Their breath billowed out into the cold air, and John desperately wished to be anywhere but here, for more reasons than just the weather.
Sherlock stood beside him, staring at the rubble with a face contorted by emotion.
John grabbed his hand in a comforting gesture. "You alright?"
"Mph," was the reply.
Sherlock ducked under the tape and lightly stepped onto the broken concrete.
John glanced around quickly, and then followed him under.
Sherlock was muttering to himself, pacing towards the ruined structure metal of the building.
John followed more slowly, watching fearfully for any chances of concrete falling on them.
"So many memories, John. Oh god, so many memories." He stared almost wistfully at the remains of the doors where Moriarty had first stepped in through. "Everything is coming back so quickly…"
John reached for his hand again.
"I know. Me too."
And there they stood, hand in hand, comrades joined by an endless, bitter war. Two lone soldiers, battling against everything they knew.