A/N: Here we are, first chapter of Small Worlds- and a short one to begin with :P If you haven't read Captain, Doctor, John, you should read that first, as it will greatly help your understanding of this story :P This begins three weeks and three days after CDJ ended. Enjoy :)
"Sherlock?" John thumped down the stairs into the living room at 221B. "Sherlock?"
The man in question lay sprawled across the sofa in his dressing gown, toast in one hand and crumbs all down his front, reading a tattered broadsheet. "What?"
"I'm leaving in an hour."
"I know. You haven't talked about anything else all week."
"Right. Just wondering- are you coming to the station, or-"
He was cut off by Sherlock loudly turning the page and rustling the newspaper, before dropping it on the floor and pointedly walking into the kitchen, his back to John.
"Because I'd quite like you to meet a couple of friends; we're catching the train together."
Sherlock sighed and his shoulders slumped.
"Fine. I'll come."
"Well, would you mind getting dressed? My commanding officer will be there."
"Yes, sir." Sherlock went into his bedroom and shut the door with a snap. John let out a frustrated breath. He wanted Sherlock to meet his fellow officers because he felt that if Sherlock knew more about them, if he made a personal connection- if that was even possible with him- then maybe he wouldn't be so averse to John keeping his job in the army. John thought that Sherlock didn't want him to leave for the same reason that a clingy child never leaves their mother- security.
Sherlock felt more secure with John around; he was an adviser, a diplomatist and he was brave. He was Sherlock's back up, the one who never failed. John admittedly liked this role that he was destined to play in Sherlock's life, but he also couldn't deny the need for a breath of fresh air, away from the stifling, enveloping genius. His escape, for now, was Cyprus with 2nd Battalion.
He returned upstairs to his room, where he checked his pack for the last time. He definitely had everything he needed. The only thing left in his wardrobe was his scrupulously ironed uniform. He pulled it out and laid it on the bed, then stripped off, first pulling on boxers and a tight white vest, then slipping on his tough khaki trousers and doing the belt, tucking in the vest. He then pulled on his combat jacket, rolled up the sleeves and straightened his rank slide, smiling at the familiar feeling of authority that the three pips gave him.
He sat down and pulled on his tan combat boots, well worn in and comfortable, then laced them up tightly. Last to go on was his dark blue beret, tilted over his right eye with the silver RAMC badge over his left. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and smiled. Captain John Watson was ready to go. He slung his pack onto one shoulder and carried it easily downstairs, dumping it by the door. He then cross the room and knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door.
"Are you nearly ready? I don't want to miss the train."
Sherlock emerged, dressed smartly in a purple shirt and dark jacket and lead the way downstairs to the front door.
"Let's get a cab," John suggested. He didn't want Sherlock whining all the way through the Tube.
"My thoughts exactly."
Just as they were about to leave, Mrs Hudson came dashing out of her flat.
"I thought I was going to miss you, dear! Have fun, won't you and good luck in getting your promotion!"
"Thanks Mrs Hudson." John smiled.
"Come along, John, we wouldn't want to be late now, would we?" Sherlock's tone was impatient.
"Oh, ignore him, he's just sulky because you're leaving him with no-one to talk to except his brother for six months."
John chuckled. "Well, make sure they don't kill each other."
Mrs Hudson smiled and embraced him. "Look after yourself, John," she whispered.
"I will," he promised, and without a final glance back, quickly walked out of 221B and hailed a taxi. Sherlock got in behind him.
"Paddington Station, please," John told the driver and they set off through the streets of London.