shoulder was dislocated and caked with blood. I still couldn't hear anything but ringing, and felt nothing but stabs of pain but I managed to crawl out of the ditch. I was about 50 or 60 feet from the wrecked jeeps.
'This is Captain Watson, of the fifth fusiliers.' I spoke into my radio 'there's been a horrible accident.' But from what I could hear it was nothing but static on the other end. I tried to clean myself up as much as possible but most of my medical supplies were either missing or ruined, but it wasn't too much longer until I heard the faint whip of a chopper's blade. There were two of my superiors and another army doctor from the base and they air lifted me and about three other bodies out of the ruins."
Sherlock's face contorted into confusion and sorrow.
"There was-" John broke off, eyes glossy and misted "There was a bomb planted in the American's military base, and through a whole series of fucked up events I, and the three other survivors, were blamed for the whole debachel! The transmittion sent from our comrades was lost in the explosion and presumably all of us in the jeeps were escaping the bomb that we supposedly knew about. I was taken to court, and lost my last appeal."
John was nearly yelling now, and going quite red in the face "Me! A bloody M.D.! Accused of blowing up an American military base!"
Sherlock stood up quickly, without uttering a sound and laid back in his respective bunk, re-steepling his fingertips. John sighed trying to calm himself down, but with no avail. Tears silently tipped over the edge and dribbled down his face, he bowed his head in defeat, ashamed.