For once in his life, John was happy.
This was a strange thing to be, considering he was fighting a war. But he was with his mates, doing what he could to help out his country, and he liked that. He led a good life, nothing at all close to how he had left things in London; destroyed and disheveled with a broken family. No, John was happy. Happy with his friends, happy with his job, and happy with himself.
Then he got shot.
One bullet to his shoulder destroyed his promising military career and forced him back to London like a dog with its tail between its legs; defeated.
His happiness was gone. What did he have left? Only an alcoholic sister with no interest in helping him out. No other known relatives; no parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, no one there to help him. So he went off on his own.
It was just by chance that he happened to meet Mike on that dreary day, another in a long line of dreary days that John had become accustomed to as of late. Actually, it was by chance that Jerry recognized him, an old friend from many years past, requesting nothing more than a chat and a cup of tea. So John obliged. What difference would it make to take twenty short minutes away from his lackluster existence.
When Mike mentioned Sherlock things changed.
When John met Sherlock he was shocked, annoyed, and put off by this man who knew everything about him and would tell nothing of himself. To think he might be flat mates with this man! But John needed London There was nowhere else to go and he simply could not afford it on his own. So despite his protesting, when Sherlock gave him the address to meet he had already made up his mind to go.
Even though John had told Sherlock he was still unsure about sharing the flat, Sherlock was there at 221b Baker street promptly at seven waiting for John, as if he'd known all along the ex-military man would show up. John entered the quaint (for that was the only word to describe it, really) flat and thought it would do, but should at least be tidied up a bit.
But there was no time for tidying. Somehow his flat mate managed to get him involved in a murder- no not committing one. John knew a murderer, and this man was not one. Sherlock was not committing the crimes, he was solving them. Solving them, and doing a damn good job of it. And more, Sherlock had asked for his help. John Watson, ex-army doctor was now helping to solve crimes, and soon found himself enjoying Sherlock's company, amazed at how this "consulting detective" could find the smallest, most insignificant little detail and use it to solve the case, and voiced this opinion, earning him a small smile from the mysterious but intriguing Sherlock Holmes. Even knowing him for such a short time, he could tell these smiles were rare, and John felt a sense of pride each time he received one.
Not twelve hours after he had met Sherlock Holmes, John had killed a man to save his life. He wasn't quite sure why he did it- he barely knew this man. Maybe it was the fact that John felt included again, back in the action he so terrible missed since the end of his army days. Or maybe it was the way those smiles seemed to make him forget just how miserable his life had been.
John Watson was NOT gay. He had a long string of ex-girlfriends, even a couple serious ones, and had never had any real interest in men. No, he was straight. But something about Sherlock was different. Somehow this intolerable, insufferable man had managed to find a place in John's heart, as John had been able to break Sherlock's titanium outer shell and become (John hoped) a friend. It looked to John like he had been the only one able to do this- or maybe, John wondered, he had been the only one to try.