"You're going back?" He asks. His face does not register any emotion, and he doesn't look at me.
"Yes." I don't have to say anything else. I can barely choke it out, however. I walk over to put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off and goes to sit on the couch, still not looking at me.
"I can understand why you're mad..." I begin.
He laughs. Softly, but loud enough so that I can hear it. It's amused laughter, not sarcastic or bitter.
"I'm not mad at you John. I'm...surprised. I didn't know you missed the war this much."
"I don't miss it. I need it. You should have realised that I wouldn't be around here forever. I need to be there, to save those people out there; my friends. It's one of the only places where I feel completely comfortable..." I trail off. Sherlock's face has taken on an expression of pain. More pain than I've ever seen him in. There's a long silence.
"So going off to get blown up is better than a life with me?" His voice is quiet, controlled, unhurt, but his face says differently.
"You know that's not true. You know that I don't *want* to want to go. I just do. But I'm not going to get blown up, I promise. I'll just go for a year or two and I'll be back in no time." At this, he gets up from the couch, spins around, and meets my eyes for the first time. I see why he didn't let me see them. They're filled with tears.
"You won't, John. You won't. Last time you went, you came back with a bullet, and no amount of care you take will be a shield out there. You...will...be...in...danger. And that's not something I can take." His voice isn't so controlled now. It shakes and stammers through, until he's delivered his point.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"I am too, John." He storms out the door.
Three weeks later
Mrs Hudson pats my hand sympathetically.
"Don't worry dear, he can't stay mad forever. And he won't. He'll be back in no time."
But he won't. I can tell. I've known him long enough to tell when he's gone. I haven't seen Sherlock in three weeks. I was such an imbecile to think he'd take it well. I just didn't think I meant that much to him recently. I would never have thought of going, until recently. He'd be acting distant, aloof. He seemed to be investing himself in his cases more than our friendship, so I'd assumed that we'd grown apart. That he no longer needed me around. I'd thought that if I went back to Afghanistan, even for a short while, I'd get it all out of my system and wouldn't feel these urges to go back. But it never really is that easy, is it?
I smile appreciatively at Mrs Hudson.
"I hope so." She nods and backs out of the room, leaving me alone with a steaming mug of tea and all of Sherlock's things. I'm leaving in a week, he knows that. He read the letter. Maybe he will come back. But I look at the stacks of cases, guns and various weapons and remember the Sherlock I knew. Him coming back isn't likely.
Six days later
My bag is very light, I've got less stuff than I'd thought. Now that I think back though, much of the stuff around our flat is Sherlock's. Sherlock...No, I made myself promise to not think of him. I'm leaving tomorrow, and I don't want it to be any harder than it will. The thing is, in a flat with skulls, violins and posters of the Table of Elements on the walls, it's rather hard to do that. I pack in some clothes, my uniform, some family photos and other necessities. I find a picture of Sherlock and I; the one from the papers, with his hat. The one that he'd hated. I fold it neatly and put it into the pocket of my suitcase. I zip it up and take a few deep breaths. Mrs Hudson raps gently on the door.
"John, darling, are you ready?" Her voice is shaky; she's been crying. I smile a little. At least I know that she'll miss me.
"Yes, Mrs Hudson. I'll be out in a minute."
Out in the sitting room, it's a small gathering. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, Anderson and Donovan. All making cheerful conversation as I awkwardly walk around, shaking hands and saying goodbyes. Anderson's the only one who mentions Sherlock.
"Where's our wonderfully psychotic genius, then? Still AWOL?" he says with a smirk. Lestrade glares at him. Clearly Anderson and Donovan are under strict orders. Sarah gives me a hug, grasps my hand and tells me to be careful. Mrs Hudson is the same. Molly begins to cry as I comfort her.
"I'll be fine, Molly."
She wipes her eyes. "I know, John."
Lestrade is a bit better. At least he doesn't make me want to run screaming from the flat. He claps me on the shoulder and tells me that I'll be missed. I give a small nod and he walks over to Molly. The rest of the evening goes on like this until after midnight when Mrs Hudson orders them all out.
"Go on, go on. John needs to sleep; he's got an early morning tomorrow. Yes, thank you Greg...ok! Bye!" She shuts the door, and makes her way over to Sherlock's bedroom. She opens the door, and whispers.
"Come on out, they're all gone..." She wrinkles her nose, and walks inside. When she comes out again, she's holding a whisky bottle. And Sherlock's behind her.
I nearly drop my glass.
"He was staying in that God-awful hotel down the street." Mrs Hudson informs me with an eye-roll. Sherlock grins.
"She figured it out herself, you know. Maybe she should be the consulting detective."
Sherlock looks the same as when he'd left me. He's wearing a suit without a jacket; his face was pale and tired. But he's still Sherlock. He rubs his eyes and leans against the wall.
"Whisky, Sherlock? Really?" I question him quietly.
He looks up at me. His eyes are red.
"Well...I'll just be off then." Mrs Hudson smiles. She walks towards the door, and takes my arm. "Try not to kill him, John." I chuckle. Once the door is closed, Sherlock and I just look at each other. Having not seen one another for nearly four weeks, it was odd. But I was suddenly angry.
"I signed up to go back because we grew apart. And you know it. You left because you were bitter." I tell him, eyes welling up.
"What do you mean 'grew apart'?" He mumbles.
"You wouldn't invite me on cases, wouldn't talk to me. You avoided me, you shut me out..."
"Because I love you!" He yelled. "I love you. I love you." He says the last one in a whisper; barely choking it out. The silence is even more shocked than the time when I told him I was leaving. My face must have shown it, as he goes on to explain. "John, surely you'd guessed? I wasn't used to the idea of love...so I ran away from it. And..." He laughed. "Look at what good that did." I was appalled. After two years of loving him, after finally accepting he wouldn't ever love anyone, he tells me this the night before I leave? This is just bloody ridiculous. This is just- typically Sherlock.
"It's just...How the hell am I supposed to respond to that, Sherlock?"
He laughed a little, sad laughter. Not amused laughter.
"I know, John. And I'm going to let you go. I just wanted you to know."
And he leaves. He just walks away. I feel strange. I don't know how to deal with this. So I just lie down on my bed and sob my heart out all night.
The day after
I check in to flight J14839 and walk through security. Nothing beeps, and I'm good to go. I half expect Sherlock to come running to tell me he loves me, to beg me to stay. But he doesn't. Obviously. I feel my palms sweat as I walk through the gate, and am suddenly overcome with a desire to stay. I don't want to go. But a smiley flight attendant shoos me through the plane door and I'm gone.
One Year Later
The hospital staff are lovely. They tell me kindly the location of the bullets, about the injuries, about the chances of my recovery. All things that I know about. Suddenly, the nurse says something that catches my attention.
"Sorry, what was that?" I ask.
She frowns, confused. "I said that we're sending you back to England for treatment...is your hearing alright? You didn't report any problems with your ears before..."
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. What hospital?"
"St Bartholomew's. It's in London..."
I laugh out loud. Happy laughter. "Yes! I know it's in London!" I laugh a bit more and lay down. I'm going back home.
A few days later
The plane ride was comfortable, the pilot working to make it as comfortable as possible for me. I appreciated it, but I couldn't take the wait. Now, we're here. In the car, I see Saint Bart's. My God.
I am placed on a stretcher, only to hear a scream.
"John! John, you're here!" It's Molly. She's torn in some frenzy between ecstatic and traumatised. She flings herself towards my stretcher and into my arms. I stroke her back comfortingly.
"Yes, of course I'm here, Molly. I'm fine. Seriously."
She cries, near hysterical, and I close my eyes. Despite, Molly's tears, I am happy.
"Hey, Molly?"
She splutters. "Yes?"
"Is he here?"
The question catches her off guard. But she answers anyway.
"Yes." So he's here. He's inside this building. We are less than one hundred feet away from each other. I'm wheeled into the lift, and when it opens on the fifth floor, I'm greeted with his face. Sherlock. It hits me like, well, a bullet, to my chest. He's standing there, his expression twisted with worry, and seems to trip back a bit when he sees me. He takes in the scene for a moment, then nearly falls over me while searches my face, arms, body. He's looking to see how badly I'm hurt.
"Where are you hurt?" His voice is verging on panic.
"I got shot once in the leg and twice in my shoulder. I'm fine now, though, Sherlock. I'm fine."
His face is a mask of horror. "You're not! You're hurt again, because I let you leave..." Angry tears are streaming down your face. "How could I let you go?"
The staff wheels me into my room, with Sherlock clinging onto the bars of my stretcher as if his life depended on it. When they leave, we collapse into each other's arms and stay there, sobbing and hugging and kissing. I can feel the tears running non-stop down his face as he gently kisses me. I break away.
"I really am sorry, Sherlock." I whisper.
"I really am too, John."
The next few days morph into the next few weeks, into the next few months. I don't care a bit. I don't want Afghanistan anymore. The thought of going again and leaving all this is ridiculous. But I will say this- if I was to ever go back, at least I could bring my fiancée with me.
-JW