When John reached into the abdominal cavity of the wounded soldier, blood pooled in his hand. This was a far cry from the vasectomies and appendectomies that he had performed back in England. He worked quickly, trying to put the man back together though he knew in his heart that he probably wouldn't survive the night.
A bomb had gone off at a religious service killing a number of civilians as well as, rumor had it, the girl who was carrying Jones' child. John placed a chunk of liver into a metal dish and tried his best to patch together what was left.
'There should be bombs falling,' he thought. 'In the movies, there's always the sound of bombs when a doctor is covered with this much blood.'
But this wasn't a case of guts and glory. Well there were guts, but there was no glory for a man who clasped a grenade to his chest like a baby and pulled the pin. John remembered this time as he knelt on the pavement, his hand grasping the wrist of his best friend before they pulled him away.
Despair was a battle that Jones, and now Sherlock had lost. Listening to the wheel squeaking on the gurney that carried away Sherlock's body, John wondered if he too would fall on this battlefield.