The guns firing in the air melded all into a series of loud bangs, chaotic and inseparable. There was no way to tell which side would come out the winner, which side would survive the battle. All John knew was that he was out of ammo and he was going to be added to that list in the barracks of dead soldiers if he didn't find a way out.
He had been working at the medical tent, taking care of soldiers when they were dragged in, when a soldier came into the tent screaming. He had said his friend was stuck under a bolder, that he would be fine so long as John followed him to the place and took care of him. John, of course, wasn't supposed to leave the medical tent during battle but had he listened? No, because he just loved getting stuck in these sorts of situations.
He sat behind a bolder, a fairly small bolder, so that he had to curl up in a ball, his rifle tucked between his leg, utterly useless. He knew he was going to die, he was sure of it, but he still searched the grounds hoping to find a way out. When his eyes landed on a heap of what looked like a man, he knew he was saved. All he had to do was get to the dead soldier and take his supplies.
John crawled as low to the floor as possible, barely covered by the large grass surrounding him. He had to move quickly, before the other side set eyes on him. SO he crawled fast, painfully fast, toward the heap of a dead soldier.
When he finally reached the body, he kept his eyes locked on the figure, urging himself to work quickly and not look around. The last time he looked around a battle sight he had to be dragged to the back to the medical wing, people claiming he was insane.
He ripped open the man's suit, searching for ammo and suddenly his hands froze. He looked up to see the man's face. It was a familiar face, he realized. The face was a face he knew. He opened his mouth, urging the name to come to his lips. When it did, he whispered, "Sherlock"
"John! John!" an arms was shaking him, who was shaking him? John suddenly flt his eyes open and he looked around. He was in the flat, he was laying in his bed in the flat he shared with Sherlock.
The arms shaking him actually happened to be Sherlock, too. He was sitting next to John, shaking him awake. As soon as John's eyes met his, Sherlock stopped the shaking. He frowned back at the man with concern and sat back, releasing John's shoulders. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, keeping his body inches away from John's.
John look around the flat, touches his sheets and looks back at Sherlock in shock. "It was so real." He says, though he means to say he's alright. His lips move on their own. His body moves on its own as well as he leans forward, into Sherlock's chest. "It was too real."
Surprisingly, Sherlock's arms came around John to hold him tighter against his chest. John's head nuzzels into Sherlock's neck and he begins to feel his heart beating back to normal, his breath coming out in smaller gasps.
They sit like that, Sherlock holding his broken John, until the sun begins to rise. Even then, they do not move because what John won't admit and what Sherlock doesn't know is that these two, they are holding each other up. They always have been, their just letting it be physical this time.