AN: Okay, so this is just feels. Pure feels. If you don't like this, don't read it! This one-shot was wished by Zoe Dominique on a facebook fanpage ( /weknowthatyouare ). Enjoy reading and review please!
I own nothing. Otherwise there would be a season 4 already.
~TheNameIsAllieHolmes

When fate calls

"John! Lestrade called!", Sherlock shouted, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see straight through it into his flatmate's room. No answer came. "John?", he repeated. It was oddly silent in the flat. The doctor had gone upstairs ten minutes ago and had rummaged around with his stuff, but as Sherlock thought about it, the noise had stopped 4 minutes and 34 seconds ago. Frowning he made his way up the stairs.

Through the still open door he could see John's back, the man himself looking down at something in his hands. From the position of his shoulders it seemed to be something out of paper, a document or something. He just stared at it, not moving at all. Hesitatingly Sherlock knocked at the door frame, silently calling John's name again. The doctor didn't react.
Carefully the tall man entered the room, stepping right behind his flatmate so that he could peer over his shoulder onto the paper. It was a rather officially looking letter, the logo of Britain's military printed in one corner. Sherlock scanned the paper, words burning into his brain like hot iron.

...marching orders...back to Afghanistan...lack of eligible doctors...one year...

Something cold seemed to clench around Sherlock's chest as his breath hitched, his eyes rereading the letter again, searching franticly for something that implied this was a bad joke. There was nothing. No bad joke. "J-John?", he asked again and finally, finally,John moved. His shoulders slumped down, slackening with defeat as if he had just realized what he was holding in his hands. Slowly he lifted his head, turning slightly around to look at Sherlock. He opened his mouth to say something, but the tall man cut him off.
"You don't have to go, I'll just call Mycroft, and he will sort this out. This is obviously a mistake, they know that you're injured, even if the limp is healed, that doesn't mean you could go back. No, no, you won't go back, no. I'm just gonna look for my phone and-"
"Sherlock", John said, grabbing the detectives arm as he tried to turn around, a tone in his voice Sherlock couldn't name. He looked up into the doctor's piercing blue eyes, unsure what to expect.
As he met his gaze, all the air puffed out of him, leaving him breathless. He wanted to cry, a lump forming in his throat and a stinging in his eyes. He could read John's decision and he didn't want him to say it out loud. It would make things definite.
"Sherlock, you know that I-"
"No." He shook his head feverishly. "No, John, no. You can't. You just can't. Don't. Please", he muttered, voice uncharacteristically breaking with the last word. John's look was sad as he winced at the trembling in his best friend's voice.
"I have to, Sherlock, you know that. I was there, I can't let them die. If they need me back, rescuing all this brave men, I have to go. Don't stop me, please." The last sentence he nearly whispered, his mind screaming inside stop me, please, stop me, I need you, stop me. But Sherlock had seen the determination on John's face, his expression already changed to soldier mood, just by a little, unworthy piece of paper with some ink on it. Face hardening, he turned around, not looking back as he left his soon to be ex-flatmate's room, missing the grieving look that followed him until John couldn't see him any longer.