A/N: Hey guys, been working on this on and off for the last few weeks and I'm finally pleased with the results! Hope you guys like it and don't forget to let me know what you think in the comments!
Enjoy!
They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers goes.
They perished in the seamless grass
No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
Can summon every face.
-Emily Dickinson, The Battlefield
John is twenty three when he is told how to be a Good Soldier.
A Good Soldier will load up his gun with fine, British-made bullets and blow holes in the enemy without asking questions. A Good Soldier will raise his chin, grit his teeth and tread on even when there's blood slicking his skin and metal biting beneath his nails. A Good Soldier will need no cause other than for Queen and Country.
John reckons he's got what it takes to be that soldier, so he strides into the army with his eyes bright and the union flag tattooed across his heart.
His barracks look just like everyone else's—same grey-green house with army-issued bunks and shared loos—but something about his feels different. More special, somehow. Even the men sharing his quarters shine a little brighter than the rest of the lot.
John knows it's just his imagination projecting his rose-tinted views on the world, but he doesn't care; Afghanistan is where he's finally going to do something important with his life.
Once he's settled in, he makes his rounds and shakes the hands of his bunkmates one by one. All the new faces and names blend together in an excited blur.
"Nice to meet you, John Watson. Name's Lance Mahoney."
"Swell name, Johnny. Patrick Jackson, here."
"Oi, my sister's best friend is a Watson! I'm Jacob Lark, by the way."
"Cheers! Lawrence Pritchard."
"Pleasure's all mine. I'm Michael Kingsley."
"Name's Dean Chesterfield, don't wear it out."
By the time the sun sets on his first day, he's said 'Hello, I'm John Watson. You are?' at least two dozen times, but the hoarseness of his throat is well worth the flood of new mates and familiar faces.
That night, John falls asleep to the soundtrack of his bunkmates' excited whispers and grand promises to give anything for Queen and Country. He smiles to himself, closes his eyes, and dreams of war medals, waving flags, and victory.
On the first day of basic training, General Jensen Carter hands him a standard Sig Sauer handgun, gears him up with leather earmuffs and glasses, and says, "Well go on then, Watson, the target's right there."
John doesn't need to be told twice. Once the General has left his immediate vicinity, John holds up the gun with a steady, straight arm, locks his eyes on the small red target stamped on the silhouette's forehead, and fires without flinching from the kickback. The bullet is off-center by exactly two inches, but he still makes it inside the red target, unlike the rest of his rookie peers. John drops his shoulders to relieve the tension bunched up in his muscles and aims the gun for another shot, this time determined to get a clean, precise hole right in the silhouette's frontal lobe.
Arm straight, slow exhale, narrowed eyes, and—there. Seamless fire.
The bullet hole gapes directly in the middle of the target's forehead, so perfectly centered it nearly looks artificial.
Without pausing for celebration, John reloads the gun and takes a dozen more shots. By the time the General has moved down the line of young men and reached John, there are fourteen perfect holes smoking in the target's left lung, aortic valve, parietal lobe, and femoral artery.
"Son," Carter laughs, "You sure you wanna be a doctor? You got a mean aim on you." The General eyes his target appraisingly and gives him a long look. "Shoot, I'd love to see that kind of talent out there on the frontlines."
John gives the General a firm nod, pride shining in his eyes. "Thank you, sir, but it's honor enough being a doctor."
"Mail time, boys," Sargent Hemmingway bellows. He digs into the sack of letters and reads off the names of recipients. "Here, I've got Johnson, Carmichaels, Watterson, Phelps, Jackson, Banesworth, and Watson. Come and get em, ladies, I don't plan to deliver them to you lot like a bloody personal servant."
Johnny,
Hello, I hope all has been well! I know I told you this countless times before you left, but what you are doing is incredible. It's so selfless and brave. Apparently that trait skipped a generation.
Sorry, I didn't mean to write that. I suppose a letter isn't the best place to speak ill of your sister nor is this the time to burden you with our domestic issues. Worry not, I'm still taking care of Harry, and she's doing much better. She was on and off with her drinking for a while, but once I made sure she understood my threats to leave were not idle, she cleaned up pretty quickly. I'm writing this because she's not quite feeling up to it—rehab is no beach party, as she'll tell you—but rest assured she's doing just fine. She said to tell you that it's not the same without her big brother around and she'll have to give you an extra bone-crushingly hard hug when you get back because of it. Anyway, we both love and miss you, Johnny. Know that you're in our thoughts.
-Clara
John smiles bittersweetly at the letter, relieved that Harry is on the track to recovery but saddened by the obvious tension in Clara's words. In the back of his mind, he wonders how long before the burden of taking care of his sister becomes too much and prompts Clara to finally make good on her threat of leaving. It's a depressing thought, though, so he doesn't linger on it.
Clara,
Thanks for the letter, it's really nice to hear how things are going back at home. I don't have much time to go into detail on how things have been, but so far I've had an easy time adjusting to everything, which is good. I feel like I'm really doing something important here. Tell Harry to keep up the good work.
Thank you for sticking around, Clara. What you're doing is selfless and brave too, and I really appreciate it. I'll write you in more detail once I've settled in.
Lots of love, John
Daniel Peterson joins their barracks six months after John.
He's tall and strong, but there's a boyishness to him: a certain youth that lights his smile and rounds his face despite his wiry muscles and imposing frame. He's got light brown hair that looks coppery-bronze in the sun, pale grey eyes, and a white-toothed grin framed by dimples. He's twenty five.
When he speaks, his voice is a lovely thing, all deep-toned and wrapped in a charming Scottish lilt. There are cinnamon colored freckles under his lip and across his nose, and an awning of chocolate lashes over his eyes.
Peterson greets the men like old mates, slapping backs and slugging shoulders, and by the time he's made his way to John's bunk, he's got the entire cabin in laughter and good spirits.
"Daniel Peterson," he says, taking John's hand in a warm shake. "You?"
"John Watson."
"Nice to meet ya, Johnny," he beams. "I reckon we'll be spending a lot of time together from now on."
A flush of pleasant surprise spills through John's chest and works its way helplessly into his voice. "What makes you say that?"
"We're bunk mates," he responds simply, his heather eyes alight with amusement. "I got top, yeah?"
…
"I'm a front lines paramedic. You?" Peterson asks the next day, around a bite of sandwich. The blurred noise of the mess hall drones loudly in the background.
John shrugs and pushes a few stray carrots around his plate. "Regular old doctor. I never leave the base."
"D'ya ever want to?"
"Sometimes, yeah. But it's far more dangerous to be out there than in here and I promised a few people I'd return in one piece." John means for it to come across as lighthearted, but instead of smiling, Daniel drops his eyes and looks somber.
"I can respect that," Peterson says. "As for myself, I don't have anyone to return to." He frowns unseeingly at his water glass, lost in thought. "Never really had anyone, period, actually. Mum killed herself when I was seven and Pop left almost as soon as the funeral ended. Before I knew it, I ended up in some backwater foster home. The batty folks who adopted me didn't do much good, but I can tell you what, my old man certainly taught me how to take a punch." Daniel tries to laugh, but the sound comes out broken-sounding so he stops. "I couldn't wait to get the bloody hell out of there."
"I'm sorry," John says lowly, unsure how to respond. He reckons it'd be useless to say 'that's terrible' or 'that must've been so hard', because clearly the man experienced firsthand just how terrible and hard the whole deal was. No need to uselessly state the obvious.
"Hey now," Peterson says after a few beats, a valiant smile hanging crookedly on his face, "enough with the sorrow and misery, yeah? There's enough bad shite in the world without me adding more to the pile. Let's get back to chatting. Tell me something else about you, John. You're an interesting bloke with bright eyes—I'm dying to learn more."
And just like that, the charm and liveliness return to the man's aura like a light switch flicking on. He gives John a boyish, disarming smile and leans in on his elbows, the complete picture of zeal and curiosity. John, relieved at the subject change, wracks his brain for an interesting fact that won't disappoint.
"As soon as I leave the army, I plan to return to London and buy a flat there," John answers eventually. "Something modest and cozy that's surrounded by shops and overlooks the streets. Somewhere that gives me a good view of the city at night, where I can see the stars and the rows of lit up buildings." He quirks a smile and shakes his head. "Christ, Daniel, have you seen London at night? It's breathtaking. There's nothing like it."
"It sounds incredible," says Daniel.
But," John says, backtracking, "I don't know if I'll actually do it. I mean, my sister doesn't live in London, and the flats are so expensive up there…"
"Johnny," Daniel says, nudging his shoulder into John's, "don't worry, alright? You'll do it. You'll get the flat and you'll have your view of all the city lights you want. Know how I know that?"
"How?"
"Because when you were talking about all that just now, there was passion in your eyes. And with passion like that—with fierce, irrepressible drive—there's no doubt you'll accomplish every goddamn thing you set your mind to."
John smiles at the tabletop and allows the words to wash over him. After spending his entire life being told by various people (including his own sister) that his dreams are too out of reach, it's refreshing to hear his ideas encouraged rather than scoffed at for once. Though he's only known the man for a few days, he can already tell an incredible friendship is waiting on the horizon.
"Only one request though," Daniel says after a thoughtful pause.
"Yeah?"
"When you do get that flat, d'ya think there'd be room for a flat mate?" He raises his eyebrows and grins. "Cause I'd love to pool our army pensions and share the rent. Can you picture that? Me and you, Johnny, living it up in good old London in some posh flat surrounded by even posher people? That'd be the life, wouldn't it?"
John smiles at him over the top of his glass. "Sounds smashing. After our army term ends, we'll be flat mates in London, alright?"
"It's a deal," Daniel pronounces, clinking his cup of water against John's.
Johnny,
Just wanted to check in and see how you've been, it's been a while since our last letter! Let us know what's new, we miss you!
-Clara and Harry
...
Clara & Harry,
Hello all, things have been going really well lately. I just met the most amazing person a few weeks ago. His name is Daniel Peterson and he just joined my barracks; he's a field medic. I'm glad to have a friend around here to keep me company because it gets pretty lonely sometimes..
How are you two doing? Let me know how everything's been back home, I miss both of you like crazy.
Lots of love, John
There isn't much to this landscape but he's been here so long that he can barely fathom another setting. He's grown used to hot sand burning in his throat and the sound of gunshots buzzing in his ears like wasps.
At night, he dreams of the cool, electric hum of the city. Behind his closed lids he sees buildings that peer down with their neon yellow eyes and stars that wait coyly behind the silvery clouds. He smells gasoline and wet pavement and bittersweet cigarette smoke; he hears a blur of chatter, honking horns, and the distant sound of music; he tastes pale tea from the corner shop, dark, rich coffee from Barry's café, and icy cold raindrops as they fall on his tongue.
Thoughts of London pump through his veins and ease him into slumber.
For the first few months, all of John's patients' injuries consist of either minor breaks or superficial wounds: aka, nothing that can't be fixed with a few stitches and elbow grease. Before long, he falls into the steady routine of slapping on latex gloves, repairing the damage with a few quick procedures, and then waving the soldier goodbye a few hours later. It's easy, it's comfortable, and, for the most part, it's bloodless.
That all changes on the first Tuesday of March, when a mission goes wrong—someone high up miscalculated and a bomb went off where it wasn't expected to—and half a troop of men are nearly blown apart as a result.
In a blur of bodies and warbled shouting, a barrage of field medics pour into the hospital with dying men in their arms, blood soaking through the thick cloth of their uniforms. Daniel is among the medics, and John catches his eye as he gingerly places yet another injured body on an operation slab.
Minutes later, a young cadet with bright red hair is dropped unceremoniously on John's table, followed by a dozen of his equally damaged comrades on the tables surrounding him. Within seconds of the troops' arrival, the hospital is abuzz with nurses frantically handing off instruments and doctors attempting to operate, despite the sudden depletion of materials and influx of fatally wounded patients. The soldiers' groans and wails echo off the walls and the air smells thickly of blood.
The young man on John's table can't be older than eighteen. He's small and thin and has a boyish face that reminds John of rambunctious schoolkids running in the street; he shouldn't be here right now, lying on the table with a crater the size of John's hand gaping in his side, spilling ragged flesh and broken tissue. He should be laughing with his mates and chatting up pretty girls, perhaps even going to Uni and travelling around the world. He's young, he should be out there living.
John takes a deep breath and pulls on his gloves.
The soldier writhes and sobs during the beginning of the operation, but once the anesthetics kick in, his eyes roll back, his body goes limp, and his quivering chest mellows. With steady hands and tense shoulders, John carefully drains the wound, moves the vital organs back in place, and sews up the lacerations on the walls of his abdomen. It's supposed to work—hell, by all means it should—but for some reason the man's heart continues slowing and the stiches won't stick and the blood won't clot, and John doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do. With a clenched jaw, he reigns in his anxiety and calmly continues sowing and cutting and sealing, despite the cold stone of doubt sitting at the pit of his stomach.
An hour into it, the weak, low-grade numbing agent wears off and the man regains consciousness mid-surgery, but John, intent on stopping the blood flow, isn't aware of his awakening until he hears a quiet, wretched, "Please, it hurts so badly."
"Shite," John whispers under his breath, his heart plummeting in dread. "Nurse!" he calls, beckoning for a renewed supply of anesthetics, "The patient is regaining consciousness, we'll need about three more CCs over here please."
"Doctor Watson, I've been informed that this patient is no longer priority," Nurse Langston states, her eyes fixed resolutely ahead. "His vital signs indicate that he will not live much longer and there is a limited amount of drugs left for the soldiers. I'm afraid I must reserve our remaining stock for those with a chance of recovery."
John has been in this business long enough to know a hopeless case when he sees one, and if he were still a medical student and this were just another hypothetical situation on paper, he would easily agree with her. The man is losing pints of blood by the minute and the wound is too severe to simply sew up, so the logical choice is to preserve the medication for those who stand a chance.
Except, it isn't that easy.
There is a dying man splayed before him, begging him to do something to stop the pain ("please, doctor, I don't want to die") and the idea of just giving up on him is not even within John's realm of possibilities.
He knows she's under strict orders, so he doesn't bother debating with the nurse. Instead, he turns back to the young man, takes in his bloodshot eyes and pallid, sweating face, and firmly says, "I am going to save you, okay? I will. I promise. Hold on just a bit longer and you'll be okay, alright?"
In response, the solider nods his violently trembling head and reaches for John's latex-clad hand. He blinks several times, almost in confusion, and grips John's hand in his. "Thank you," he whispers, his voice thin and reedy. "Thank you."
…
The sound of the machine flat lining is the most terrible thing John's ever heard.
"Dr. Watson, shall I call it?" Nurse Redford asks.
John pulls his gloves off and slaps them down on the counter, letting his silence answer the question for him.
Redford clears his throat. "Time of death, 4:15pm."
It's a stupid thing to do, but John looks at the clipboard on his way out and learns the boy's name.
…
"Johnny, there's nothing you could've done," Daniel says later when they're sitting on a bench outside, long after the flood of injured men have either been saved or shipped home in coffins. "You did your best to save the lad, but he was long past the point of medical help."
John doesn't say anything in response. Instead, he stares out at the endless stretch of white sand and the sickly, grey-blue sky with its cloudless heavens and boiling sun, and thinks to himself how utterly terrible this place is. The death, the blood, the dry, insipid terrain. He wonders if this is what hell is like.
"Hey," Daniel prompts, scooting closer and throwing an arm around John's shoulders, pulling him flush against his side. "Talk to me, mate. Say something, anything. Just so I know you're still here."
The embrace melts the lump in his throat and he finds himself leaning back against the other man. "His name was Caleb," he says eventually, "and he was eighteen going on nineteen. His birthday's next Wednesday."
Daniel exhales through his nose. "I'm sorry, Johnny. I'm sorry."
…
That night when he lies in bed, he sees Caleb Madison's pallid face across every inch of the ceiling. He tosses and turns and wrestles with the sheets for hours, but he can't shake the image of blood and body bags.
He never quite finds his way into unconsciousness, and hours later Jackson is yelling, "Up and at 'em, Watson!" in his ear, the sun once again rising over the hot, dry expanse of sand.
Jackson thumps him on the back as they leave their barracks. "Back to it, then, yeah?"
The next weekend, Jeffrey Goldberg bleeds to death from a dismembered leg. The following Monday, Martin Battings loses consciousness during surgery and dies hours later from an infected bullet wound.
Within the month, two men from his barracks are killed in battle. A fortnight later, one of them loses an arm and is sent home.
"Why're you still up, Watson?" Mahoney asks one night when he wakes up to John silently pacing the floorboards.
John doesn't reply.
"Nightmares?" the other man ventures. His eyes, illuminated by the moonlight from the window, look somber.
"Yes."
"Well, you need to get some shut eye. Go back to bed."
John stops moving and clenches his jaw. "I can't. I can't sleep."
"Try."
He doesn't say more, and the suffocating silence makes John feel like his throat is closing in. "I'm not okay, Lance," he croaks eventually, his voice coming out uneven and small. "I'm not okay."
Mahoney lays back down and turns over. "We're in war, mate," he says to the wall. "None of us are okay, but we learn to pretend."
"Do you ever wonder if this is...right?" he asks one evening while he and Daniel are scrubbing the blood out of cloth bandages.
For a long moment, the other man stops washing and just looks at him. His sun strained grey eyes narrow searchingly. "What're you on about, Johnny?"
John swallows and carefully folds up the wet material in his hands, intent on creasing the corners perfectly. "I just mean, so many men have died—good men, Daniel—and I…sometimes I just wonder if it's worth it. If this whole thing is as noble and brave as they tell us it is."
For several beats, the only sounds are running water and the creaking metal of the sink's faucet. Silence unfurls over them like a thick fog. Eventually, Daniel pulls his hands out of the rusty tub and softly says, "Don't say that, Johnny. We can't afford to think like that out here, alright?"
John frowns. "But—"
"Mate, all we need—hell, all we have—are our comrades, our purpose, and our country." He reaches for John's wet hand and squeezes tightly, his eyes beseeching and earnest. "I'm here, you're here, and aint that enough?"
Comfort and warmth roll through him like a flood at the simple contact, and John finds himself feeling somewhat reassured. Experimentally, he flexes his hand within Daniel's grip, pleasantly surprised when instead of releasing him, the other man simply holds on tighter. "You're right," John concedes, the storm clouds clearing from his eyes. "You're completely right, mate. This is good. This is enough."
Daniel grins and ruffles his hair, a warm, familiar gesture that erases all remaining tension. "There ya go, Johnny. That's what I like to hear. For queen and country, eh?"
John flashes a smiles and leans against his side, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to wrist. "For Queen and country."
Two nights later at four thirty in the morning, Daniel M. Peterson takes a bullet in the lung and dies from blood loss.
John doesn't look at the body and doesn't think about the empty eyes and doesn't act as the operating doctor. Instead he slips away to his barracks and doesn't wake up until Jackson and Mahoney drag him out of bed three days later.
Every day his senses are greeted by the same stink of gunpowder, the same hot wind of the desert, and the same endless white sand that stretches on and on like a nightmare. Every day he bundles up his materials and trudges off into battle with his bandages in his pack and his heart low in his chest. For weeks and weeks, every patient he tends to has Daniel's pale grey eyes and cinnamon freckles, and almost every one of them dies under his hands.
John,
Clara left. It's all my fault. I'm sorry.
-H
He tries to write back, but the words come out too angry and judgmental and he can feel his own ire radiating off the page like heat waves, so he crumples it up and chucks it under the bed.
It feels as if the sky is caving in and the very earth beneath his feet is cracking one increment at a time, waiting for the perfect opportunity to cleave open entirely and swallow him whole. For the past several months, he's been surrounded by death, misery, pain, and now this.
He never gets around to rewriting the letter.
The sun hangs boiling hot and bitter-white in the morning sky. John shields his eyes from the brightness and silently longs for the day when something other than burning sand and sallow faces will greet him. He's sick of the red cross on his arm, and the cold latex gloves on his hands, and the terrible antiseptic spray the hospital uses that barely masks the stench of blood. He's sick of tucking men's guts back into their bodies, sealing up the wounds with white stiches and staples, only to watch them die hours later either in battle or right there on the operating table; he's sick of waking up with a headache and wet eyes and sore throat that all indicate he's had another nightmare; he's sick of listening to last words gurgle in the broken throats of young men; he's sick of walking amongst the dead.
He's sick.
By the time he's shot in the shoulder three months later, there is no love lost between him and his 'cause'. His heart is a heavy, leaden weight and his soul is bitter smoke.
He leaves Afghanistan with cynical eyes and a newly acquired limp.
For a while, he wonders where he ought to go. Harry lives deep in Eastbourne and he wouldn't really mind living with her, but she's an alcoholic, divorced mess right now and the last thing he needs is another unstable person in his life—he can't even handle his own problems, let alone somebody else's. He could always return to their childhood home in Sussex, but the thought of living in that gloomy, isolated townhouse makes his skin crawl with impending loneliness.
After three nights of staying in some slummy, cheap hotel, he has a dream about Daniel's smiling eyes. It's a vague dreams wrapped in wool and faded colors but it resonates like a bell, and the next morning he wakes up with the first inkling of purpose he's had in ages.
That evening, he packs his things and buys a ticket to London.
The city is beautiful, just as he expected. His home, however, is not.
The flat he purchases does not overlook the city streets, but it does offer a considerable view of the dumpster next to the window. And while there is nothing cozy or warm about the atmosphere, it serves its purpose in that it provides him with a sturdy bed and a substantial amount of space.
On good days, he takes a deep breath and counts his blessings.
On most days, however, he wakes up and realizes that he is living in a pathetic box on the outskirts of London with only a chair, a desk, and a dirt-cheap bed to furnish the pathetic gray nothingness he calls his home, and he fucking hates it.
John knows he's lucky to have gotten out alive. Yes, his mind is scarred in places that will never see daylight and his shoulder is buggered six ways from Sunday, but he's alive. He's breathing. He wandered into the mouth of the beast, poked and prodded around, and then somehow managed to escape relatively unscathed a few years later.
At night, he stares at the ceiling and wonders what the difference between his life and anyone else's is. Why him? Why couldn't someone else live? What about Richards and Madison and Gonzales? What about Daniel? Any of them would be ten times as worthy of life as he is. All John has to his name is a cane, a meager soldier's pay, and his useless laptop for the blog he doesn't write.
What makes him so special?
His Sig Sauer handgun sits at the bottom of his desk drawer like a secret. He contemplates it daily.
There isn't much work out there for a useless invalid, so he ends up settling for a job he is over-qualified for at a clinic whose name he doesn't bother remembering. Each day is gray and monotonous, but working at the hospital is better than crawling the walls with nothing to do, so he stays. Initially, he works a nine to five shift, but he finds his schedule is still too empty after that, so he bumps it up to six to seven.
Two weeks in, he asks for more hours.
"I'm sorry, John, but no," his boss says kindly, "we can't pay you extra."
John says he doesn't care, he'll work for free, and the man behind the desk just looks at him like he's the most pathetic thing in the world.
"No, John."
To his shoes, John says, "I understand, sorry to bother you," and drifts home with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the pavement. He learns to live with the six to seven shift, but after a week, his mind is still buzzing and his skin is still crawling, so he reckons he ought to try therapy.
It'll fill up his Saturdays at the very least.
"John, you need to start using your blog. Write about your day, your feelings, your wandering thoughts: write about anything."
"Nothing interesting ever happens to me," he tells the window.
His therapist gives him a sympathetic look over the top of her notepad. "Adjusting to civilian life was bound to be a struggle, John, but in order to acclimatize you first need to face the war going on inside of you. The first step to accomplishing that is recording what you feel on your blog. Once that is settled, I assure you, everything else with fall into place."
He's never felt particularly angry at anything Dr. Roberts has said during these pointless, dull sessions, but now, out of absolutely nowhere, his entire being is scorched with rage. He leans forward and speaks in the most sarcastic, biting tone he can muster.
"Oh? It's that easy, is it? Write down some shoddy poems about misery and death and then I'm cured? I'll stop jumping at every little sound? I'll stop seeing my dead mates' faces on the backs of my eyelids every time I blink? I'll stop waking up screaming at night when I dream of blood and bullet wounds? This whole time, all I had to do was run a sodding blog?" he barks a laugh but the sound is harsh and bitter. "Well then! If it's that simple, I guess I'm cured, doc!"
"John," she tries faintly, but he cuts her off.
"No, no, this is swell. Really, it is. I had no idea the key to all my problems was documenting my pointless fuckup of an existence online." He gets out of his chair and knocks it over in the process. "This has been truly enlightening, Dr. Roberts. In fact, I don't think I'll need to come back again."
When he leaves, he slams the door so hard his teeth rattle.
He can't pinpoint exactly when things start changing, but one day, something inside him dies. He stops dreaming of regaining purpose and restarting his life. He stops dreaming of getting a steady job and meeting a nice girl and settling down. He stops dreaming of calling Harry and mending bridges like a big brother ought to.
Instead, he dreams of his Sig Sauer handgun and the way it might feel against the back of his throat.
Later, he'll realize that he bumped into Mike at just the right time in his life.
Sherlock Holmes is a strange bloke with keen, silvery-blue eyes, black curls, sharp cheekbones and the loveliest rumble of a voice John has ever heard. At first John thinks the gangly, angular man before him is a bit of a prick—which in all fairness, he is—but after spending a few hours in his presence, John realizes he is also madly brilliant, gorgeous, and easily the most interesting person John has ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Despite knowing the man for less than twenty four hours, when Sherlock asks him to come along and dive headfirst into chaos, he forgets the meaning of 'no' and breathes "Oh god yes."
...
When they're sitting in a cab together on their way to the crime scene, Sherlock effortlessly deduces John's entire life right down to his childhood.
"Deceased parents, alcoholic sibling, traces of PTSD," Sherlock states casually without looking up from his phone. "Wounded in battle, psychosomatic limp, depressive tendencies."
"How—"
"Allow me to explain," Sherlock interrupts smoothly, and then proceeds to dive into a long winded deduction involving every bloody detail of John's apparently transparent life.
If Sherlock were anyone else, John might've chinned him for being so intrusive. As it stands however, he's already madly infatuated with the ethereal man sitting next to him and would sooner fling himself from the moving cab than give Sherlock any reason to dislike him. Besides, there's something strangely charming about the detective's bluntness. It's quite refreshing to converse with someone who has no interest in hollow niceties and social pleasantries; John enjoys the unapologetic honesty of it.
"That was absolutely incredible," John says once he's finished.
Sherlock's demeanor up to this point has been confident and self-assured, so John is utterly surprised when instead of looking smug, Sherlock just furrows his brow and seems wholly taken aback. It's almost as if he's never heard an outsider's recognition of his brilliance before.
"You are," John repeats, smiling with his eyes. "You're brilliant."
At that, something melts from the detective's face; his aloof disposition wavers and is briefly replaced by naked warmth and surprise. It only lasts a second, but John cherishes the image.
"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock offers eventually, looking out the window.
"And what do they usually say?"
He catches Sherlock's smirk in the reflection of the glass. "Piss off."
John laughs and shakes his head, looking over at the detective with shining eyes. "You are something, Sherlock Holmes, you know that? Something indeed."
…
At the crime scene, Sherlock is all biting tones and swift movements and excited eyes: his hands vibrantly gesture and point and demand like white birds fluttering impatiently about. He paces the floor and mutters thingsand rattles off a list of information so quickly it nearly blurs into white noise.
Greg shrugs at him as if to say this is just how he is. What can you do?
And John shrugs back with a grin as if to say Nothing. I love it.
…
Later, when he's watching the two of them, cabbie and detective, from across the street, pills poised in their hands, it feels as if the world is ending. The floor has disappeared from beneath him and blood is rushing in his ears in a deafening roar. He summons a wave of calm and raises the weapon with a clear mind. His mission is simple: make sure Sherlock Holmes lives.
Straight arm, slow exhale, narrowed eyes and—there it is. Seamless fire.
One bullet, right in the left lung, and the cabbie falls. John nearly sobs with relief when Sherlock drops the pill and moves away from the window, unharmed.
…
Sherlock looks ridiculous with that orange blanket draped over his shoulders, but the sight of him alive makes John want to either slug him and say what the bloody hell was that, or pull him into a tight embrace and beg never do that again. He winds up doing neither, but he does manage to a coax a genuine laugh out of the detective, which he considers a definite victory.
"Dinner?" he asks, partially because he wants to eat and partially because he imagines Sherlock's face is a sight in candle light.
Sherlock's mouth ticks up in a smile. "Starving."
Weeks and months and years later, John wonders where he'd been before this
It happens after a case—just as John always privately suspected it might—when they're both high on adrenalin and giggling like schoolboys as they stumble into the flat, colliding into each other and holding on to hands and shoulders longer than necessary.
They make it to the sitting room before John notices a black smudge on Sherlock's face.
"You've got a bit of leftover soot," John says, raising his hand to Sherlock's cheek and brushing at the soft skin with his thumb. The simple act sends sparks through John's veins like fireworks. Sherlock's eyes flutter and he carefully leans into the touch.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock swallows and John watches his Adams apple bob. He keeps his hand cradling Sherlock's face.
"John?" Sherlock asks lowly.
John takes a deliberate step closer and strokes his thumb over the detective's cheekbone.
The tension crackles and breaks.
"Kiss me," Sherlock says, and John does.
…
John's bedroom is inky black and the only light comes from the window to the right of his bed. Moonlight spills onto his sheets and paints lovely shapes across the smooth, alabaster planes of Sherlock's body.
"I've never done this sort of thing before," Sherlock confesses softly, his eyes a deep, glowing, heather-blue. "This is unfamiliar."
John sweeps the crease from his forehead and kisses the moue off his lips. "I know. We'll figure this out together."
Sherlock kisses back, deeply and languorously as if tasting fine wine. "Yes," he murmurs into John's mouth. "Okay."
There is something so sacred about this moment. Perhaps it's the depth of darkness and the holy silence of the room. Perhaps it's that Sherlock looks like a fallen angel or a celestial being carved from marble, all willowy hips and white skin. Perhaps it's the way Sherlock's expression opens like a flower when John quietly says, "I love you."
Perhaps it's the way John's heart pounds when Sherlock says it back.
John is thirty eight when he learns how to be a Good Man.
A Good Man will patiently explain to his flat mate why dissection remnants do not belong in the bathtub even though they've had that conversation four times. A Good Man will be there for the pleasant moods and the terrible ones, for the sulks and brilliant revelations alike, and he will never threaten to leave. A Good Man will need no purpose other than because I love you, you git.
He reckons he's got what it takes to be that man, so he strides into his future with his eyes hopeful and Sherlock Holmes tattooed across his heart.
A/N:Thanks for reading, lovelies! Let me know what you think, feedback is glorious!
XOXO