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Sharpe's Sergeant	By : Sable899 Category: S through Z > The Sharpe Books Views: 1683 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sharp series of books that this fanfiction is written for, nor do I know Sean Bean. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. This story is fiction.

Chapter List
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Epilogue

Grafenwoehr, Germany, 2007

In an instant they were gone. All that remained was the head and body of the very dead Ducos and some wondrous memories. Long minutes passed and evening shadows isolated the clearing before anyone could find anything to say or a reason to move.

“Cammie, range downtime is almost over,” Orry spoke up, alarmed at what his watch showed, “we haven’t got time to bury this thing here and make it back to the main road before nightfire batteries start warming their tubes.”

“Okay, but we have to get him out of sight,” Camden suggested as Sean helped her to her feet and steadied her on her uninjured leg, “we can come back and clean the area tomorrow. Just stash him in towards the back of the cave for now. Pile some of those rifle crates on him.”

“Cammie, I’ve got a confession to make,” Orry continued a bit hesitantly, looking to Sean for an ally while Smitty and Rich began to move Ducos’ body

“Can’t it wait, Chris?” Cammie started, and then stopped when she recognized a look of pain in her old friend’s face, “What is it?”

“There’s been an accident in Kabul,” Orry began while drawing a packet of papers out of a cargo pocket, “Your boy Crawford’s been injured and is being evacuated to Landstuhl. He’s going to be okay, just a couple chunks of frag in his ass, but there were three others that weren’t so lucky. Captain Cole didn’t make it. The real reason why I was hanging around the unit today was so that I could give you these orders personally.”

“What’s this?” Camden asked while quickly going through the papers, “deployment orders? Promotion orders? Assumption of Command! I don’t understand.”

“Ya’ mean she’s got ta go someplace?” Sean asked, trying to understand what all the military jargon meant while at the same time fighting back the thought that she was being taken from him, “No! Can’t ya see she’s wounded? She can’t just up an’ leave now!”

“She can and she will, Sean,” Orry sternly answered him, “she’s a soldier. She does her duty, always has and always will. And she’s not wounded. She just got cut on something. There was no pistol shot, no sword fight, no Ducos, no Sharpe. None of this ever happened, understand?”

By the time the crew arrived back at the EOD unit, Camden was barely limping on her wounded leg. If not for the bloody rip in her trousers, it was doubtful anyone would have even noticed. Notice had come that the military transport that would fly her to Afghanistan was standing by at the Post Airfield, ready to depart when she was. Orry had had Hildi pack Camden’s toiletries into her standby kit that was kept ready to go on short notice and it had already been sent to the airfield. The Post Commander of Grafenwoehr Training Area was waiting to perform the read the promotion orders for her new rank of Warrant Officer Second Class and welcome her into the world of the commissioned officer. All that was left was for her to change into her flight suit and collect a few things from her gear locker.

“Are ya’ hidin’ from me, lass?” Sean asked as he closed the door to the supply section where the gear lockers were located. He found Camden sitting on a broad stack of tents and camouflage nets fiddling with her watch, almost absentmindedly. She had showered and changed into the gray-green flight suit that he had appreciated so because of the way it accentuated every curve of her body and he couldn’t help but flash his illuminating smile.

“We’ve had quite a time of it,” She asked, her piercing blue eyes starting to moisten, “Not exactly what you bargained for, am I?”

“I’ll admit, ya’ sure weren’t anythin’ that I could imagine,” Sean started hesitantly as he sat down alongside her, “an’ neither were Sharpe. I keep expectin’ ta wake up an’ find it were all a dream. Tis one thing ta meet someone you play who’s still alive, but ta meet someone who’s been long dead, hell, someone who’s supposed ta be fictional, that’s a bit hard ta get yer mind round. And I sure as hell can’t go tellin’ Meg Ryan it weren’t me what shagged her, but the real Richard Sharpe.”

“So that’s what that last line Sharpe said to you was all about?” Camden wondered aloud as she turned to face Sean.

“Aye. Smitty said it were all to leave me in a spot o’ shite jest fer goin’ off with ya’ yesterday,” Sean explained, nearly laughing out loud, “He reall-eh is a right smart prat he is. I don’t know whether ta love ‘im or hate ‘im.”

“I’m sorry for having to go off like this with things so unfinished between us,” Camden stuttered, choking back unwelcome and uncharacteristic tears.

“Ah well, no worries lass,” Sean reassured, pulling her into his comforting arms, her face snuggling in against his throat, her arms circling his waist, “if it weren’t you goin’ off an’ leavin’ me, it would be me goin’ off in a few weeks an’ leavin’ you. Guess it comes with the territory.”

“You’ll be back here in no time. Ya’ got me number, and me email, an’ ya know where me house is,” he tried to sound cheerful. It was all he could do to get the words out without her hearing the sadness in his voice, “I know I’m a sorry substitute fer Richard Sharpe…”
Camden had no words for him that would change the way things were between them. It was clear to her that Sean finally understood that their two worlds were miles apart. But he was here, now. His purely masculine presence filled her with warmth and his arms around her felt safe and familiar.

“Can you forgive me for being so drawn to Sharpe?” she ventured, hopefully.

“I can’t pretend it din’t hurt at the time,” he admitted, reassuringly, “and I’ll never understand your world no matter how hard I try. Yet I think I can understand yer attraction to ‘im. God knows I’ve played enough soldiers in me life I must have picked up somethin’ o’ their spirit. I think there’s more between me an’ Sharpe than just the fact that we look alike and that I just ‘appened to have played him in all those films. And that riddle the old woman gave me. He’s got somethin’ ta do with it, I’m sure. Aye, I can forgive ya.”

“You will take care, Sean?” Camden whispered as she softly kissed his warm skin exposed by the open buttons of the green Rifles’ uniform jacket he still wore. The open jacket was held together at the bottom by the red officer’s sash and the lacing of the linen shirt beneath was completely undone. Her moist, warm kisses worked their way down as low as his embrace would allow.

“Me? Me take care?” he answered with a hint of a chuckle as her soft kisses warmed his loins. He held her to him, softly moaning at the play of her lips against his skin. “Yer the one what’s goin’ off ta war. Aye, I’ll take care…of you.”

Camden heard his last phrase delivered in that melted chocolate voice that vibrated all the way down to her toes. She lifted her head and Sean’s mouth closed over hers. A soft moan of satisfaction escaped from deep in her throat as all sense of time and place was lost.

Sean held her to him, his lips sealed to hers in a searing kiss. She was warm and vibrant, every inch of her surrendering to his urgent need to hold her, taste her, just one more time. He could hardly think; all was sensation, heat and want. Yes, he had forgiven her, and now he wanted only to reclaim her. Releasing her from his tight embrace, she pulled her arms from behind his back, searching for the buttons to the flap of his green trousers. He wasted no time in pulling down the long zipper of her flight suit. The zipper went beyond the mound of her crotch, continuing several inches down the front of her thigh. Once opened, the scent of her arousal beckoned from beneath shear lace and the soft roundness of her bra-less breasts taunted under a snug black tank top.

Her hands moved quickly, deftly, to free his burgeoning cock from its prison beneath the flap of the cavalry overalls that hung loose over his narrow hips. Camden’s hunger for him grew deep in her gut as she feasted on the sight. Had she been wrong for wanting the battle-hardened Sharpe so badly when here all the time was Sean, gentle and loving in all his perfect masculinity? Placing her hands against his shoulders she pushed him down onto the mounded bed of canvas, pressing her whole length against him, her arms moving to wrap tightly around his neck, her hungry lips seeking to plunder his mouth, his hardening cock held captive against her.

Sean couldn’t resist the demands her body was making on him. Holding her tightly in his embrace he pulled her over and under him, bending her back with the slight mound of the canvas stack. Unzipped, her flight suit gave him ample room for a hand to grasp and pull on her lacy thong until it released its hold with a soft popping of the threads that held it together while his other hand tugged and pushed her tank top to expose her firm, round breasts. In an instant, his mouth moved to cover first one, then the other, teasingly nipping at her painfully erect nipples.

He felt her shift under him, just enough for his cock to find the access to her beckoning pussy. With expert ease and a thrust of his hips it found its own way into the safe harbor of her hot, wet cunt. The confining presence of her flight suit made the fit exquisitely tight as he paused, contemplating the possibility that this may be the last time he would possess her. As he began to stroke into her, he burned every sensation, every muscle contraction, the feel of her skin beneath his hands, her scent, into his memory.

The thought that this might be the last time she would ever touch him, hold him, seemed so unreal until every stroke into her demanding cunt made her push the present further out of mind until she was in a whirl of time and space that had no footing in reality. Her hands cupped his face, drawing him eye to eye with her, her fingers smoothing across his cheeks as if to make a memory of his finely-chiseled features. His heat, his hard-bodied strength, the forceful thrusting she arched to meet, his scent saturating her senses brought thoughts of gunpowder, horse sweat and leather.

With each stroke, the head of his cock rubbed along the roof of her tunnel, each swipe bringing forth a shuddering, sensual blow. The bend of her body set her hips at an exquisite angle. His eyes locked in the sapphire of her mesmerizing eyes, he read desire in her features, a tightening of her jaw indicated control. He wanted her to lose that control, to give herself over to her body’s wants as it began broadcasting her imminent orgasm, her tunnel tightening around his shaft as it pounded into her. His hands cupping her ass tightly drew her hard against his every thrust

Camden felt herself melting into the green fire of Sean’s vivid eyes as her orgasm drove all logical thought from her mind. Swirling in a miasma of images she felt Sean’s balls tighten and his cock pulse as he powered into her. She plunged into orgasm as he plunged inside her convulsing cunt. He groaned deeply and stiffened, his firm buttocks flexing in rapid bursts as he spent himself inside her.

As she felt his hot gush fill her with a molten blast, the images swirling before her eyes cleared away to reveal just one face; ringed in fire and smoke she recognized Sean…no, not Sean…Sharpe. But not the Sharpe she knew, not the arrogant, sure of himself Sharpe who had ploughed her like a warrior claiming his victory. The Sharpe before her now was much younger, his face still soft and unlined with no trace of the weariness of war. His shaggy blonde hair free of grey at the temples gave way to long wide sideburns that extended well below his earlobes and angled onto his jaw line. Just a few seconds was all she had to drink in the image before he was gone and Sean was there once again.

His orgasm subsiding, Sean could again focus on Camden’s eyes. He knew in an instant that she was someplace else; seeing someone else’s face and he knew it was Sharpe. It would never be the same between them now, not with the specter of Sharpe hanging over them. A chunk of lead landed in his stomach at the thought that she had unconsciously made a choice and it wasn’t him. It hurt, hurt like hell and he should have been instantly angry, but angry at whom; Sharpe, for being a hero of legend, Camden, for being a soldier who loved soldiers?

“He’s always goin’ ta be with us now, isn’t he?” Sean asked softly as he rolled off of her and began hitching up his trouser flap.

“I think he’s always been with us, Sean,” Camden, knowing exactly what he was talking about, gently suggested, “at least the idea of him has.”

“If not fer Sharpe, I’d still be hackin’ away at two-bit character parts,” Sean declared, sliding off the pile of canvas. Standing, he took her hands and helped her to her feet. He studied her as he straightened her tank top and zipped her flight suit for her. “God knows I’ve tried ta break away from ‘im, but I just keep gettin’ sucked back inta his world. I think I’ll never be free of ‘im, never see the last of ‘im. And bugger me if I know why, but I real-leh like the man.”

“I’ve always believed in fate,” Camden confessed as Sean gently smoothed a hand along her cheek, “and for whatever reason, I think fate has somehow inextricably linked us together. We haven’t seen the last of Richard Sharpe.”

“Well, there’s more important things ta worr-eh abaht fer now, love,” Sean brightened, trying to give her his best real smile, “best get you cleaned up. Yer mates are waitin’ ta say goodbye.”

“Damn, you’d never know I was only gonna’ be gone for just three months the way they’ve been acting,” Camden sarcastically griped.

“Aye, but they’re not just sayin’ goodbye to you fer this trip,” Sean explained taking her hand to lead her out of the supply room, “They’re sayin’ goodbye to their Sergeant. ‘Tis Sergeant Cantrell who’s never coomin’ back. Yer an officer now, lass, not one o’ them anymore. And, yer goin’ ta have ta explain ta me why you’re ta be addressed as “Mister Cantrell’ fer that I real-leh don’t understand. How’s that leg feelin’… “

Steinmetz, Bavaria, 1822

“To Rabelaise the youth must ride to slip away from evil eyes. In volumes vast from masters old, tales of blood so brave will hold. To listen well, to blunt the quill, the father to the son did will. The legacy so hard achieved, awaits the day to be received,” Jamie read back for the third time.

Sharpe’s band of rescuers had settled on staying in Steinmetz for the night after Jamie, Calvet, Fredrickson and Harper had jubilantly returned with Sharpe. The sun had long set and what little light remained was not enough for them to bury bodies, clear the area and get back to Harry’s place without the possibility of becoming completely lost in the moonless night. They had moved up into the center of the abandoned town and settled around a campfire on the small plaza around an ancient well. Luckily, Harry, who had stood picquet some ways away from the caves during the excursion to retrieve Sharpe had managed to snare a half-grown pig that had obviously wandered too far from a neighboring farm and the succulent aroma of roasting pork and freshly dug wild yams now filled the air. For Sharpe, the scene and the sounds brought back bittersweet memories of cold nights in the Peninsula and old friends long gone. The talk gradually turned from the death of Ducos to the envelope that Jamie had been given by Zara Preis before making the return passage through the time portal.

“How should I know what it means, Jamie,” Sharpe answered his son’s questioning green glare, “Its just Gypsy gibberish if’n ya ask me, just like the one she done give to Sean.”

“You mean that fella what killed Ducos?” Harper joined in the livening conversation, “He got something just like that?”

“Aye, and I doubt he’ll ever figure what his means either.” Sharpe added in hopes of ending the conversation. It had been a very strange few days without much sleep and he had yet to process all that his brain had collected. On top of that were fleeting memories that hung at the far corners of his mind’s eye, stubbornly refusing to come into focus. All he really wanted to do now was sit at the fire and enjoy the camaraderie and a good stout mug of brandy. The four who had been to the future in search of him had all agreed that what they had seen on the other side would never be discussed outside their small circle. Sharpe stretched his long legs towards the fire and ran a hand through his hair, smiling to himself when he felt the stitches he had forgotten to have removed from the back of his head.

“What?” Sharpe asked as it suddenly occurred to him that the circle of friends had gone very quiet, all eyes focused in his direction.

“Will you be tellin’ us, oh mighty Baron Sharpe,” Harper asked a bit peevishly, “or are you plannin’ on makin’ us guess?”

“Hmmm…let’s see if’n I can remember it,” Sharpe paused, closing his eyes and appearing deep in thought, “The one who told of well-done deeds, in the Northern Dales found Rabelaise, His studies took him far away to Sinbad’s Tales of the Seven Seas. A bloodline found thought once erased, gone round the world in eighty days. Old friends endured through war and peace, to see true paradise regained. Sharper thoughts but did prevail; to thwart the aims of the tavern knight. The unknown son did find his way, to deliver justice at the poison tree. The mirror image unbidden came, with pride and prejudice did save the day.”

“It still don’t make no sense, Da,” Jamie complained, “I think mine has something to do with the telling of all of the stories about you and that I’m to take them all down, but the rest doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out and so will Sean,” Sharpe assured, “but fer now, I think that pig is well roasted and I’m right ‘ungry, I am.”

“Wonder if we’ll ever see that lot on the other side again?” Harper quietly asked Sharpe once everyone’s attention turned to the food.

“What was it Harris used to say?” Sharpe murmured in response, “Ever thing’s for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Aye, I think we ‘aven’t seen the last of one or two o’ them. Time will tell, Pat, time will tell.”

“I reckon so, I do, especially that little lass in them men’s trousers, the little Sergeant,” Harper whispered conspiratorially with a lecherous grin, “Would she be your very own little Sergeant, now?”

“Aye, Pat,” Sharpe admitted with a low chuckle as a hand felt inside his jacket for the remnants of Camden’s lacy thong he had deftly hidden there, “that’s what she be; Sharpe’s Sergeant.”
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Sharpe's Sergeant