A/N: I opened up prompts on my Tumblr, and these are what I got. XD

First one, by Anonymous, "John is called back to Afganistan, Sherlock has to stop it somehow, but the hard part is telling John why he wants him to stay so bad. Have fun! :)"

And fun I had, because this became quite humorous.

"Did you bother to get the mail at all?" John sighs as he enters the flat after grocery shopping.

Sherlock hums something noncommittal and shrugs where he lies on the sofa, two nicotine patches on his forearm and his prayer hands raised to his chin, eyes shut calmly.

John rolls his eyes and goes to fetch the mail. When he comes back, he's sifting through it one by one, ignoring the ads and coupons and bills. Then one with a stamp of the British army catches his eye, and he freezes in place. "Sherlock."

"Not now, John. I'm working out the next step in our current case."

John opens the letter and reads it. He swallows hard and looks up. "I have to go back to Afghanistan, Sherlock. They need me."

Sherlock's eyes fly open and he immediately bolts upward. "Come again?"

"Army. Afghanistan. I'm being called back," John summarizes tightly. "They want me to leave next week."

"What? No. Unacceptable. You aren't going." And he flops back onto the sofa, tearing off his patches with less finesse than usual.

"Sherlock, I'm enlisted. My limp has been eradicated thanks to you, and I have nothing wrong with my physique. I can't decline," John reminds him firmly, but he still sounds nervous, very hesitant to go.

The detective scowls. "No. I'm going to stop this. Mark my words, you won't be going."

"Sherlock, unless you do something like shoot me in the leg, I have to go," John retorts. His face falls in horror. "Dear God, I've given you ideas. Don't do what I just said, please."

"We could fake your death —" Sherlock begins.

"And look how that turned out for you and Irene Adler! The answer is no!" and John turns sharply on his heel and heads for his bedroom. He needs to relocate his dog tags.

Sherlock panics. John can't leave him. This can't be permitted to happen, not in the least! John… John is very essential, very vital, very, very important to Sherlock. John is… John is his conductor of light, and he'll be damned if he loses him in conflict abroad, or even misses him for months on end. No, it simply cannot happen.

So Sherlock calls Mycroft, asks him to pull some strings.

His damn older brother is smug about it. "And why, exactly, do you want to keep John in England so badly?" he wants to know.

"You know why," Sherlock growls, not interested in explaining himself.

"Hmm, yes, I've had my suspicions for a while now, but I would love to hear you admit it," Mycroft damn near purrs, and the next time Sherlock sees him, he's going to round-house kick his brother in the jaw, and he will do it enough to dislocate, he can promise that much.

"If I were to confess to anyone, it would be to him, and since I don't plan on saying it even to him, then I'm certainly not going to say it to you. Good day, Mycroft." And with that, he angrily presses the 'end' button on his cell phone.

He calls back a minute later, and begrudgingly, Sherlock picks up the phone.

"I never said I'd do it, Little Brother," Mycroft says teasingly. "You will have to give me your word that you will take the next twenty cases I have for you without any qualms, protests, or refusals."

"If it will keep John in London with me, then I will take any stupid case you give me," Sherlock demands, "Just keep him from going back there, Mycroft!"

"…What's this about making me stay in London?" John frowns, entering the room.

"You have a deal. Now I think you should confess what you were never going to confess if you want him to understand properly. Ta-ta," Mycroft smirks in Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock drops the phone and blinks at John. "It's… nothing important, really. I just had my brother use his influence with the government to sway them to revoke your callback. Now you won't have to serve again, and alls well that ends well. Now then, John, about our current case —"

"Hold on one bleedin' minute!" John barks, face controrted in confusion. "Why the hell does it matter if I stay or go? People's lives could be saved if I left, and you hardly need my input or anything! Why does it bother you so much if I serve again? I don't want to go much, I'll admit, but I also don't mind going, either. Could be good for me, even, in the long run; you and your brother are the ones who pointed out how accustomed and even addicted to danger I am. So what's wrong with going back to Afghanistan?"

"…You belong here, that's all," Sherlock says thickly, his voice tight. He doesn't look John in the eye. "Tea? I'll put the kettle on."

"No! No sodding tea until you tell me why you're acting like this! It's almost like you're panicking, which is weird, because the only time I've seen you this distressed was with the Hound and the drugs." John states, and Sherlock resists wincing.

"…I," Sherlock starts, and hesitates. He turns toward John. With a flourish of his hands, he says, "I just need you to stay here. It's boring without you. And besides, you know how I am with shopping and social conduct; I would make a mess of things within a week and everyone would disown me. Plus, I might get myself killed on a case. That happens a lot, doesn't it: you needing to save me. So there, you're needed here more. That's all there is to it."

"…You're saying… that you need me."

Sherlock nods hurriedly and moves toward the kitchen. "Yes, John, that's precisely what I'm saying. Now then, tea?"

"But why would you need me? You never did before I moved in with you. You were perfectly fine before," John points out, and dammit, Sherlock forgets how John has his moments of true clarity.

The detective tenses and fiddles with the silk of his robe. "Ah, no reason why. And I wasn't fine before you came; that much is abundantly clear, isn't it? I'd think so."

"No, it's not, because you're lying. Sherlock, you're hiding something from me. What is it?" John questions, his gaze piercing enough to distract Sherlock.

It pulls Sherlock 'round again, and he makes a face before dropping the facade and sighing. He pinches the bridge of his nose in a sigh of tired surrender. "Yes, all right, fine. I am hiding something. But it's nothing you need know, that's all. It's just a… small revelation I've had in mind for a while now, nothing serious, and it's come to light even more-so due to this recent event. No biggie," he says at the end like a teenager. "Tea? Yes?"

"No, Sherlock," John frowns. He's getting irritated. "What revelation?"

"Um," Sherlock mutters, and yes, for once, the genius is without words. "Nothing."

"Sherlock…"

"Really, John, it's silly."

"Sherlock."

"It's just a minor detail about me, John, a little discovery of sorts. Nothing you probably don't already know." Although he's bluffing. He knows John is unaware of it, and he likes to keep it that way.

"Sherlock! Tell me already!" John shouts, and Sherlock visibly flinches.

With a suddenly burst of hot anger (probably due to being exposed for a moment during that flinch, as well as getting fed up with John prodding so deeply into the topic), Sherlock screams, "I love you, that's why!"

John blinks. "…What?"

"I love you," Sherlock sighs in defeat. "Seems I do have a heart, John, and emotions. And they're all for you, because of you. And they are so common and annoying, too." He looks up, finally, eyes searching John's face. "Now will you let me keep you here? Regardless of how you might be possibly disgusted with me — I am well aware of your sexuality, and I expect nothing from you — the fact remains that I care about you and don't wish to see you wounded, and I love you, which means I don't wish for you to leave my side for so long. Is that wrong?"

"…No, Sherlock," John whispers, taking a step closer. He shakes his head, smiles gently. "It's not wrong."

"So you'll stay? You'll let Mycroft revoke your call to action?" Sherlock asks mutedly.

John nods and steps into his flatmate's personal space, taking him into his arms. "Yes and yes. Of course. If you had just told me sooner, I would have asked you to do all that, actually."

"Really? Why?" Sherlock wants to know.

John chuckles and leans up to peck a kiss on Sherlock's chin. "Because I love you, too, you daft git. I can't believe you didn't realize sooner that I do. World's most observant man can't even see that his own flatmate's in love with him; that's one for the record books, I reckon."

"Shut up and kiss me properly," Sherlock retorts with a smirk.

And that's the end of that argument, as it were.