Just a weird little thing that I wrote really quickly because I wanted to! Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock
When John had left to join the Army, his baby cousin, who at the time had been only four, had giving him a string bracelet. It was poorly made and had been dropped in a puddle several times before he had gotten it, but he treasured it. Treasured it more then his own life, because it was a piece of England and that string managed to tie the hole in his heart when he got homesick. It was always around his wrist and the other newly-enlisted soldiers teased him about it. Teased him because it was pink and purple and a baby blue. The officers just looked at him with understanding in his eyes and it was that that kept John going, even in the harshest conditions. He felt as if he had his own guardian angel, protecting him.
Later, after he had been invalidated home, he learned that his little cousin and guardian angel, had been hit by a car and killed, the very day that John himself nearly perished, five thousand miles away in the hot desert sand.
John had helped with many injuries and operations back in England, but he had always had the right tools for the job. Here, where everything was sand and the sun never seemed to stop beating down, John wasn't sure that he could do it. The first time that he lost a patient, was the first time that John truly grasped the horrors that filled the war-strewn area. The man had been part of a patrol that had accidentally set off a landmine. Many of the soldiers were dead, but John managed to get to one of them in time. His leg was torn off and the skin ripped and cut in a thousand other places. John had pulled out his bag and began to stem the flow of blood but he knew that it was useless. The man was going to die. Discovering that he had a scarf in his kit, John bundled it up and gave it to the man, hoping to make his passing at least less lonely. The man had given him a smile that seemed almost sarcastic and had squeezed John's hand a little tighter before going limp. John had closed the man's eyes and had continued on his way, but not before pulling out a strand from the scarf. A reminder of the horrors of his first casualty.
After Afghanistan, John had been depressed. He hated what he had become. A shell of his former self having to deal with a leg that didn't work properly and a shoulder that still would twinge in the damp fog of London. That all changed when he met Sherlock Holmes. He was the most brilliant, idiotic, arrogant oaf that John had ever called a friend. And he was proud to. After that case with the murdering cabbie, John had thought that he could quite possibly have a fantastic part of his life about to start. Boy, was he right. He was never bored when Sherlock was there. He never got tired of hearing how Sherlock had figured something out, unless it was a private matter. He never had a dull day in his life. And John always had something to show for it at the end of the day, weather it was a new blog entry or a souvenir from something related to the crime. His absolute favourite was the strip of fabric that he managed to smuggle off the orange shock blanket that Sherlock had complained so much about during their first case. It made John snigger a bit when he remembered and it made John think about what his life would be like if he hadn't run into Mike in the park that day. It was almost unbearable to think about but John just couldn't pretend that nothing had happened right after he returned. To make sure that he never forgot, John tied the three pieces of rope and fabric together, with the orange in the middle and kept it in his left hand pocket, so that when he needed love, bravery or a reason to live he could reach in and feel it caress his fingers.
Love from his dear little cousin who had been kind enough to give him her favourite bracelet.
Bravery from the soldier who hadn't blamed him when John hadn't been able to save him.
Life from Sherlock, the man who made John want to be himself and never change.
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