So I (just like many others) fell for the Internet Phenomenon which is BBC Sherlock :)

Warnings:

They both are pretty OutOfCharacter and I didn't enjoy the idea of a broken John, so he has alternative solution for his danger addiction.

OutCharacters are present in the way of John's war comrades and he actually likes them and they play important role in the story.

Place: London and Afghanistan and wherever else they would need to

Time: over two years after the fall

Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Anthea and others. OC soldiers - beware.

(Their) Mood: Confused, Cocky, Careful

John; 103 days after

Well yeah, it was a mess. Honestly. I was sent away from my life because of my injuries and it almost killed me. You can't just tell soldier to stop soldier-ing. And so I spent two months concentrating on being a wreck. Of course I didn't realize, but – I had a psychosomatic limp, didn't even bother to talk to anyone except for my psychologist, I woke up every morning just because that's what they taught me and I never really stopped being a soldier. That should have been a clue enough for me.

And than, after two months of wondering along the lines of 'to live or not to live', I met Sherlock. Bless Mike Stemford, because the mad detective gave me new battlefield, where he was the only one on his side and everyone else was an enemy. For reasons I suspect even he doesn't know, he made me his only comrade and I lived again.

I was a soldier again, in the service of the Queen, just this time my Queen was pretty young and morbid sociopath. *

And then he died and it was Afghanistan all over again.

For three months and something it was the same again and it wasn't any less painful, even though I already knew the sensation.

I was forced to leave Afghanistan because of my injuries and found Sherlock to give me piece. And then I was forced to leave London because of his death and I hoped war will help me just as he did before and it did.

So I signed a contract for five years, told Mycroft to piss off, promised to visit Mrs Hudson whenever I can and left by the first plane I could find, taking only the necessary minimum, my gun and Sherlock's pink mobile phone. Just for the fun of it.

When the plane touched down I was pleasantly nervous and almost happy. Alive again. The steward gave me a kind smile. She reserved those smiles to soldiers, because she thought they were unhappy and scared and that she could help them or safe them or deliver them.

Such a naïve person that one.

I looked her up once, twice, realizing that if I looked hard enough, I could see whatever that was Sherlock would see. Short nails – she had the urge to bite them, heavy make-up on some parts of her face – trying to hide bruises, sleeves rolled down even though the heat was almost unbearable. Domestic violence, I wrote in my mind over her head. Her husband or boyfriend is an ex-soldier, by the way she was interacting.

I had to shake my head to stop. I didn't want to know her story. Hell – I didn't even want to know my own story.

And so I exited the plane with other passengers and let some youngster drive me to the dormitory and it's only few more minutes until I get to see just how much had changed. To see who left or who is broken.

I was curious. I was alive, once more.

Sherlock; 712 days after

It's been long since I slept, I realize. I can't even remember doing it, the last time just – happened. I think I was in the middle of talking to my precious informant on my – John's, actually – phone when I just fell asleep.

But the truth is, I don't really want to sleep. I don't want to loose time, not for something this boring. And I am in a good mood.

I shouldn't be, considering my only worthy opponent is gone, never to play me again. Yes, Jim Moriarty is dead. I didn't kill him and I don't know who fif and frankly, I have no interest in trying to find out. South America is his playground, not mine.

That's what's curious. He knew it here. But he still went down.

I sigh and collapse onto a wooden chair which is uncomfortable and how can I think when my whole body hurts and I don't even have a cigarette to calm myself down?

However, I still feel rather.. giddy. Even though it's frankly embarrassing to admit that a grown up man and consulting detective of my intellect fells giddy. I search the feeling to better understand why and of course it's because I don't have to worry about my friends anymore. About my 'heart being burned out'.

And now I can even return to London, tell Mycroft, dearest brother of mine, everything I know and let him deal with the rest. He would, because he is stupid.

Well not really, but he still lets sentiment cloud his judgment when it comes to me. I smirk smugly and absently play with my phone. John's phone, I correct myself. I have stolen it from him when he slept. He can use mine, if he wants to. And if he finds it.

Or I can return him his own when I get back. The thought makes me stand up with surprising energy, considering my previous activities of running around the city and around after Dear Jim.

'He's such a dick', John would've said and forced me to eat something and sleep. Or maybe not, I can't really deduce my friend when he's not here and it's been over two years since I saw him. Even longer since I last talked to him and that conversation wasn't really satisfying either. It's difficult to have sophisticated conversation while standing on the roof and preparing to jump.

My fingers run over the keyboard just as quick as ever and my smile grows.

The first flight I can catch leaves in two hours, I will see if I can somehow manage to get aboard.

And I will be coming home.

Later, when I sit by the window on the plane, I wonder how would they all take it when I come back. Will they be happy? (Mrs. Hudson) Relieved? (Lestrade) Disappointed? (Anderson, Donovan) I couldn't imagine how would John take it and that was worst.

Probably punch me for leaving and shout at me for not telling him. But I couldn't have taken him with me, it would be too dangerous for both of us. And then?

I smile, looking down at the blue infinities of see, and hope that I will be able to return.

Since when did I get so poetic, anyway?

John; 103 days after

The first thing I notice when I leave the car, is that it's warm here. I got used to the weather of London so this is a nice change.

Before I could get any other observation however, or even look up, I get tackled by a blur of energy, which is screaming profanities and probably trying to hug me and punch me at the same time.

I push the person – because surprisingly it is a human being – and look up.

"Psycho!" I exclaim and blink up at the bouncing colleague of mine. I look him up and down to see if he changed and realize that no, he didn't. His hair is the usual unruly mop of something in the colour of startling red, here and there darkened by specks of mud and-

"Did you try to colour you hair green?" I ask him feeling very surreal. He laughs.

"As serious as ever, are you, Schizo." I have almost forgotten that they insisted on calling me Schizophrenic. Honestly, I can't help it I am soldier and doctor at the same time.

"Not at all." I smirk at him, feeling at home. Partly. I let Psycho help me onto my feet, noticing he got a bit taller, so I have to look up at him. By the smirk he sends me he noticed that as well.

"Maan, did you shrink or what?" he laughs and I shove my elbow into his ribs. I note that he is – fortunately – not so skinny anymore. It's good that he gained some muscles along the way.

"So who's housing with me?" I ask him curiously and seize my bag. He leads the way to exactly the same building I lived in before I left and even the paths are the same dusty something, marked only by stones on both sides and some signs to help the drivers find their way. I don't need them, I realize. I would be able to find my way around without help.

Let's just hope I didn't forget anything of larger importance.

"Of those you know? Me, Eyes and Hound." I shudder at the nickname, because the first thing I remember is not the kind face of our friend and comrade, but the horrendous something I saw under the effects of hallucinogens. The project H.O.U.N.D. is not something easily forgotten, even though I tried.

"And the others?" I ask noticing that he didn't name at least ten brothers in arms I left here.

"Away, all of them. Well, Blond's dead, caught something from the water, no way to help him." The man – even though he was more like boy – admitted with a defeated sigh and I understood – they didn't have a doctor to take care of it. At least none good enough. It pained me to think that while I was playing heroes with Sherlock, one hero was dying and I could have prevented it.

"We will be forming a team, us four, by the way." Psycho grins that delighted smile of his and it makes me feel lighter and slightly on the edge. He was unpredictable. He could give you this grin one moment and the second take out his gun and shoot you. Without even bothering to change his facial expression. It was dangerous, it was very dangerous and it was good.

"Glad to be home." I mutter without even noticing I said it out loud.

"I thought you liked it as a civy." Psycho smirks. "What happened? Your lover broke it up?" he teased and bumped his hips into mine and I laughed.

"Yea.. chose Lady Death over me, did he." I find myself joking about it for the first time since he jumped and it helps. Helps so much I feel like laughing and giggling and crying at the same time.

I do neither, because Psycho gently pushes me trough the door and I suddenly find myself twirled around in the arms of Hound, our resident Snuggler.

And I think at some point I may have cried or laughed or spilled my heart, because I find myself sleeping next to Psycho who is protectively curled around me and I can hear Eyes snoring.

I know I am perfectly safe for the first time since Sherlock died.

However, I can't help but feel that something is missing, something is wrong and will be wrong forever, because even though I don't consider myself gay and I have never looked at him that way, I know that I in some way loved Sherlock and needed him in my life.

Sherlock; 6 days after

I silently breath out, breath in, breath out and make another step, the floor makes some noise and I have to stop again to breath in, breath out, breath in.

It takes some time, but I know it here, so I manage to make my way towards the man sleeping on the couch. He had been drinking, I notice with a sinking feeling. John never drinks. I sigh, realizing this day was the day of my funeral and they all had probably gone to the pub to drink.

'To drown the sorrow', I remember. However why would anyone feel the need to drink himself into oblivion just because I died was beyond me. Well, John was bound to be a bit sad, we were flatmates, after all, but it will pass. The only thing to make it worse would be, if John thought he could have stopped me, I think and look the man up and down, trying to deduce how much is that a possibility. He was the one I called, after all.

I shrug. Nothing to do about it, now. I didn't have a choice, I would just explain if I get back one day. When Moriarty is dead.

I duck in front of John, my face just inches from his, trying to will the wrinkles on his face to disappear, because he looks old and John should not be allowed to be old when all he does is take care of everyone around, but himself.

His phone is in his hands and I can see he added Lestrades name and number, but forgot to save it so I take the device from him and delete the number, because why would he need to have Lestrade's number anyway?

I notice that I pocketed his phone only when I am already three streets away and not really willing to go back.

And why not? I think to myself. Why shouldn't I have his phone? He would think he lost it, anyway and buy a new one. Or Mycroft can buy him new one – I roll my eyes at the thought of my brother – because he will be the first one to talk to John in the morning.

Sounds like a plan, I mutter out loud to my own surprise and with the thought of having to buy some skull to talk to I disappear into the shadows, not to leave them until over two years later.

That's it for today. I will try to fulfil my quota and update tomorrow or the day after tomorrow, so bear with me.

Any comment would be appreciated (even if you just wanted to point out what I wrote wrong, so I can correct it).

Smile, (it doesn't help anything, but makes so many other people angry, that it's worth it.)

me.

*Notice the commas - there are none, so it's not 'pretty, young and morbid', it's 'pretty_young ... and morbid' :) just fyi.