Chapter Text
Violence and adrenaline. Loud noises and overtaxed muscles. Cries for mercy followed by an explosion that leaves John limp and aching. He bites his lip until it bleeds and wills himself not to let the tears come.
"Fucking hell, Sherlock," he gasps, rolling sideways and flinging one arm over his eyes. "What was that?"
Sherlock has to inhale and exhale twice before he can say, "I thought this was your area of expertise."
"Congratulations," John says. "For once, you're as clueless as I am."
Sherlock turns his head just far enough to take in the way John's hair is standing up in sweaty spikes. John peers back from beneath his arm before sitting up and rubbing his face with both hands.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. You?"
John shakes his head. "Two hours ago, I thought you were dead, you bastard. I don't actually know how I am."
They smile cautiously at each other and look over the damage. The upended coffee table, the shattered mug. The ragged hoodie Sherlock would never have worn again even if John hadn't destroyed the zipper ripping it off him. The bite mark on Sherlock's collarbone. The bruises fingerprinted on John's hips.
It's just like war, and he would know, John thinks, as they give in to the raucous laughter of soldiers home from battle.