Decorated Emergency

Decorated Emergency - Second Chapter

“John!”

The only thing that surrounded John Watson was the battlefield. 
“Please God… Let me live.” He struggled out. 
“John!” The voice had got closer, and whether or not it was in fact God, John didn’t care. He could hear the clanking of chains, the way the ground under him shook incessantly. His shoulder hurt like hell, and John’s hand went to hold it, only to draw his palm to his near-blinded eyes to see nothing but his blood. 
“It’s me John. Me… John!” His name was sobbed, and he saw a pair of eyes next to his. Strong calloused hands were placed either side of his face. It wasn’t God after all. There was a ripping noise of uniform being teared as the pain grew blinding, more so, if that was at all possible. He groaned, guttural and tortured, as the fabric was knotted around his arm. 
“John… You’re okay. John…”
There was a whistle, and then the most horrifying noise of crushing metal, bones, and John’s soul.

He woke up with a jolt. Rubbing his eyes, he swung his head to read the time on the digital alarm clock that he kept on his bedside. Scrambling up, he realised that it was far later than he expected it to be – he should have been in work over two hours ago. It was at times like these when he cursed night shifts, and cursed the dreams he had following them. They were not so much dreams as re-enactments of his past, portraying the same scene repeatedly. It was still all too fresh in his memory years later.  

The bed creaked beneath his frame, as he hoisted himself up with the help of his wooden dresser. He was getting too old for this, he thought, knowing full well that he was much too young to be saying such things. His breath still smelt of coffee, although the effects of caffeine had clearly worn off some time ago. To remedy this, he sluggishly made his way down the stairs, the tousled carpet smoothing the calluses on his bare feet. 

Still in his uniform, he pressed the creases slept-in between his fingers in an attempt to make himself look a little bit more presentable. He still couldn’t shake the feeling of ache that was still present in his shoulder. His lateness wouldn’t go un-noticed at the hospital, that was certain. It was the first time in months that his punctuality had slipped; he was so heavily relied on that there was no time for selfish lie-ins or late nights-out partying. 

Grabbing a travel mug and once the kettle had boiled, John threw in some instant powder and scolding water, snapping the lid shut tightly after him. His shoes were still where he had left them earlier in the day, and he didn’t bother to undo the laces, simply struggled to get them on while taking a long gulp from his mug. 

It was only a short distance from his front door to the hospital, his flat being conveniently only a five minute walk away. 

"Where've you been? Two and a half hours John? I know you had a night shift but usually you're okay..." He was greeted with an inquiry of inquisitive faces as he made his way through the entrance. 

"Bad night." He shrugged, feeling his jacket pull tight on his shoulder, and instantly regretting his action. He strode through the sea of staff until he got to a particular face behind the desk. 

"Sarah." He was happy to see her, however his state wouldn't allow more than a lopsided smile. 

She smiled back, but only for a brief second before turning back to the computer at which she was working on. 

"Is-"

"Yes. Doctor Browning is attending Mister Henson. I don't know whether or not Master Scott has been seen to, although earlier one of the nurses cared to inform me that his dose seemed to have been reduced from yesterday."

"Oh, well. I suppose I should be seeing to that then." He was surprised at her cold welcome, for she was usually bubbly and cheerful. Feeling hurt by her distance, John thought it best not to pry any further, and went in the direction of the ward that held the small boy. 

Brown leather Oxfords were the only things making noise down the corridor, and John shuddered at the cleanliness and the quietness. This was a stupid thing to do, considering he was a doctor, however he had never seemed to have gotten over the lack of hubbub and noise. He wondered how the lack of frantic excitement and adrenaline was enough for these doctors. 

John Watson was used to the battlefield. The cries of the wounded in his arms as he did everything within his power to prevent their death haunted his day to day thoughts. He couldn't decide whether he missed it, or was partially glad that he was away from it all. Either way, it made him grateful to still be here, even if 'here' meant a gargantuan hospital with a million wards and grumpy, unthankful patients to attend to.

He almost reached the door when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a loud cry,

"DOCTOR WATSON! I can't find Doctor Browning and there's a man wheeled in overdosed on cocaine and I didn't know who else to turn to." A small, fumbling doctor of a few months looked helplessly at him. 

It didn't take long for John's excitement to build. 

"Am I needed?" He asked, knowing full well that without him, being left in the hands of amateurs, the man would surely die. 

"Urgently." 

In a flash, John and the young doctor were hurtling through stainless-steel and white corridors, until they came to their destination. Swinging the doors open, John caught sight of the patient. Covered in blue paper towels and his own vomit, attempting to be restrained by several new doctors. 

"Watch closely..." He instructed, as he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, his smile gleaming wider than it had in a long time.