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Chapter Text

John never felt uncomfortable or squeamish around dead bodies at crime scenes-he’d seen hundreds of bodies both in his university years and in the army, but that didn’t mean he found the murder acceptable or morally upstanding in any way. He knew he openly showed his sympathy for the family and the victim and disgust in particularly gruesome murders, but never really cared, much to his flat mate’s annoyance.

“Feeling sorry isn’t going to bring them back from the dead or help solve the case. Really, it’s pointless.”

John would then merely roll his eyes at the remark and continue to watch his best friend rant on about the murder, giving small words of praise dutifully once in a while. And once the case was closed, they would head home together, bickering about Sherlock’s behavior towards the police.

“You really ought to be nicer to them. They’re just trying their best.”

Then it would be Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes and reply, “Well, it’s not my fault that these so-called investigators have the mental capacity of a gold fish.”

John would shake his head laughing and reply fondly, “Git.”

Those were Sherlock’s favorite days. And the days they would spend the evening running the dark London alleyways chasing criminals, out of breath and laughing, and adrenaline pumping through their veins. Seeing John’s blue eyes glow with pure happiness and hearing his slightly wheezy laugh would make something in Sherlock’s chest tighten and laugh.

But this time it was different.

Sherlock had gotten a call from Lestrade about a murder that presented itself as fairly simple but turned out to be rather enigmatic. HE scoffed at the their unbelievable stupidity or simplicity-as John might put it, but grabbed his Belstaff nonetheless and literally leapt out the flat crashing directly into a surprised an tired John.

“Come on, We’ve got a case.”

“Alright, okay. Let me just-”

“We don’t have time John!” Sherlock whined impatiently and sprinted by himself in the general direction of the murder.

John sighed. He’d had a long day in the hospital and just wanted a cuppa and some biscuits to make it all better. He supposed that would have to wait.

He took a long look after the lanky detective before he set off. And by the time he reached the crime scene, he was out of breath and quickly losing his temper.

“You’re late.” The detective stated without looking up from his phone, texting someone at an unnatural speed.

“Yeah, well, you just set off by your bloody self to god knows where before you even told me where the murder was.” John snapped, already feeling the uncomfortable sensation of anger rising.

Sherlock looked up and ceased typing for a moment.

“You’re upset. Did something happen at work?”

He looked at John indifferently, studying his friend.

“It’s fine. Long day. Just forget about it.”

John pressed his palms into his eyes and took a couple of breaths to try and calm himself while Sherlock studied him for a few minutes longer and after deciding that John was telling him the truth, did a dramatic turn and headed towards the crowd of police.

“Come on John. The body’s this way.”

John sighed tiredly and followed the detective mumbling ‘sorry’, ‘excuse me’ and other various apologetic phrases as the detective barged through the crowd, muttering words like ‘stupid’, ‘idiot’ and ‘unbelievable’.

“Will you slow down for a minute?” John hissed as he grasped the detective’s bony wrist and pulled it towards him to emphasize his point.

Sherlock let out and exasperated sigh but did as he was told, while John never let go of the hand holding the wrist.

After what felt like hours, they finally reached the actual crime scene where Lestrade was talking to Sally Donovan bout something irrelevant to the case but as soon as he spotted them, waved and moved towards them.

“There you are. Was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“We would’ve come earlier of John here wasn’t so keen on enforcing politeness to those useless officers. Half of them don’t even know what they are doing.” Sherlock replied giving a pointed look at John.

“Well, anyway, the body’s this way.”

Lestrade led them into a small room decorated only by lush carpets to where the body was laying face-up on the floor with a strangely calm expression. He hadn’t seen the bullet coming as it shot him cleanly in the forehead. And instantaneous death.

Sherlock immediately pranced around the body firing deductions before everyone was even in the room.

“James Hosea Symth. Aged thirty-seven, height 176 centimeters, high class business man with some corruption scandals, heavy drinker, divorced twice, had a lover, just came back from Manhattan after a… business meeting? No. Conference, Owns two dogs-a golen retriever and a –”

“Hey mate you alright?”

Sherlock looked up from his rant to see a concerned Lestrade crouched next to a very pale and very hyperventilating army doctor who had managed to sit on the floor with his head between his knees.

“John?” Sherlock said cautiously, as he approached and lowered himself in front the of the doctor slowly, not wanting to throw John into a panic.

“N-nothing t-t-to w-worry ab-about. The doctor stammered, his words barely coherent above his heavy breathing. “I-I’m fine.”

“Clearly you’re not. You are hyperventilating, your heart rate is much faster than normal, your hands are cold and clammy, you’re starting to sweat and you are shaking all over. If I didn’t know better, I would say you are having a panic attack. But the most probably explanation is that you’re having a PTSD episode or had a flashback which triggered something causing you to act irrationally. But you’ve never had an episode during a crime scene much more grotesque than this one. So why now?”

“Jesus, Sherlock. The poor man’s clearly not feeling well and you go off ranting about why he has a panic attack. Give him a break. And what’s this about PTSD episodes?” Lestrade replied disbelievingly still crouched next to the oblivious doctor.

“Well, I’m taking John home now.” Sherlock replied, evidently unaffected by Lestrade’s outburst.

“Wait, hold on. What about the murder?” Lestrade exclaimed, already knowing it was a losing battle.

“It was the bodyguard Lestrade.” Sherlock huffed impatiently, his attention already focusing on the small huddled figure on the floor. “It’s so obvious even Anderson could’ve solved it. Sometimes I wonder how you ever got your qualification.
He was in an apartment room with someone he obviously trusted as there is no sign of break-ins or forced entry. He’s divorced twice sp it’s not any of his ex-wives. He has no children, evidenced by the lack of pictures and his frequent visits overseas would make him an incompetent father anyway. That leaves the bodyguard. Anyone as high up in the business as him is bound to have a bodyguard. We know this also because there are two cups of tea on the table, not his best cups so someone he knows fairly well. The carpet also shows little imprints of footprints but one set is bigger than the victim’s. His accuracy and skill shows that the bodyguard has a military background and height roughly around 182 centimeters-if he were shorter than the victim, he wouldn’t be able to have such a clean shot. Now, if you can get your car and do something useful so I don’t have to waste time hailing a cab and get John to the flat as soon as possible.

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh but made his way out to clear the crowd of officers and get his car.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was frowning slightly as he scrutinized his friend carefully. He gently placed a palm on the back of the trembling shape who flinched at the sudden contact but slowly melted into the warmth of the the touch.

“John, can you try to stand so I can get you to the car and get home as soon as possible?”

The doctor nodded and tried to get up as Sherlock hooked one arm around his otrso and pulled the doctor up and supported him all the way to the car where Lestrade was waiting with one of those orange shock blankets. He helped Sherlock get John in the car and draped the blanket on him. Sherlock hopped in next to John and guided his head to his shoulder and wrapped an arm protectively around his friend’s shaking form.

Although Sherlock wore a cold expression, his mind was in a tumult of emotion and incomplete trains of thoughts.

‘What had caused this reaction from John? Obviously something in the crime scene definitely triggered something he had nearly forgotten, but what? But more importantly, how do you help someone in this state?’

Sherlock mentally went through the information he had stored about PTSD, only snapping from his thoughts when Lestrade cleared his throat to indicate that they’d arrived.

Sherlock quickly, but gently lifted John’s head off his shoulder and helped the doctor out of the car.

“You take care of him.” Lestrade said in the car as he watched Sherlock steady John as his knees nearly buckled under him.

“I will.” came Sherlock’s curt reply before both figures disappeared behind the doors of 221B.

Once both Sherlock and John made it to their falt, Sherlock seated John on his chair and quickly went to make tea. Milk and no sugar, Just how John liked it. When he gave John the cup of tea, most of it spilled out as John’s hand was now shaking as well. He quickly retrieved the cup before John manages to break it and set it next to the skull.

“S-sorry. I just…I don’t know. My hand tremor’s back.” John said looking up from his lap where he had balled his hands into fists in an attempt to stop the tremor.

Sherlock gave his friend a long look before swiftly heading out the door, leaving a small and ashamed John Watson seated on his chair.

John felt the shame bubble up inside him. His hand tremor was back and he couldn’t control it. Dammit, he was supposed to be a soldier. Now Sherlock was definitely disappointed in John’s incapability to control himself and being such an idiot to let such an ordinary murderer trigger memories. After all, he had seen much worse. But just thinking about the murder brought back memories back from the deeply hidden parts of his brain.

Smoke. So much smoke everywhere. The hot Afghan sun beating mercilessly on him and the cries of help from both Afghan and Her Majesty’s soldiers all muddled into an anthem of the fallen.

And the blood.

The once golden dunes of the Afghan desert were now stained red with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty. He looked down and saw blood on his hands. His own? No. Someone else’s. He wasn’t shot yet.

And the screaming. Screaming for fellow soldiers and those screaming in pain. He sees himself dash between soldier to soldier, trying to bandage the wounds as efficiently as possible and repeating words of encouragement and consolations to those young men who are so new to was and bloodshed.

He looks up to see a sniper take aim at his best friend and before he has enough time to shout his name, the trigger is pulled and then everything seemed to move in slow motion with everything in sharp focus and too much detail.

His head snapped back and his body followed suit. Blood running down his face and creating a red spot where it touched the collar of his shirt. His eyes open but unaware if his surroundings; unseeing. The blood still pumping from the bullet wound on his-

“John?”

John snapped from his thoughts and inhaled sharply at the sudden scare, to be met by a pair of obsidian eyes with concern etched on the corners. He scanned his friend who was holding a basin of steaming water and a towel draped across his right arm. At John’s confused look, Sherlock said, “I’m going to give you a massage.”

Chapter Text

John’s confusion deepened with a hint of suspicion.

“A massage? What for?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and but replied patiently, “It’s said that a massage can greatly relax your muscles and relieve pain. So I’ve learnt it and putting it in good use.”

He sat next to John, spread the towel across his thighs, placed the basin on it then reached over and gently picked up John’s hand from where it was tightly clenched on his lap and pried off his fingers. As the fist loosened, the tremor became more obvious but Sherlock continued to straighten the fingers until John’s palm was completely resting on Sherlock’s. Sherlock then submerged John’s shaking hand onto the warm water and began working at the knots in the hand. Once, a particularly violent jerk sent water flying out and John muttered and embarrassed, ‘sorry’.

After about an hour, John felt the tension ease from his hand and his muscles relax. When Sherlock was satisfied that John’s hand did not carry its former agitation, he dried John’s hand with the towel and smiled at his own achievement of doing something for John.

“Thank you Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up to see John was gazing at him with an earnest face full of gratitude.

“I mean it. No one’s uh… ever done this for me. I really appreciate it.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh at John’s slightly embarrassed expression but was soon joined in by John’s, what he liked to call, giggling.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, John finally said, “Well, I’m off to bed. It’s been a long day and I need some sleep. Goodnight Sherlock.”

“Goodnight John.”

John made his way to the door and turned around and said, “Thank you again for… you know… the massage.”

Sherlock met Jon’s eyes for a moment before replying, “My pleasure John.”

John nodded and headed towards his bedroom. Sherlock knew that nightmares would plague the quite night but John, his strong John, would soldier on through the battlefields of memories past.

So Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked the highest string. If John was to roam the deepest and darkest parts of his mind tonight, at least he wouldn’t have to be alone.

He was back.

He’d only been gone for a few minutes-a run to the store and back was all, but everything was different. The house was deathly quiet apart form his own harsh breathing.

“Harry?... Mum?”

Thirteen-year-old John Watson cautiously walked towards the living room. Silent sobs could be heard from that direction. He stopped short when he saw Harry crying in the doorway, her hands and the front of the favorite T-shirt covered in what looked like blood.

“Harry, what happened? Where’s mum?”

Seventeen-year-old Harriet Watson lifted her tear-stained face and with a shaking voice managed to breathe out a ‘Don’t go in there John. You don’t want to see.’

But John was already in the room, desperately looking around for something, anything, to reassure him that nothing was wrong and Harry was playing him like she always did. However, his eyes landed on the hunched figure of the forty-five-year-old Hamish Watson who had disappeared two years ago, holding a gun with and equally bloodied hand as Harry, while the other clutched a bottle of whisky, wearing a slightly confused and bewildered expression on his face.

John’s eyes then drifted to the shape on the floor and all the air in the room seemed to have vanished as he identified the source of blood.

“NO…Please…Please, not her….Not her, please…”

*****

At exactly 2:07am, Sherlock heard a breathless cry followed by harsh breathing from the room upstairs and the silent creaking of the floorboards as John dutifully got out of bed. He turned on the kettle and prepared a cup of tea just as John emerged from the doorway, rubbing his face in an attempt to chase away his tiredness.

Sherlock noticed he did not limp as he walked to the sofa so the nightmare wasn’t about the war but he seemed more disheveled than he usually did after a nightmare. Of course, it may be due to the episode earlier but the doctor seemed almost…afraid. John sat down and almost immediately was lost in his thoughts, leaving the detective to openly deduce him.

As Sherlock approached John with the cup of tea, John woke from his stupor and smiled tiredly up at Sherlock as he took the cup.

“Ta… Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Not at all. Sleeping is an inconvenience that slows the mind.”

John chuckled softly as Sherlock sat in his own chair and stayed that way until daybreak, enjoying the silent company, only disturbed by the slow, melodic phrases from Sherlock’s violin. And as the sun began to rise, John sighed contently and got ready for the day ahead, leaving behind a ‘I’m going to work now Sherlock. Don’t burn down the flat’ and a thoughtful detective gazing after him.

It had been a week and the nightmare didn’t stop. Sometimes John would cry out and would alert Sherlock that it was about his time in Afghanistan. Other times, he would let out a dry sob and wake himself with a silent scream followed by strained breathing. John had started growing increasingly bad-tempered with the lack of sleep and long hours at the hospital. He had begun to take his PTSD tablets again and when Sherlock checked the medicine cabinet, he found the bottle nearly empty and his concern for his blogger doubled as well as his fear that John would accidently overdose. This had clearly been triggered by the crime scene a week ago but Sherlock couldn’t-wouldn’t-find the reason as he did not want to deduce something so… personal. He wanted John to tell him. Of it were anyone else, he wouldn’t car but this was John. John was different and he made Sherlock want to gain his approval. Just a little bit. And so he waited. Waited for John to tell him the cause for his distress.

*****

After a few days, John stopped sleeping altogether to escape his nightmares. He would sit at the kitchen table typing away at his blog, occasionally rubbing his face to will away the tiredness and to make himself a cup of tea.

“You really should sleep. It’s making you more irritable than usual and god knows how you act during work.” Sherlock stated from the doorway.

“It’s not like you sleep for more than a few hours.” John challenged, not looking up from his computer.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and said, “My body is used to the staying awake day, even weeks, on end. Frankly, you’re not and you need to sleep if you are to assist me usefully on cases.”

To this Sherlock got no reply save for the sporadically tapping keys. Sighing exaggeratedly, Sherlock headed out to spy on the newest suspect while mentally checking off the list of do’s and don’ts to help deal with PTSD nightmares. The most effective –and obvious- method was to have someone sleep with them like a teddy bear. Sherlock snorted at the thought of John sleeping with a teddy bear but also knew John was too stubborn and ‘not-gay’ to ever share a bed with Sherlock Holmes.

After finally collecting enough data to evidence that the suspect was indeed the murderer, Sherlock headed back to Baker Street, absent-mindedly noting that it was a little over one.

The walk home was short and brisk and Sherlock arrived in less than ten minutes. Entering the flat, Sherlock was greeted not by the soft tapping of keys but a silent rhythmic breathing. Sherlock peered into the kitchen to find John fast asleep on the table with an arm tucked under his cheek. He took a few moments to study the lines that creased John’s face and the peaceful expression he was currently wearing. The detective noted that John had fallen into a deep sleep, quite unusual for the doctor given his years of army training but not surprising considering his lack of sleep in the past few days.

Glancing at the clock, Sherlock calculated that it would be a little under an hour before John woke from another nightmare. Quickly making his decision, Sherlock grabbed his phone, sent a text and after tossing the phone on the sofa, gently pushed John away from the table and placed an arm across is shoulder and slowly lifted he unconscious being from the chair and carried him bridal style into his bedroom.

Once he was inside, Sherlock placed John on the bed, trying his best not to wake the doctor, who seemed to be fast asleep, and his nightmares not yet disturbing the peaceful slumber. Quickly getting dressed into his pajamas, Sherlock slipped in next to John and shut his eyes and for the first time in a long time, allowed himself to sleep with the comfort that he would be there when John wakes from his nightmares.

*****

A few minutes later, Sherlock woke to a sound of quiet whimpering next to him. Momentarily disorientated, Sherlock jolted upright, ready to tackle his opponent only to fins John next to him, wearing a mask of such pain that it broke Sherlock’s heart. Just a little bit. It was then, when Sherlock truly realized how much brokenness the soldier was hiding behind his façade of a strong, put-together gentleman and Sherlock hoped- just a little bit, that he could piece it back together.

Sherlock lay down on his side, facing John and reached out to hold John’s hand which was clenched into tight fists at his side. He intertwined his fingers with John’s and slowly rubbed the back of John’s hand, hoping it would soothe the doctor. John’s fist gradually loosened but the pained expression did not disappear. Sherlock then moved closer to John, circled his arm around John’s back and gently pushed the shorter man towards him until the sandy blonde hair was tickling his chin. The hand on John’s back began to mimic the hand holding John’s. Slowly, the smaller man’s body began to relax in Sherlock’s embrace and even nuzzled his head against Sherlock’s neck in his sleep and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how John’s head fit perfectly against the crook of his neck. He rested his cheek atop the blonde hair and couldn’t resist thinking that this was how it ought to be and his heart swelled. Just a little.

*****

John woke first and noticed immediately that the duvet was too soft to be his. Then he registered that an arm was protectively wrapped around him while his hand was being held by another. He puller back slightly and nearly gasped aloud when he saw he was only mere inches from Sherlock’s face. John noted that in his sleep, Sherlock looked years younger and so peaceful. A look that contrasted drastically with this usual cynical expression.

Perhaps it was the sleep-induced drowsiness that prevented him from thinking coherently earlier, but the realization that he, John ‘not-gay’ Watson, was in a bed, Sherlock’s bed, with Sherlock, and was gazing up at Sherlock like a love-sick teenager, hit him like a bullet. His sudden attempt to pull away wakened Sherlock who opened one bleary eye and considered John, who was still trying to get away from the embrace with a slightly embarrassed expression, not helped by his rapidly coloring cheeks.

“What are you doing John?”

John stopped fighting against the arm that clearly wasn’t going to let go but chuckled nervously and asked, “Ho-how exactly did I get here?”

Sherlock, who was now fully awake, simply stated, “You fell asleep while I was gone and seeing that you haven’t slept because of your nightmare in over a week, I brought you to my room since having someone sleep with you is the most effective method to help nightmare and my bed is bigger than yours.”

“Christ, Sherlock. I could’ve punched you in my sleep if you tried to touch me or something. I know I didn’t” John quickly added as Sherlock opened his mouth to object, “but I could’ve.”

“I was 98.205% sure that you wouldn’t because your nightmare wasn’t about the war, meaning your guard isn’t as high as when you do. You usually look angry or frustrated, scared even. But you looked…pained. Like you didn’t know what to do and…lost.”

John regarded with silent surprise at the sudden sentiment and a little shyly at the attention.

“Wow, Sherlock. I didn’t expect…that. No, not at all. And, yes, your deduction is correct.”

Sherlock looked down at the pair of sapphire blue yes looking into his grey ones with such admiration and affection that for the first time, he thanked the universe for granting him John Watson.

After a few beats, John’s eyes suddenly widened as a realization came to him.

“Sherlock, what’s the time?” John asked cautiously.

“A little past noon I would expect.” Sherlock replied with a slightly annoyed look.

“Shit Sherlock!” John nothing but jumped out of bed, breaking the embrace without even noticing. “I had a meeting! Sarah’s going to bloody kill me this time.”

Sherlock pouted and curled in on himself at the sudden loss of heat as John scrambled out of his room to call Sarah.

John fund his phone on the small table in the living room and finding Sarah’s number, quickly dialed and waited anxiously for her to pick up.

“John.”

“Hey, Sarah” John replied awkwardly. “I’m so sorry I didn’t turn in fro the meeting. I just woke up and I’m really sorry. I know it was really important and…” John trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

“Well, you’re in luck because I cancelled the meeting this morning. For you.”

“Oh…Uh, well, thank you. I uh, didn’t expect that.”

“Don’t thank me. Sherlock made me do it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Then John, I will see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah… See you.”

*****

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up from where his head was buried in the pillow and regarded John carefully.

“Thank you for…” John vaguely waved his hands around at everything. “This. It means a lot. Especially coming from you.” John smirked. “It’s just been a while since someone has done something so… nice for me.”

John moved from the doorway and sat the edge of Sherlock’s bed.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation for…all this.” John chuckled humorlessly.

“You know you don’t have to.” Sherlock held John’s gaze as the blue eyes swan through various emotions and finally settling on determination-a look Sherlock had seem so many times when John was faced with danger.

“You’re going to find out sooner or later. Better you hear it from me.”

Chapter Text

“John, honey. Your father is gone and I don’t think he’s coming back. But, I know you are strong so you, Harry and I are going to get through this together. Okay?”

Eleven-year-old John nodded happily. With their father gone John and Harry could now live like actual children in the house without being beaten up.

And life had been hard but it was the happiest two years of John’s life.

“Mum, I’m going to out to the store to get something.”

“John, how many times do I have to tell you not to go out after dark?”

“It’s only going to take a few minutes and I’ll be fine.”

“Fine John. But this is your last chance.”

“Ta, mum.” Thirteen-year-old John Watson kissed his mother’s cheep as he headed out the room. He turned at the door to smile at his mother who was smiling right back at him. The smiling image embedded itself deep into his brain and it would be the last time he would see his mother smile.

He was back.

He’d only been gone for a few minutes-a run to the store and back was all, but everything was different. The house was deathly quiet apart form his own harsh breathing.

“Harry?... Mum?”

John cautiously walked towards the living room. Silent sobs could be heard from that direction. He stopped short when he saw Harry crying in the doorway, her hands and the front of the favorite T-shirt covered in what looked like blood.

“Harry, what happened? Where’s mum?”

Seventeen-year-old Harriet Watson lifted her tear-stained face and with a shaking voice managed to breathe out a ‘Don’t go in there John. You don’t want to see.’

But John was already in the room, desperately looking around for something, anything, to reassure him that nothing was wrong and Harry was playing him like she always did. However, his eyes landed on the hunched figure of the forty-five-year-old Hamish Watson who had disappeared two years ago, holding a gun with and equally bloodied hand as Harry, while the other clutched a bottle of whisky, wearing a slightly confused and bewildered expression on his face.

John’s eyes then drifted to the shape on the floor and all the air in the room seemed to have vanished as he identified the source of blood.

“NO…Please…Please, not her….Not her, please…”

“I didn’t mean it,” slurred his father’s drunken voice. “I just wanted to teach her a lesson. I didn’t mean to pull the trigger.”

Rage bubbled inside John like he had never felt before and the burning desire to pull a bullet in the man standing in front of him was stopped by the wailing sirens and the police rushing into the house and cuffing silver bracelets on his father.

A few days later, the funeral for Helen Watson was held. Not many people had gathered. Just John and Harriet Watson, a few relatives and friends, and the priest. And in the front lay Harriet Watson, her pale skin evened out with the make-up save for the bullet hole which had cleanly passed through her forehead.

*****

“You can’t run off like that, Bill.”

“He was dying and would’ve died if I didn’t help.”

“Well, I’m sure he appreciates your help but you put yourself and all of us in danger.”

“So I was just meant to leave him there to die?”

“You risked the lives of everyone in your unit for one man!”

“You’re the medic! You’re supposed to be helping people! Not hiding in a crevice.”

“I’m also a soldier, Bill. And we were waiting to ambush the other soldiers. That means you wait and not blow the cover of your unit. I don’t think you get it.”

“No John. I don’t think you get it.”

Thirty-two-year-old John Watson let out an exasperated sigh as he watched his best friend walk away from him.

Bill Murray was a few years younger than him but smart and quick to learn and John had taken an immediate liking to him when he was assigned to his unit, They soon became dedicated friends, often sharking a drink or two in their free time, and sharing stories of their lives.

But when Murray had broken cover during an ambush to help a fellow soldier, John had lost it. As much as Bill mattered to him, John had the rest of his unit to care for and a failed ambush like that could’ve cost their lives. John did notice the soldier laying down, blood pouring out of his side and his face contorted into an expression of severe pain but more of fear. In his years in the army, John ad seen men like him. Those terrified of dying alone and the sickening realization that they might never see their families again, or share a drink with a mate. John longed to help the fallen soldier, but when face with the decision of choosing one man’s life over a whole unit, John knew where he stood.

As he hid between cracks in the wall, facing the direction the heavily armed but clueless other side was supposed to come, he tightened his grip on his weapon. After a while, voices talking in Pashto could be heard coming towards the direction where a unit of 80 soldiers were hiding and waiting. But as the opposite troop began to come to sight, John realized with horror that there were more soldiers than they had anticipated. He gave the ‘stay-where-you-are’ signal and hoped the other side would pass without noticing them.

But suddenly, a figure leapt out from one of the crevices in the wall and dashed towards the wounded soldier, his boots crunched loudly against the sand. Then, in a matter of seconds, orders in both Pashto and English were being yelled as both sides op fired at each other. Of not for their hiding places, Her Majesty’s army would have been reduced to ashes but due to the fact that this Afghan troop had no idea where the British soldiers were situated, they quickly retreated.

They had saved the wounded soldier, Joseph Waller, aged thirty-six, but not without brushing so close with death.

After returning to camp, the soldiers barely had time to relax before the camp was thrown in chaos. They Afghans, it seemed, had their own abut planned.

Soon, all the soldiers were caught in a fierce battle-those who lost their weapons fighting with fists wile snipers were taking down soldiers at an alarming rate.

Smoke. So much smoke everywhere. The hot Afghan sun beating mercilessly on him and the cries of help from both Afghan and Her Majesty’s soldiers all muddled into an anthem of the fallen.

And the blood.

The once golden dunes of the Afghan desert were now stained red with the blood of both the innocent and the guilty. He looked down and saw blood on his hands. His own? No. Someone else’s. He wasn’t shot yet.

And the screaming. Screaming for fellow soldiers and those screaming in pain. He sees himself dash between soldier to soldier, trying to bandage the wounds as efficiently as possible and repeating words of encouragement and consolations to those young men who are so new to was and bloodshed.

He looks up to see a sniper take aim at his best friend and before he has enough time to shout his name, the trigger is pulled and then everything seemed to move in slow motion with everything in sharp focus and too much detail.

His head snapped back and his body followed suit. Blood running down his face and creating a red spot where it touched the collar of his shirt. His eyes open but unaware if his surroundings; unseeing. The blood still pumping from the bullet wound on his forehead.

John clutched the body of his friend, begging him not be dead, ignoring his rational side of telling him to help others who could be saved.

After a long fight, rough hands grabbed John and pulled him away from the body.

“Captain, we’re retreating! There’s too many of them!”

Soon John was running with the remaining men of his unit and turned to see bill’s body on the sand, his eyes unaffected by the sun’s glare as he looked directly into it. It would be the last time he would see his best friend.

“I…uh, never got to say sorry to Bill or tell mum I loved her for everything she did.”

Sherlock studied his friend as he recited the story in a detached way and in a tone that sounded more produced than organic, and never once looked up from where he was staring at his own hands fidgeting with his thumbs.

“So…there you have it.” John looked up and smiled sadly. “I suppose I should be happy or at least grateful they got a quick death. No pain. But the truth is, I’m not. There was no opportunity to make amendments or time to reconcile. They never found Bill’s body you know. Maybe if I didn’t say those things to Bill we could’ve fought alongside each other and I could’ve saved him. And if I didn’t insist on going to the store after dark, I could’ve stopped dad from entering the house and kill mum. Really, in the end, it’s my fault.”

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t want that to happen to you. I don’t think I could ever live with that.”

Sherlock brought the older man in an embrace as John quietly shed his tears, sobs racking his form and dampening the top of Sherlock’s shirt.

“Idiot.”

John looked up at Sherlock in utter surprise.
‘”Surely, even you aren’t daft enough to think you cause the death of your mother and best friend.”

To this John said nothing but simply bent his head and played with the end of his shirt. Sherlock tucked his index finger under John’s chin and lifted it up so that the stormy, ocean bleu eyes met with the calm, ash grey ones.

“John, what happened couldn’t be stopped by anyone, so stop blaming yourself. You were thirteen when your father came into the house in liquid courage and killed your mother. Do you really think you could’ve stopped him? And then your best friend in the army was shot by a sniper during an ambush. And you think you could’ve saved him if he were with you? How could you guarantee that you wouldn’t die if it were you in that position? If you died that day, I wouldn’t have made it this far. You are the bravest, kindest, and wisest human being I had ever the good fortune of knowing. So I’m glad you didn’t die because John Watson, you keep me right,”

John was taken aback by the sudden emotional outburst from Sherlock and the overwhelming pleasure of feeling loved-platoniacally or romantically-whatever they were.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and teased with a ghost of a smile on his lips, “Your pulse is a little faster than usual.”

Dread filled John as he looked into the watchful and slightly amused eyes, desperately trying to think of a reason to explain his increased heart rate or to simply deny it when a pair of lips silenced his blabbering lips.

After a moment of stunned paralysis, John melted into the kiss and couldn’t help but notice how perfectly his top lip fitted to Sherlock’s philtrum. He felt Sherlock smile against the kiss as his hand tangled itself in the dark curls and couldn’t help but feel complete. Just a little bit.