hands.

His nervous system takes a while to grow accustomed to the air strikes that befall them without any predictability or pattern. During a particularly bad hit, everybody seeks shelter in the hospital’s basement, doing cholera shots for two and a half hours straight. Trying not to let his hands jerk every time a new missile launches, lands, John still manages to puncture more than one vein at the wrong angle, making a little boy or girl cry out. He apologises in makeshift Arabic, one of the few words he’s learned at this point, and repeats the motion, keeping steady, steady.

choices.

From his window, he’s got a perfect view of the well. Of the girl trodding steadfastly back and forth between her house and the middle of the square to gather yet another tub of water, drag it with her back, return, repeat. Why so much, he thinks. Does she have a whole hoard of siblings that need bathing, need drinking (although, local sources are contaminated, but what choice do they have, not everyone can afford to buy the stuff bottled). He shrugs into his t-shirt and turns away, letting her live for as long as these conditions will allow it.

there.

The first night, he sleeps like a baby. Undisturbed and peaceful, without paying attention to the emptiness on his right where Sherlock can usually be found. Then, the first air strike explodes around him, burying the city in dust and rubble, there is much screaming and even more silence which is -- even more horrible. Afterwards, John sleeps sporadically, waking up bathed in sweat, with a racing heart, temples that pound. Of course, he never tells Sherlock, not because he wants to paint his stay perfect, but because... This mission was to experience something new, not more of the same. Old.