So at the request of doctorcoffeegirl I have extended #14: Gun. Thank you for reading I really appreciate all you guys even just taking the time to read one or two drabbles or like one paragraph. Any reviews will be hugely welcome.

Obviously I don't own Sherlock. And a lot of these things I've had to look up, so some of them may be wrong. I also think it's weird that I can write more for a war scene, when I've never been in a war, than I can for a scene in an episode of a TV show I've probably seen three or four times.

The most terrified John had ever been was not in Afghanistan. Nor was it when he had been held hostage by Moriarty. It was walking into Baker Street and seeing Sherlock with gun pointed to his head rambling about how John had nearly died because of him.

John wasn't scared, how could he be having spent six months in Afghanistan, not fighting but caring for the injured. The rest of the team had gone ahead. Why shouldn't they? There was another medic in the group and they had to finish their mission. John wasn't important there, but he was here.

Although he knew he was mostly running on adrenaline, he always was nowadays but he'd just learnt to accept it and deal with the crash later, but he didn't falter with his movements, wrapping the bandage around Private James' wound as he lay unconscious in the sand. A slowly darkening pool of blood surrounded the man… boy's abdomen, and John felt his gut clench in fear as fresh blood already began to soak into the white cotton, dying it an unnatural shade of red.

"Come on, you can't die on me, mate. We've been through enough without you giving up."

Once he was happy with what little he could do, John leant back on the dry stone wall, grit in his eyes, his teeth clenched as his muscles complained at the sudden slowing of movement. Keeping one hand on the wound in Private Stuart James' abdomen, the other hand scrambled down to his waist to find his radio, which he spoke into despite not expecting a quick response.

"Eagle Base? This is Medic John Watson from Patrol troop 17 requesting assistance at co-ordinates 31°35 '41"N, 64°16 '02"E. Over."

The crackle on the radio picked up for a moment, then a near incomprehensible voice spoke, "State cause for assistance call. Over."

John sighed, in the middle of a war they didn't really think he would be making a prank call? "Private James seriously injured, bullet would to abdomen shoulder, shattered ribs, severe blood loss. Over"

"Request accepted. Hold your position. Over and out."

No indication of how long the wait would be, John knelt lower against the wall, attempting to protect Stuart James, 19 years old, from the sun.

The military have the amazing ability, John thought sourly, to be as fast as possible when there is a chance of a base or a tank begin destroyed, but lives, soldiers, the men and women who fought for their country, easily replaceable. He was still scanning the sky, hoping that any moment, a helicopter would appear and begin to land but no such luck. It wasn't that John disliked being in the army, in fact he was hugely proud to be a member of the armed forces, all be it as a medical doctor. Like his father before him John was serving his country, and he, well he wouldn't say enjoyed it, but he felt no sudden desire to go home despite the dangers.

It wasn't as long as he expected before a helicopter began a slow descent, and John pulled his eyes away from the whirring blades, instead to the pale body of Stuart. He relaxed; they were basically home safe, aware from the front line and heading back to the base. Stuart would get proper medical attention and would hopefully live. He stood, lifting a hand to let the foot soldiers in the helicopter

Of course, John wasn't looking for snipers in the buildings across from him, and wasn't prepared when a precisely aimed bullet pierced his shoulder, sending him tumbling to the ground, gasping for breath as blackness enveloped his vision nearly immediately.

He awoke what felt like mere seconds later, pain radiating throughout his body, and frantic words being spoken in muffled tones. He heard someone shouting, why where they shouting, and lights that were so bright above his eyes, and so much pain. John knew he was going to die. At this point John thought he knew what fear was.

Opening his eyes and finding himself in a darkened room with a large weight crushing down on his chest, John was more than a little confused.

Last thing he could clearly remember had fought with Sherlock. He'd been upset, he thought he knew Sherlock but really he knew nothing, so he'd left. He'd been going to meet Sarah. He'd walked down the steps of Baker Street… then nothing. John didn't understand. He closed his eyes. He opened them again, assuming it would have made all the difference. It didn't.

John ran a hand though his hair, and then gently patted them over his chest to try and determine what he was wearing that was causing the weight. There was an almost fleece coating, and he kicked himself. I'm wearing a fleece, but other than that he had no clues. Next he, taking a leaf out of Sherlock's book, used his other senses to conclude… I'm in a swimming pool. Rippling water, lapping gently but on a large scale, extremely high levels of dissolved chlorine giving off a distinctive smell.

And then footsteps, John frowned, footsteps? Very faint and very far away in the building. The lights in the room all flicked on, temporarily blinding him, and John squinted against the light. Pulling himself to his feet, he gazed downward to his chest, horror enveloping every fibre of his being, and was then startled by a voice that spoke so softly into his ear, "Don't say a word John Watson."

He could hear rippling water, and a set of footsteps. The voice was silent.

He looked down again, not having accepted what he'd seen before and felt his stomach drop at the sight of a large vest covered in explosives attached to his chest.

The smell of chlorine filled his nostrils.

Bombs. Moriarty. The voice. Moriarty. The footsteps. Sherlock.

John's heart beat kicked it up so he felt as though he were going to pass out from the sudden increase in heart rate. But Sherlock was here so he panicked. Sherlock was here. Surely not looking for him. No of course Moriarty. He would be here. This was the end of the game. The final riddle for Sherlock to solve, with John as the prize.

The voice spoke again, "Walk out the door."

If he was quite honest John hadn't noticed the door before, he'd been too preoccupied by bombs attached to his chest, and his best friend standing mere metres from where it could so easily explode, so door hunting hadn't been his main priority. The sudden sound of Sherlock's voice startled John, he held it in his memory, in case it was the last thing he heard, and he paused before the voice reiterated its command.

Stepping out, and seeing Sherlock turn to face him, then seeing the mixed emotions in Sherlock's eyes. Betrayal. Hurt. Anger. Confusion. Sadness. John thought he knew what fear was.

John stood in the door way to the staircase, before leaning back in to the living room and calling to Sherlock, who John presumed was in his bedroom.

"Sherlock? I'm popping to the shops. Is there anything you need?"

There was a pause, "We're out of milk."

John sighed, "Yes that's why I'm going, but is there anything you need?"

"Oh. No thank you then John."

He was used to conversations like this but it didn't mean be found them any easier. Sherlock had been different since Moriarty, of course he had, they both had. John certainly wasn't one to argue that going through a trauma like that was going to leave you completely unchanged. He's seen enough men waking from injury in Afghanistan to know that it was emotional wounds that lasted much longer than physical ones. Something was upsetting Sherlock. He hadn't taken a case in weeks, even ones that John suggested were interesting. Of course John cared about Sherlock, he was his best friend, and he didn't want to let him suffer in silence, but he didn't want to let his life revolve around whether Sherlock wanted to play along with normal life or not.

Padding round the supermarket, John had the terrible urge to give up on the shop and run home and envelope Sherlock in a hug that as sure to get him a scornful look from the man in question. But he didn't. He was Dr. John Watson, ex military medic and assistant to the remarkable Sherlock Holmes. Remarkable. Unusual. Different.

John didn't bother buying the milk in the end. He needed to talk to Sherlock. There may be nothing wrong, but John wanted to talk.

"Mrs. Hudson, have you spoken to Sherlock today?" John spoke more at Mrs Hudson than to her and she seemed startled as he ran up the stairs to the door to 221b.

"No dear, is he all right? It's been very quiet up there"

John offered no reply pushing open the door and coming to an abrupt halt at the sight in the living room.

"Sherlock?" The word was barely a whisper, and John nearly kicked himself at the lack of power his voice had.

Sherlock looked up at him, sitting in his chair, the gun pressed against his temple, tear tracks staining his face, "Oh, John. I hadn't expected to still be here when you got back. I hadn't expected you to be back so soon actually."

"What are you doing?"

"At the moment I'm actually trying to persuade myself to pull the trigger, which is a lot harder than you'd expect."

John felt his stomach twist and his military skills pulled themselves together, a tightening of muscles he hadn't used since Afghanistan and a twinge of old shoulder wounds. "Sherlock put the gun down, there's no need for this."

Sherlock, ever the avoider, glanced behind him, where Mrs Hudson stood, hand over her mouth. He clicked his tongue, a small crease in between his eyebrows, "Did you not get milk then John?"

"Who cares about the damn milk Sherlock!"

"Who cares about my damn life John!" The gun swung away in his emotion, but on the last word, Sherlock put the gun back to his temple.

To avoid slapping him and screaming at him to come to his senses, John turned to Mrs Hudson, "Will you call DI Lestrade, then Mycroft Holmes" he passed his mobile to her, "The numbers are in there."

"Don't," Sherlock whined, but they both ignored him.

John walked further into the room, kicking the door closed behind him, "Sherlock, what do you think your trying to do. If this is about attention, you've certainly-"

"This isn't about attention." He didn't turn to look at John, "Moriarty was my fault John. If I hadn't fallen for the game, then he never would have stepped it up and taken you and nearly killed you and-"

"Sherlock that's enough," John tried to speak over him, taking another step closer. Sherlock jerked his head toward him, his trigger finger twitching, and John raised his hands. Sherlock stood and matched John's step, the gun still against his temple, so they were almost an inch apart. John could feel Sherlock's breaths on his face.

"If it weren't for me John, Moriarty wouldn't have strapped bombs on you, and twisted my words to make it seem as though I don't care about you. When John I do, I care more than anything about you. You are the most important thing to me. And this means that whenever we get a case where someone tries to hurt me, to stop me from solving it, they're going to take you because you are my heart. You are the literally the only thing in my life that has any importance to me. If I didn't like you in the way I do you wouldn't be in this danger John!"

Sherlock paused, his breathing so unsteady, it took all John's control to not just grab his arms and pull the stupid gun from his stupid hand. But Sherlock was talking again."This is why I can't be here anymore. I can't live not being your friend and you can't live being my friend. If I die this ends all our problems. Nobody will hurt you anymore if I'm not here."

And the ex soldier who'd seen people killed, who'd almost died twice himself, finally was scared. John Watson knew what true fear was.