This should be read as a sequel to my stories "Afternoon Tea" and "A Study In Black, Blue and Red" in my ongoing "The Boys Next Door" series, but I think it works as a standalone. Enjoy!
"War is hell, but that's not the half of it, because war is also mystery and terror and adventure and courage and discovery and holiness and pity and despair and longing and love. War is nasty; war is fun. War is thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead."
-Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried
"Sherlock, you really didn't have to do that," John said through gritted teeth, nearing his wits end.
"What else was I supposed to test the flammable properties of nitrocellulose on?" Sherlock replied, as though it was as simple as the Earth going around the sun (for some people, at least).
"I don't know Sherlock, maybe…not one of my jumpers?" John replied, throwing his arms wide in his anger.
"But wool contains a compound that is highly reactive to…"
"Well then why didn't you use your coat? That's made of wool too, y'know," John burst.
Sherlock was silent.
"It's true, Sherlock. I don't understand why it's never your things that get damaged in experiments, only mine. Why is that?" John asked.
Sherlock remained silent.
"I'm serious Sherlock, I want to know why. It's not fair that you don't respect my things. It's getting to be a problem. It's been a problem; I'm just tolerant-ˮ
Sherlock turned around his position on the couch to face the wall.
"Is this how it's going to be Sherlock, really? You can't turn around and have a mature, adult conversation?" John asked.
As expected, he did not receive an answer.
"Well sod this, I need some air."
"Or what about…we blow a hole in Mount Rushmore big enough to carve my face?"
"Jim…"
"Or The Bank of England! We could hack right in, no problem…"
"Jim…" Sebastian sighed, massaging his furrowed brow.
"Seb…" Jim whined in reply.
"We've talked about this."
"But it would be perfect to get him on my trail again!" Jim whined, gazing up at Sebastian, his dark eyes momentarily losing their edge.
"Do you want the British and the Americans on your trail? You remember what happened to Kate and our lovely neighbor, Jim. Americans don't take affronts well."
Jim just shook his head. "But Seb, you of all people should understand what I want."
"Enlighten me," Sebastian replied, patience thinning.
"War," Jim drawled, his Irish burr barely above a whisper. "To turn the world inside out, watch it tear itself apart. You feel it too, don't you Seb? Your body yearns for it, that chaos."
Sebastian shook his head again. "You've got it wrong, Jim," he sighed.
"What?" Jim looked up, genuinely surprised.
"I'm not a general, Jim; just I shoot who I'm told to shoot."
Jim's eyes lit up once more with a spark of hope. "Ah, but don't you just love to see the shock on their face in the seconds before they die, to watch the light leave their eyes, or their comrades run like mad dogs?"
"You don't understand, Jim," Sebastian replied. "It's not the rage, just the rush."
Jim drew a heavy sigh. "I almost forgot."
"Forgot what?" Sebastian asked, sensing a challenge.
"You're ordinary, too. You don't sense the larger meaning of war, just the thrill."
Sebastian's eyes flared. "You of all people should know just how…extraordinary I am," he replied, voice low.
Jim sighed again. "You just don't get it, do you, Seb?" He smiled to himself. "But that's alright, you're still useful. You're a great shot, and you keep the bed warm…"
Sebastian rose to his feet before Jim could finish.
"Sod this, I need a smoke."
John could have easily gone anywhere, yet he decided to stick close to clear his head until Sherlock sulked himself bored. Reaching the nearest alleyway, he sank back against the wall of 221, breathing a sigh and believing he was alone.
Until he saw the flame.
It was miniscule, barely a spark from his position, but it was there, briefly outlining that now all-too-familiar face before being blown out.
For a few minutes silence reigned and smoke billowed, broken only by typical London nighttime noises, John's breathing and Sebastian's occasional puffs.
As the smoke filled the air, so did the tension, until it became a palpable entity, crowding the alleyway. Finally, feeling suffocated by it, John spoke.
"We don't have to just ignore each other, you know," he called out, voice loud and not without a faint quiver. "It's not very neighborly."
"My apologies," Sebastian breathed out in a cloud of smoke. Throwing the still-glowing cigarette down, he smothered it as he walked over to John in measured strides. For a moment John felt his chest tighten in fear, which quickly dissipated as Sebastian slouched himself next to John on the wall.
"So, what brings you out here?" He asked, staring at the wall ahead of him.
"Sherlock, John sighed heavily. "He's just…God he's such a wanker sometimes. You?"
"Jim's in one of his moods," Sebastian replied, sounding resigned.
John momentarily resisted the urge to shudder at what this "mood" might entail.
"He just… he gets these ideas in his head and try as you might, you can't get him to let go."
"Sherlock's just the same," John said with a chuckle, hardly thinking of it. While he had no notion of what Jim's "ideas" might be, he certainly understood his neighbor. "And the things that man does…"
"Jim blew up Mrs. Turner's bins last week," Sebastian cut in absentmindedly. In the flickering light of his newly lit cigarette John could see the jagged ghost of a smile softening his sharp features.
"Really?" John asked, not altogether surprised.
"Yeah, she took it out of the rent."
"Mrs. Hudson had to do this with us once. Sherlock… the bloody idiot was shooting the walls…"
Sebastian's bark of laughter was enough to silence John, his head thrown back in such complete abandon that John could not help but join him in it, leaning against the wall for support.
After a time, their laughter finally did die down, Sebastian and John looked at each other with what a passer-by could easily mistake for fondness.
"Such idiots, aren't they?" John gasped with a grin.
"Yeah," Sebastian replied, the lilt of a laugh still present in his voice. "But they're our idiots."
John was silent for a moment, tilting his head toward the sky. "They are" he agreed, his voice somewhere else. "Yeah, they are."
"And…isn't that what we love about them? The madness, the chaos-no, the freedom of not knowing what's going to happen tomorrow."
"Yeah," John replied, eyes bright with memories of fire-tinged skies, of the war-drunk cries of his men. "That's what it was like…back there."
For the first time, Sebastian looked at him. Really looked, like he was trying to dissect the doctor.
"You miss it." Not a question, but a stated fact, barely above a whisper.
"Of course I do," John replied. "Don't you?"
"Like hell," he agreed, snuffing out a second cigarette.
It was then that John began to understand the Morans' marriage; Sebastian's need for action, for spontaneity, for freedom…
It wasn't all that different for him and Sherlock.
"I'd better get in before he decides to boil my shoes or something," Seb broke the silence with an exasperated grin.
"Can't leave them along too long, can you?" Jon added, his smile genuine.
Seb returned it. "I'll see you sometime, Watson," he said before retreating out of the alleyway to 223.
"Yeah," John replied to no one in particular. "See you, Moran."
Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! Constructive criticism/ brit-picking is encouraged!
Special thanks to ScarFacedHundred for her inspiring feedback!