1Please god, let me live.
The chill of the night air felt particularly cold to John as he lay on the ground, his blood slowly draining form his body and into the ground beneath him. The moon was nearly full and was the only source of light on this dark night. He could feel the chill seeping into his body, spreading like a poison.
He wasn't a fool by any means, he was a doctor for Christ's sake! All of his medical knowledge and experience tending to his injured comrades told him that he was beyond help. He had been attacked in the night, his brothers in arms swiftly killed. He was the only one still breathing. Not well mind you. The soldiers that attacked had left quite rapidly after executing their attack under the cover of darkness. The only sound John could hear now was his own grotesque raspy breaths that he could manage between coughing up blood. He knew the damage was extensive, that even if he didn't feel paralysed by the pain, that there was little he could do to help himself, that one one was coming, and even if they were, they could do nothing to save him either.
John had never been much of a believer, but with no real hope and nothing and no one else to turn to, he found himself mentally praying, begging to live, even if no one could hear him, it couldn't possibly do any harm at this point.
"And what would you give to continue your pitiful little life?" The voice cut through the cold like a dagger, piercing John to the very core of his being.
After the initial shock John began to consider the likelihood of experiencing auditory hallucinations, when the dark figure of a man became central in his field of view. With the man leaning over top of his, all he could see of him was his silhouette in front of the moon.
It was most likely that one of the men had returned and was going to finish the job, but as John's hazy mind absorbed more details, he realized that this man did not appear to be a soldier. His frame was tall and narrow, quite skinny really, there was no bulge of weaponry on him, and he appeared to be wearing a long trench coat, the edges of which danced in the cool breeze.
"I can help you".
A shiver ran through John's body and he wasn't sure if it was due to the blood loss and injury, or as a direct result of hearing the melodic voice again. It was a very deep voice, seductive really, John was surprised to find himself thinking, as he had never felt this kind of allure due to a voice before, let alone the voice of another man.
The dark figure then let out a slight chuckle, as if amused by John's lack of response.
John felt the need to respond to this man's somewhat condescending attitude, but all that he managed was a pained noise cut off by a shuttering cough that stained his lips deeper with blood.
His vision began to swim in and out of focus, but the captivating voice was as clear as ever, as if it was all that existed in the world.
"I can give you life". The statement seemed to echo around his head. And, despite the irrationality of the statement, John believed with certainty that the words were true.
John could barely feel the cold pressure of a hand against the side of his face.
"I will give you your life," the voice continued, reverberating around his mind and he couldn't be sure if he was imagining the voice or actually hearing it, "and in return, all I ask for is for one thing from you of my desire".
Please! I don't want to die, John thought desperately, he could feel himself begin to panic as a feeling of cold began to finally set in.
"Of course you don't!" the voice chimed mockingly before taking on a serious and somber tone, "you have so much to live for, so much still to do. You wouldn't want your parents to suffer the loss of their only son would you? You can still be a husband, a father. And really, what do you have to lose?"
The strangers slender fingers stroked down his face in a slow mock of a caress.
"Do we have a deal?" The voice was filled with such confidence and assertion he felt as if the choice had already been made for him.
John was far too numb to feel fear, but he knew this situation was delicate, important, dangerous.
As a fit of coughs racked his body beyond his control, he was reminded of comrades he had treated that had been in similar condition, and he knew that the breaths he was taking were nearing his last.
He tries to nod his head but was unable, his mind seemed to no longer have control of his body, but his thoughts were as sharp as ever.
We have a deal
Despite his vast knowledge and deductive abilities, Sherlock had no idea what provoked his almost obsessive interest in the soldier.
In all aspects the man had been completely ordinary, which should, in all rights, be deemed as boring and dealt with in his regular apathetic manner.
He felt some anger towards himself that whatever had possessed him to keep such close track of the man was beyond his understanding. This required further research.