war injuries

The Right Way

When John opens his eyes, everything is white and silent.

His first feeling is shock.
Shock over this surreal environment. The sand, the heat, the tanks and the death have disappeared. No screams and no helicopter sounds can be heard. Instead, quiet, friendly voices around him. Birds singing somewhere. Well, outside. Outside where the sun shines. Where there is a daily life. Around him is the smell of disinfectants and mild detergent.

John blinks at the bright light in the room. He realizes he’s in a bed. No narrow, hard cot. It is a large, soft bed. A thick pillow under his head. A blanket pulled up to his chin. It’s warm.

He also notes that he can hardly move. It’s like a heavy weight is pushing him down.
John grunts, and wiggles tentatively with his toes under the blanket. This works very well. But as he tries to lift his head, an unpleasant, throbbing pain passes through his shoulder. At the same time, it occurres to him that he has been shot.
Shot. In Afghanistan.

John lets his head sink back into the pillow and breathes in the cool air in the room.
I was shot …
Pictures before his eyes make him swallow.
Running soldiers, screams, shots, an explosion. A hand on his arm, a whisper, a groan as eyes close forever …
And then the sharp pain as the bullet pierces him. Pain, so much pain, he falls into the sand and he can hear his name. Someones shouting his name …
A moment later it’s all gone.

John knows he’s been taken to a hospital. For the initial treatment. And then. Home.

Home, meaning this hospital.

He sighs, and licks his dry lips. Thirst.
His gaze falls to the side of the wall, where a call button is.
He presses it.
A few minutes later, a young nurse comes into the room. She smiles the certain standard smile, which is so common in a hospital.
“Ah, Dr. Watson, you are awake. Very good. The doctor will want to see your wound soon. Do you need something?”
“Water,” John can only croak with difficulty. And he points his finger vaguely at the bed. “Could you … raise it please?”
“Yes, of course.” The nurse pushes a button on the bed and it slowly lifts. “I’ll bring you water.”
Then she is gone again.

John can see the room better now. And when he looks aside, he sees that he is not alone.
Next to him is another bed. And there is a man in it.
The face half hidden by an oxygen mask.
John can see thick, dark locks. And pale, almost white skin. He judges the man to be in his mid-thirties. He stares at the completely motionless body and swallows. Something is drawing him to this unknown man … something he can not explain. John notes that he is fascinated. Fascinated without really having a reason for it. He shakes his head slightly.

The nurse comes back with a mug and a water bottle.
She pours him water into the mug and John takes it with a still unsteady hand. He drinks, relieved.
Then he says softly, “Who is that?”
The nurse follows his gaze and says with a sad undertone, “Oh, this is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He’s been here for a long time. Almost half a year. He’s in a coma.”
“Ah,” John says, swallowing. Half a year. That’s a long time. “How …?”
“How it happened? He overdosed on cocain. We … well, we can’t ask him, but we think it was a suicide attempt.” She gently shakes her head and takes the empty mug from John. “It’s really a shame. He never gets any visitors. Never. The thought that no one in the world is there for him … Who knows if he will ever wake up again. Perhaps there is simply nothing worth it for … Oye, I talk too much.” She seems a little embarrassed and clears her throat. “If you need anything, just call, ok? The doctor should be here any minute.”
“Thank you. Yes.”
The nurse leaves. John does not look away from the sleeping man in the other bed.

Half a year. No visit.

The days pass at a quiet, slow pace, which both soothes and disturbs John.
He is not used to it.
He almost expects to be suddenly torn from the calm routine by a shrill siren. Or suddenly lie back in the hot, bloody sand of the desert.
But of course it doesn’t happen.
Instead, he wakes up around 9 in the morning, receives his breakfast and is examined. The doctor is friendly and passive. Nodding pleased at the sight of John’s wound, while John himself stares at the hole in his shoulder with a growing nausea.
After that, he can only watch TV, or watch Sherlock being fed.
It’s hard to watch.
No reaction comes from the comatose man, when the nurses lift his limbs off the bed to wash him. Turn him to his side. Dress him again.
The motionless body doesn’t resist. It reminds John of a doll. He does not like this thought.
At noon, they bring John food again.
For Sherlock, of course, nothing comes. He is fed artificially.
In the evening, more food. And more TV.
A lot of rest. A little too much, John thinks once, and feels strangely guilty at the thought.
On the third day of this routine, he talks to Sherlock for the first time.
It’s because a James Bond movie is on.
John always liked James Bond.
And that’s what he says.
“This is a good movie. A really good movie. Lots of action. And the women are pretty, the men too,” he says aloud in the room. And laughs. There’s no answer. And he feels a little stupid.


After a while, John realizes that he will not get any visitors either.
It’s not really that surprising.
Harry is … well, he doesn’t even know where his sister lives. His mother is dead. And he does not want to see his father. Not that he thinks, his father would want to see him …
Once, he receives a call from the leader of his unit. From Afghanistan. He says something like, “it’s a shame” and “get back on your feet soon”. John doesn’t say much. He only murmurs “Yes, sir” now and then.
His hand is trembling as he holds the phone. A tremor. It hasn’t stopped since he woke up.
He doesn’t get any visitors. Just like Sherlock.
Only the nurses and the doctor enter the room.
“Here we are, huh?” John says to Sherlock while eating his bland soup. “We’re alone together here.”

And then the nightmares start. About the war. About death and pain. About men he could not save. Distorted faces in the dark. Eyes full of despair.
He wakes up in the middle of the night. Heavily breathing. Bathed in sweat.
He moans and sits up with difficulty. Runs a hand over his face.
He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock, who is, as always, motionless in bed. A part of his face lit from the machine that measures his heartbeat.
John swallows. He must … He feels the overwhelming desire to talk to someone. It needs to stop. He can not … Oh, hell, he has no one and it’s not like Sherlock would complain, right?
He clears his throat and begins.

“Well, uh, Sherlock. How do you feel? Um, I hope I didn’t wake you. Sorry, haha, bad joke … I had a nightmare, which is quite obviously, right? Well, uhm, I hope it doesn’t bother you if I just talk a little. Yes. I’ll talk. So make yourself comfortable. Haha.
Sometimes I think I’ve gone the wrong way. I became a doctor because I wanted to help people. And the army … Well, it was just a whim. An idea that me and my friends had. One of them is dead, by the way. Mmh. I … it was not always bad. The training was exhausting though. Sometimes I thought I could not make it. My family was not much help either. My father is an asshole. There is no other word. My sister was thrown out. My mother died. It was all … a mess, you know? Anyway, I’ve been struggling. I wanted to do it. This one thing. And I did it. I’ve become a doctor. I went to Afghanistan and treated soldiers. I’ve seen things that would turn your stomach. Wounds that seemed like death sentences. I’ve looked into hopeless, desperate eyes. Sometimes I saved them. Sometimes I couldn’t.
And the faces of those I could not save, they haunt me now, you know? In my dreams. God. I’m so sorry. I really am … Do you see that? I’m crying. That hasn’t happened for a long time. It seems to make you sentimental when you get a bullet in your shoulder … " 


"Thank you for listening to me all the time, Sherlock. All this blabbering must be terrible. I thought about James today. Who that is? Well, good question. We were more than friends. But never more than … no idea. I kissed him. Well. In the desert, watching the sunset. Once. Just once. Do you think that is romantic? Shit, yes. Mabye it is. ”

“My middle name is Hamish. I hate it. I mean, who calls their child John Hamish? My father chose my name. There we have it again. This bastard. Hamish. I always avoid telling people that name. So, I guess that makes us mates? Hey, buddy, haha. No. That just sounds wrong. Sorry.”
"I can get up today. Great, huh? I feel like an old man. My damn shoulder, my trembling hand … a pretty sad picture I make, huh? ”

“It was not so bad. I mean, I for some reason I’m limping, quite badly, but the fresh air was great. I was down in the park. And imagine, a woman spoke to me. She’s called Mary. She said she’s working here. She is nice. And you know what, I asked her if we could go for a coffee. She said yes. Can I get a ‘well done’? No? All right. ”
“Do you know, that you’re pretty? Really, you are. I maybe would have asked you out, if I met you somewhere else before. Oh God, sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I … Maybe I’m just afraid. Because … well. I’ll have to leave here soon, I guess. And I don’t know what to do then …”
“Well, that’s it. I … tomorrow I can go. I don’t know exactly where, but I can go. Mmh. I think I’m really scared. Mary said I should do therapy. No idea if that would help. I guess, I can try it. Maybe. Well, I’ll pack my things. You know … you really could wake up to say good-bye to me. It would be nice …”
“Surprise! Yes, here I am again. I … I missed you, Sherlock. You’re a good listener, you know? Better than my therapist … So, what happened since I left, tell me, haha.”
“I will marry Mary. That’s … yes, that’s good, right? She is … she gives me a certain hold in life. I would not know where else to go. What else could I do? So. We are getting married.”
“Oh God. Fuck Hey, Sherlock. I … She’s pregnant. She … she’s really pregnant. Did you hear that? I’m having a baby. I’m going to be a father. I. Can you belive that? No, me neither. I … Oh my God, what am I doing?”
“This is not what I wanted, do you hear me Sherlock? That … my God, I can not do that. That’s … That’s not me. Fuck. ”
“I love her … Really, I do. I mean, I married her. But … I just do not know what I’m doing. I’m … This is not me. I don’t want a quiet family life in a terraced area. I want … I don’t even really know what I want … But, I hate all of this. I … I thought I was going the right way this time, but that … that’s not what I want. I’m not a family man, Sherlock. ”
“You know, Sherlock, you can just wake up once. So … so we could really talk. Because, well … You listen to me here as I talk every day. Aren’t you bored. Jesus. I know it would be a miracle if you woke up. I have … I’ve heard the nurses talking. They’ve given up on you. It would be a miracle. But … I don’t know, maybe you can just make the miracle happen for me? Simply … Oh God, I don’t know what I’m talking about. Good bye, Sherlock. Until tomorrow.”
6 weeks later.

“Hello, Dr. Watson. I’m sorry to call you so late, but he … he’s asking for you.”

“Who? Who is asking for me?”

“Sherlock Holmes. The coma patient you have been visiting. He woke up and now he’s asking for you. Very urgently.”

John hurried to the hospital. He doesn’t even notice that he left his cane at home. Until Sherlock points it out. Sherlock, sitting upright in bed, an exhausted, oblique smile on his face.
Sherlock, who says quietly, “Hello, John.”
Sherlock, who steals John’s heart within a second and opens the door to a whole new, completely different story. Who shows John a new way. Which is finally

           the right one. 

This was inspired by this beautiful post of @johnnlocked: AU in which Sherlock is in a coma and John is in the same room.

Corrected by my wonderful beta @bakerstreet-irregular <3

Tags are under the cut. As always, if I forgot you or you want to be tagged in future works, tell me :)

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The Bloody Red Baron’s traumatic brain injury,

 The issue of head trauma and brain injury has been in the spotlight a lot lately, especially when it comes to sports and athletic injury, as well as auto accidents, job accidents, and of course, soldiers returning home from war.  Perhaps one recently recognized case of traumatic brain injury in history is Manfred von Richthofen, also known as the “Red Baron”.  One of the greatest combat fighter pilots of all time, the German ace helped form the foundation of aerial dogfighting.  He wasn’t the most skilled pilot, but he utilized tactics which made him the most dangerous airman of World War I, earning him 80 kills, making him the highest scoring and most decorated pilot of the war. Richthofen’s incredible success was mostly due to his strict adherence to a set rules governing dogfighting called the “Boelcke Dictums”, written by German flying ace Oswald Boelcke.  Today the Boelcke Dictums are holy gospel among fighter pilots, still taught to trainees in air forces around the world.

On July 6th, 1917, Richthofen suffered a gunshot wound to the head, damaging the frontal lobe of his brain.  Amazingly, the wound didn’t kill him, and he was able to land in friendly territory. He had to undergo several operations to remove bone fragments from his damaged brain, and was temporarily blinded and paralyzed. Amazingly, Richthofen made a quick comeback, spending only three months convalescing and healing, attempting to return to active duty in August but finally returning to the air on October 23rd.

Richthofen wasn’t the same after his head injury, and modern medical professionals  have looked over his case and determined that he could have suffered from a serious traumatic brain injury. He become disinhibited and compulsive, often making snap judgments and irrational decisions.  He also had less control over his emotions, becoming moody and depressed.  In his journals, his writing became more simplistic, disorganized, and nonsensical.  In the air, he became more and more reckless, taking more dangerous risks and ignoring the Boelcke Dictums which he had rigidly adhered to before.  It is was quite clear that Richthofen was suffering from head trauma (and perhaps battle fatigue) resulting in decreased cognitive ability. It is a good possibility that the Bloody Red Baron had lost his edge due to his injury.

On April 21st, 1918 Richthofen broke formation with his squadron to chase an Allied plane.  Flying mere hundreds of feet above the ground, Richthofen pursued the fighter deep into enemy territory, totally oblivious of enemy fighters diving on his six and a mass of anti aircraft fire rising from the ground.  Neurologists call this “target fixation”, a habit common among those suffering brain injuries where a person will fixate on a particular object or thing while losing awareness of his or her surroundings.   Richthofen sustained a mortal gunshot wound to the chest, going down and crashing.  He was buried with honors by British forces.  Today, most medical and military experts agree that the Red Baron would have never been allowed to fly again in any modern air force.

anonymous asked:

Hi for fic recs I'm good with anything I just am in a slump trying to find some good Granada style fics and so I thought I would seek the help of an expert xD Maybe some fluff or h/c preferably 1k+ words

Originally posted by jeremyholmes

Oh good! let’s do this :D

Particular Pecularity by saavik13m, 43k, Mature: “How high is your regard for me, Watson?” He asked abruptly, his eyes still trained on the fire. “If I were to confess my darkest secret would you leave? Would you abandon me here to my melancholy?”A case forces Holmes to reveal the truth to Watson and risks both their reputations and their liberty. Just how understanding is John Watson?

Since First I Saw Your Face by Stavia_Scott_Grayson, 42k, Mature, Holmes POV, wip: During the Great Hiatus, Holmes, studying in Tibet, reflects on his first meeting with Dr John Watson. Full of historical references, with a hopelessly in love Holmes, beautiful writing, one of the best fics of the moment. I can’t recommend it enough, it’s so good D:

Le Beau Gent sans Merci by SweetSorcery, 2k, Teen: News of Captain Jack Croker and Lady Mary Brackenstall start Holmes and Watson talking about the perfect relationship.

All the Makings of a Great Romance by fleetwood_mouse, 12k, Explicit, Holmes POV: Sherlock Holmes lays down his account of the events of The Adventure Of The Empty House, the years leading up to it, and the night that followed.

Notes On A Love Story by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, 4k, gen: Watson finds a copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray in Holmes’ room. Or: what happens when a queer novel upends Baker Street.

Hidden Depths by Susannah_Shepherd, 7k, Explicit: Watson inadvertently lets slip that his war injuries are far more extensive and crippling than he has formerly admitted. Holmes encourages him to confront his fears and find new hope.

Lesson Learned by Shadowycat, 9k, Mature: In which, Holmes makes a discovery, Watson makes a decision, and Holmes learns a lesson (or two) he never thought he’d want to learn. (Alternating Holmes and Watson POVs.)

Rubicon by Janeturenne, on livejournal, 4k: “One minute we were both on the deck, and the next minute we were both in the river…“ after an explosion while working on a case, Holmes and Watson think they’ve lost each other.

and, if you haven’t read all of Katy Forsythe, you should ;)

Yeah I never got how ‘sex is a social construct’ could be understood in a Congolese context, since women, girls and babies suffer sexual violence because they have ‘female’ body parts. And thousands of Congolese women have had their genitals mutilated (not talking about the practice of female genital mutilation), breasts cut off and reproductive systems damaged by men. And the fact that ‘the destruction or the vagina’ is considered a war injury in Congo says a lot. I think, it would be really difficult to explain how sex is a social construct to Congolese people

Draco x Hermione

Title: Static

Author: galfoy

Genre: Angst/Romance

Chapters: 21

Word Count: 75,632

Summary: The Order rescued Draco and Lucius Malfoy after Lord Voldemort turned on them. All the safe houses are full, and Hermione Granger is the only one who can take them in. Will she agree after having suffered a drastic nervous breakdown?

“Just for you dollface”

Fandom: Marvel

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: War period (WWII), war injuries, fear of loved ones dying.

Word Count: 1,144

Author’s Note: I’m weirdly obsessed with Soldier!Bucky x Nurse!Reader, so I wrote a thing for it. Also, I have no idea what it’s like to be in the war (obviously) so if anything seems incorrect then I’m sorry and I hope I didn’t offend anyone. This is obviously set in the 40′s by the way.

Y/N =Your (first) name  Y/L/N = Your last name

Originally posted by complete-fandom-trashhh

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anonymous asked:

Wait a know we get on the topic of fur colors a lot but what about... kits? Like, did any queen in all of warrior cats ever have more than 2-4 kits? In one litter?

i think there may have been one litter of five kits?? tbh i think its because the erins don’t want to spend that much time trying to create new characters/it would get confusing.

but the fact is that ½ of all feral kits will die before reaching maturity so it would make sense for clan cats to have large litters to ensure as many as possible survive, and even then most die early from disease/sickness/war injuries etc

i wish the erins did the “unnamed kits” thing again because it makes it a lot easier to kill kits (which i know i know is sad but it happens!! it’s a part of life!!) like what kits have died since hollykit + larchkit?? (squirrelflights kits were stillborn so I’m not counting them) i wanna see a queen have a litter of like 8 kits and just watch the camp descend into chaos

anonymous asked:

best multichap fics under 30 chapters that aren't that fandom famous?

Check out this post, and this one with newly completed fics, plus these:

Title: The Blockout
Author: glassycry
Rating: M
Genre(s): Romance
Chapters: 1
Word Count: 17,515
Summary: I open my eyes for the first time and look around. The room I’m in is blurry. Extremely so. Where am I? Who are these people? What is this room? Why can’t I see properly? Am I in danger? How did I get here?

Title: Where Dwell the Brave at Heart
Author: qwertybob
Rating: M
Genre(s): Romance, Adventure
Chapters: 28
Word Count: 200,683
Summary: Voldemort continues to rise to power as Lily and James deal with responsibilities, relationships and risky encounters that come with their seventh year at Hogwarts. Snape falls deeper into the Dark Arts, with friends like Regulus Black and Mulciber to keep him company. How will Lily and James adjust to the new dark world that is infiltrating even Hogwarts’ safe walls? Complete.

General (L/N)? Alexander x Reader

Trigger Warning: blood/injury (war), my general lack of military knowledge

Summary: You are able to convince General Washington to let you fight in the war. Things get complicated for the sake of plot.


You and George were always close growing up. Sure, he was almost twenty years older than you, but when your father couldn’t be torn from his work, your mother would send you to the Washington’s house, so she could take care of your siblings. As you grew up, you and George were always together. With how protective he was of you and how rich his family was, people always assumed that the two of you would get married. He, however, was courting a beautiful woman named Martha; she was the sweetest woman. You chose to spend most of your time studying under George. He was incredibly smart and agreed with your belief that women should be able to get an education and be on an equal playing field as men. 

Even with the start of the war, George still held onto his beliefs. He even let you fight, but since many men were not as open-minded as him, you had to keep your gender a secret. He constantly told you that he wouldn’t treat you any better than the other men; you had to earn your spot. And, that’s just what you did. You eventually got promoted to general.

Today, things were not looking good for your men. You’re fighting alongside General Hamilton, who you had to admit (even if you weren’t supposed to) you found quite attractive. With American soldiers falling left and right, you took the initiative to pick up one of the fallen soldier’s muskets and fight. As you run to the front lines, you hear the general call after you, “What the hell are you doing, general? Do you have a death wish?!”

Since your damn wit will be the death of you, you turn back to respond, “I have a freedom wish!” A British officer takes the chance to shoot you in the shoulder, causing you to fall to the ground. General Hamilton rushes over to you. He starts to help you over to the edge of the battlefield. “What the hell are you doing?!” You scream, although, it can barely be heard over the sounds of war. 

He rolls his eyes and replies, “I’m trying to help you!”

“I don’t need your fucking help!”

He ignores you and sets you in a small clearing. “Let me look at it.” He starts to undo the first few buttons on your uniform, but you crawl away, causing you to grimace in pain. “I’ll be fine.”

“With all due respect, General (L/N),” he starts, “we need to get you to a nurse, and they are almost a mile away, so I need to make sure that you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Please. I’m not going to hurt you.” His dark eyes soften and his hand reaches to your uninjured shoulder. “Promise.”

You nod, knowing that whatever reaction he’ll have is not nearly as important as your shoulder. He smiles gently and finishes unbuttoning your shirt. His eyes widen as he sees the cloth you use to bind your chest. His eyes glance up at you briefly before undoing the portion that surrounds your shoulder. He looks at the wound for a few moments before tearing a portion of the cloth around your stomach off and wrapping it tightly around the wound. He helps you stand up and says, “We’ll talk about this after you see a nurse.”

You nod your head solemnly. 


The next two days are spent in the makeshift infirmary. General Hamilton visits you on your last day there. 

“You’re a woman,” he states bluntly.

“Yes, and I would appreciate it if you kept your voice down. My nurse, George, and you are the only people who know.”

“The general knows?!”

You sigh. “George is the one who let me help the war in the first place.”

“Most women help the war effort by being nurses.”

You roll your eyes. “Most men wouldn’t have passed up a chance to see a woman’s breasts.”

He chuckles. “I’m not like most men.”

“And I’m not like most women.”

The two of you sit in silence for a few moments before General Hamilton says, “I’m glad you’re a woman.”

You give him a puzzled look. “Beg your pardon?”

“I mean, there’s something about you that I just couldn’t place. You are so sweet but take shit from nobody. If we’re being honest here, which I feel like you owe me that much, I started to fall in love you. I spent so many nights forfeiting sleep for you. I-wait-I’m pouring my heart out and I  don’t even know your name.”

You smile. “(Y/N).”

He kisses your hand. “Well then, (Y/N), after the war, may I court you?”

You nod. “I would like that very much, Alexander.”

Im desperately trying to find an explanation for radiation in the zones, but there just… is none. 

There is no kind of bomb that would cause nuclear fallout that lasts decades long that still remains harmful unless were talkin nuclear power plant meltdown like Chernobyl but the closet power plant to L.A in real life really isnt that close to be an issue for Battery City

Nuclear fallout doesnt really last long at all! In a few hours, intensity drops to 10% and after a week or two is just at 0.1% because it’s all used and burnt up on impact.

Like, Ive even looked at hypothetical bombs to create lasting radiation residual but it just doesnt work like that.

In short, there is no radiation in the zones or city, however, people that survived through the Helium Wars will have injuries and health effects from fission bombs

There are estimates that one in three Congolese women has been raped during these wars. Aged as young as eight and as old as 73, and up to eight months’ pregnant, traumatised physically and mentally, few women have been spared. They may also end up with a forced pregnancy or infected with HIV. According to the head of a Congolese run hospital in Goma, there have been so many cases reported that “the destruction of a woman’s vagina” is now being considered a war injury and recorded by doctors as a crime of combat. There has been a powerful response by eastern Congolese women, who have launched public protests to bring attention to the issue. In March 2003, for instance, hundreds of women stripped naked in the centre of Goma and challenged thousands of dumbfounded onlookers, mostly men. Mama Jeanne Banyere, head of the Federation of Protestant Women in Goma, recalls telling the crowd: “If you are going to rape us, rape us now, because this must stop today.” As the men stood watching, the women chanted that they would no longer accept rape in the community. They demanded health care for women suffering from fistulae, who were being abandoned by their husbands and ostracised by their communities. The women who do manage to get to a hospital, probably a small minority of those affected, must wait for an operation that will enable them to return to a more normal life in their community.
—  “Separating Sexual Rights from Reproductive Rights.” Reproductive Health Matters, vol. 12, no. 23, 2004