It started with a call in the middle of the night. Sherlock snapped awake, but made no attempt to answer. He untangled himself from the bunched sheets. 'John.' He whispered, rolling over to face him. Their faces were so close that they were almost touching noses. Sherlock could feel John's sweet breath with each rise and fall of his chest. 'John,' He said again, 'Phone.' John's breathing hitched as he slowly swam towards consciousness. He didn't bother to open his eyes. 'Why don't you get it?' He muttered, but of course he already knew. The Great Sherlock Holmes only texted.
John forced his heavy lids open, rolled to face the bedside table and clicked on the little lamp Mrs. Hudson had bought them. He sighed, and lifted the phone to his ear, turning back to Sherlock as he answered. Sherlock was watching him with a glint of curiosity in his pale blue eyes. He couldn't help but think how beautiful he looked with his dark hair made unruly by sleep. It stuck out in all directions, bouncing slightly as Sherlock cocked his head to the side, waiting for John to say something.
'Hello?' John croaked. The reply was almost instant. 'John,' A deep voice grunted, 'Listen, uhh…I'm sorry to wake you, but this couldn't wait.' It said.
'Hold on, who is this?' John's tone was almost accusing.
'Oh, sorry, it's Sergeant Newton.' The man said awkwardly. At that, John bolted upright. Jack Newton, his Commanding Officer in the army, calling after all these years after his discharge. It couldn't be good news.
'Yeah, so… what's the problem?' His voice cracked on the last word. He hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed.
After that, all the words seemed to meld together, just one long garbled sentence in Netwon's booming voice. Army. Limp. Deployment. Immediately. Terrorism. Afghanistan. Doctors needed. Desperate. The few words came through painfully clear compared to the rest. Words he thought he'd never hear again. They echoed, reverberated through his skull, like a bullet ricocheting. Thw thought made him shudder. He could feel a headache coming on, or maybe that was just fatigue. He didn't remember how the conversation ended. He just remembered finding himself, phone in hand, brought out of his worried thoughts by the monotonous beeping that meant that someone had hung up.
He turned back to Sherlock, phone still in hand, its metronomic beat the only audible sound in the flat. Sherlock was sitting upright against the headboard. His lean body was rigid, his jaw clenched so tight John could see the taught muscles in his neck. 'Well?' Sherlock said, his voice uncharacteristically strained.
'I'm going back to Afghanistan.' John said. Sherlock's steely eyes met his own and their coldness seemed to melt. 'They can't do that.' He protested. His brow knitted with anger. 'You were discharged.'
'Yes, well… they need me again, it would seem.' John tried to sound calm.
'How long do we have, then?' Sherlock's eyes burned into his own. In the dim lamplight, John thought he saw tears well in Sherlock's eyes, but he couldn't be sure.
'They want me to leave tomorrow.' After a moment's pause Sherlock's whole body went limp, slumping forward in defeat. His bony shoulders crumpled as he placed his head in his hands. He looked so helpless, John thought; just a mess of bones and black curls. Finally, a situation even the all-powerful Sherlock Holmes couldn't fix. Sherlock rolled his head back up to look at John, trying his best to be strong. 'What do we tell Hamish?' Sherlock's voice was all watery. John hadn't thought of that. It broke his heart, and it seemed to have broken Sherlock's too.
Hamish's face rose up to the surface of John's mind. Their beautiful son. God, he looked so much like Sherlock. Those same intelligent blue eyes, the same bouncy, dark hair. But, inside, he was like John. He felt things; he cared about people, he loved his dads… He was so young, so fragile. And John knew this would break him. His tears blurred the images running through his mind, burning away at the edges.
'Come here.' Sherlock voice was calm, comforting. His usual emotionless mask had returned to his face. John crawled into his outstretched arms, burying his face into Sherlock's warm chest. Then he allowed the tears to fall. Sherlock kissed him gently on his damp forehead, smoothing his sandy-blonde hair. 'We may not have long left,' he interlaced John's tiny hand with his own, 'But we have now.'
AN: Hope you liked. Note: The crossover is coming! But not for a few more chapters. Bear with me, please. Review review review.