Warning: this is the first fic I've ever written and I'm italian so English is not my first language.
I hope you'll like it. Feel absolutely free to point out any mistake.
"Damn it" Sherlock thought, looking at his now ruined experiment. He didn't want to admit that his mind was not focused on what he was actually doing, but on the man behind that Moriarty mask.
So he blame his pliers.
Those fucking things didn't work properly anymore, so he made a mental note to "borrow" a new pair at St. Bart's the next day. Meanwhile, he slipped into John's room to search for
some kind of pliers in his first aid kit, which was undoubtedly hidden under his bed.
Sit on the edge of John's bed, he smirked at himself when he put his hands on a plastic box, but his smile immediately changed into a questioning look when he opened it.
There was no first aid kit in the box. Instead, it was filled with old and worn-out Dog Tags.
"What are you doing in my room?"
Sherlock was woken up by John's words as from a surreal dream, the Dog Tags still in his hands.
"What the hell are you doing in my fucking room?" John asked again angrily, as he saw that Sherlock had snooped around his very personal stuff.
"John, I..."
"Who do you think you are? You have no fucking right to be here, search through my stuff and TOUCH my stuff!
Leave it and get the hell out of here!" John yelled so loud he could almost hear the whole room vibrate.
Sherlock freezed, not because he was afraid but because he was surprised, he wanted to know the reasons behind John's sudden anger.
"I googled some of the names on these tags, they all belong to soldiers you saved. I can't see why you keep them hidden in an old box under your bed. Those soldier gave you
their tags out of gratitude 'cause you saved their lives, you should show them to the whole world and be proud of yourself." Sherlock said in a low but steady voice.
"Proud, you said? PROUD? What of? Proud of saving few tens of fellows when I lost hundreds of them? Proud of making an enormous mistake in exposing myself to my enemies
and get shot in a shoulder and get discharged, so now I'm stuck here with an awkward temporary job, an heavy drinker sister, no money and no hope for my future?
Oh you're right, there is SO MUCH to be proud of!"
Sherlock didn't have enough time to register what John said and reply properly, that John already stormed out of both the room and the flat, leaving behind himself the most freezing
and disturbing sensation the detective has ever felt.
John was limping his way to Sarah's, when something unexpected and painful hit him in the neck. Suddenly, in his mind it all became dark and messy.
The, the pool.
Jim from IT. Jim Moriarty. Jim Moriarty who built that fucking twisted game to get Sherlock "come out and play".
The snipers, the bomb.
Sherlock looking at him, John nodding.
the explosion, the fire, the water.
And then the Silence.
John woke up to the noise of an alarm in a disturbing white room.
His whole body ached, his thinking was slow and his throat dry as the desert.
He realized he was in a hospital bed, but he wasn't sure about what he brought him there.
John tried to move, but he felt dumb and tired so he gave up; instead, he slowly turned his head left to find a sleepy Sherlock bent over an uncomfortable plastic chair.
Then, he noticed it. There was something in his left hand.
He carefully lift it up and opened his fingers, and what he saw left him speechless.
In his hand there were two little plastic badges hanging by a gutstring. On one of the badges, an elegant signature he recognized as his friend's.
"I'm glad you're awake" Sherlock said in relief, "I think it's my turn to speak now, since two days ago you left without giving me the chance to do it."
"Sherlock, look, I'm sor-" John tried to mumble, but Sherlock immediately stopped him with a dry gesture.
"No need to talk now, just listen to me. Do you remember what you told me in that cab while we were going to Brixton to examine that woman killed by the cabby? You said my deductions
were quite extraordinary."
John nodded, unsure about what he should do or say.
"Well, they were not. Almost nothing I do is nearly as extraordinary as what YOU did since we met. You followed the cabby who kidnapped me and shot him to save my life;
then you almost got killed by the chinese Mafia and again saved me while being TIED TO A CHAIR; and last but not least, you ended up trapped in an explosive vest, you fought Moriarty
and saved my life by throwing me in the water before the explosion killed us both.
If, by chance, there is a single man in this fucking world who should feel proud of himself, this man is you, John Watson"
Sherlock's voice was trembling and soft, and his words made John felt like heaven fell on Earth just for him.
His friend - his brilliant, extraordinary and wonderful friend - thought he was a hero.
When they came home few days later, John went to his room, took the Dog Tags and put them in the little display cabinet Mrs. Hudson purchased him.
But not all the Dog Tags.
He kept one on himself, arranged on his neck and as closed to his heart as nothing else before.