A/N This is my first fanfic/oneshot on FanFiction, so please no hate!

I mixed the scene in the abandoned train car with my own version, so, yes, the timeline is a bit messed up, which is why they haven't blown up yet.

"You were the best, and wisest man, that I have ever known."

"You. Don't. Understand."

John spat out the words, wanting nothing more than to harm Sherlock. Of course Sherlock didn't understand. He had never seen war before, never known the trauma it caused. Of course the consulting detective would not know what had happened before he entered into John's life.

Sherlock said as much.

"What…what are you talking about?"

John had wanted to keep this all a secret. He hadn't even told Mary. But now was the time.

He took a deep breath and began to talk.

"It was the war, Sherlock. You know I was a doctor. But I never told you about the girl, did I?"

Sherlock shook his head, wanting to hear more.

"Maybe a week before I was shot, my colleagues brought in a young girl. Skinny, looked about 8 or 9. Civilian. Her town had been raided and all of her family was killed."

John looked out beyond Sherlock, farther than any eyes could see.

"The child had shrapnel all through her leg. She also had wounds dangerously close to arteries. One was by her aorta, right by her heart. Sherlock, my colleagues and I worked so hard to save that girl. So hard."

John's eyes shined as he turned his face to Sherlock's.

"We tried, we really did. But it was too late. When that flatline monitor went off, I had to leave. I try every day to forget her face. She was probably at one point very cute and happy, smiling, with no problems whatsoever. Sherlock, soldiers are supposed to be strong. But I couldn't help it. I cried. I wept like a baby, for the girl who died unclaimed. So innocent, too young, too sweet to have been lost to the war. She died alone, scared, not understanding why or where her family had gone. She had a life ahead of her, and it was taken. I cried for children like this."

Sherlock still didn't understand, but he listened to his friend.

"After I got shot and came back here, I had too much. I was done. I didn't think that I could handle living, when my comrades had died, young people had died for the evil others had caused. It was survivor's guilt, Sherlock. Everyday, when I woke up, I took out my gun. It has always been loaded. I held it in my hand, just to see if I was ready, if today was going to be the day that I joined the victims of war."

Sherlock looked up in shock.

"The day we met at Bart's, I told myself that today was the day. I promised myself that I was going to shoot myself in the head that day. I just wanted a last breath of fresh air before… I did it. Then I bumped into Mike, who introduced me to you. Sherlock, you… meeting you literally saved my life. Imagine, if I hadn't met you, where would I be? Where would you be? I bet that you would be the one, looking at my body on the floor, deducing what the hell happened. Maybe you would've taken my body to Molly Hooper. Everything, and I mean everything, Sherlock, could've been different. You offering me a place to stay is something that changed my life."

John looked away from Sherlock, looked at his hands, and continued to tell his story.

"So when you… when you fell, all I could see was your body, joined with the others I had failed to save... victims of war... Harry, from turning to alcohol... my mother, whose death came too early... and now you, my closest and my best friend. It was just like the days before I met you. I fell into a depression again, until recently. But you showing up again makes me so bloody conflicted. I don't know whether to be ridiculously happy and rejoice like all those stupid cartoons, or to beat you to a pulp."

Sherlock smiled.

"Needless to say, you took the second route."

John laughed despite himself.

"But Sherlock, what I'm trying to say is that you've really saved my life. But then with you dying and just letting me grieve, I didn't know if I could take it anymore. You gave me a reason to live, a reason to continue on with my life. You made it interesting. There was always something up when I was on a case with Sherlock bloody Holmes."

Sherlock stared at John, usually slitted eyes wide open filled with something John never saw in Sherlock.

Hope.

"So… you forgive me?"

"You know, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff. Just one phone call. One phone call to let me know that you were all right.

You were… no... you are... the best and wisest man that I have ever known. Of course I forgive you."

With those five simple words, John looked up into the face of his friend. All of Sherlock's emotions seemed to be crashing on him at once. For the first time, John could clearly read Sherlock's face and emotion.

That single second of vulnerability in Sherlock's features seemed to last a lifetime to both parties.

John saw hope, joy, tiny shards of pain, and something else in his blue-green eyes that he couldn't identify.

But he didn't care.

He could care less as he gently embraced his best friend, shocking Sherlock, who stiffened, then leaned back into the hug.

All that mattered was that he had forgiven Sherlock. After so much pain, grieving, anger, hope, and betrayal, John finally forgave Sherlock.

Right now, that's all that mattered.

Not just to John, but to Sherlock as well.

Maybe it meant more to the consulting detective than he thought it did.