A.N.: So to anyone who follows me for whatever reason, this is not what I have written in the past... This is my new fandom focus: Sherlock! A little Johnlock reunion fic I wrote up. Oddly, this is the kind of fic that I almost never read, but I felt like writing one... So here you go.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, blah, blah, blah. Story idea's been used, but this is my version of it.

He's gone. It won't make a difference. There's no use staying here, pining after a dead man. John kept telling himself this. Over and over, the same little nonsense assurances to make himself feel better. After the fall John had struggled with the death of his best friend. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had comforted him, had been good friends and, eventually, he found that he could fool them. A laugh and easy smile would set them at ease. And after a few months it became natural to fake.

John lasted two years this way, faking his happiness to put the minds of those near him at rest. Obviously he stopped helping on cases. Sherlock was the proper genius, not him. His days were filled with clinic work and nights alone in the flat. 221B wasn't the same any more. Without the detective's sounds, violin at 3 in the morning or his mutterings while working on an experiment, the flat felt empty. Cold.

Which led to where he was not. Packing a bag, a cab on the way to take him to the airport, and a plane prepared to return him to Afghanistan. Back to the war. He had even been reassigned to the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, his original division. He grinned at the prospect of seeing familiar faces.

A gentle knock on the door announced Mrs. Hudson's entrance. "Your taxi's here dear." Mrs. Hudson said, a small tremor in her voice. "Thanks Mrs. Hudson." he replied as he zipped the suitcase shut. Turning to face his landlady then, John captured her in a hug. She kept him at arms' length when they broke apart and looked him over with tear-filled eyes. "Look at you, so handsome in your uniform.

"Now stay safe over there. The flat will be here when you get back." John offered a small smile, not having the heart to tell her he had little intention to continue living at 221B after his tour. Making his way down the steps and out the door, he set his case in the cab. Hesitating for a moment, he took one final, mournful look at the familiar door to 221B and then climbed into the cab. With the slam of his door, John finally put the past behind him.

Afghanistan had not changed since the last time he was there. It was the same routine, the same faces. They had yet to run into much trouble, but John knew it was inevitable.

The time never dragged while he was in the war. Weeks and months blended together and John barely noticed their passing. Soon a year had passed and it was time for him to return to England. To civilian life. No limp this time. Perhaps a bit worse for wear, but no new injuries.

He was going back to London. Not 221B Baker Street, mind, but he couldn't bear to live away from the city. He still craved the excitement of city life. It would be nothing like life was with Sherlock, but he would endure as he always did.

The plane landed late in the afternoon and John quickly collected his suitcase and hailed a cab. Giving his new address to the cabbie, he sat back and took in the familiar London streets. He'd had Mrs. Hudson send over his things to the new flat a week before, but hadn't told her when he'd be coming home. John would call her soon enough, but wanted a day or two to get resettled.

Sooner than expected, they'd reached the flat, conveniently located on the opposite side of London than 221B. He wearily paid the cabbie and unlocked the flat. By now it was late in the evening and John only wished to lay down for a nap or have a nice cuppa. He switched lights on as he entered the modest flat. What he saw in his living room nearly stopped his heart.

"Sherlock..." he breathed in utter disbelief. And sure enough, there was Sherlock Holmes. Seated in his desk chair as though he belonged no where else. "What..." John struggled to form words to fit his rattled thoughts.

"You... you were..." Sherlock raised placating hands in front of him, ending John's stammering. "John I know this is a shock. But let me explain, please." His words came out in a rush, despair leaking through his voice. Sherlock watched him stutter for a few moments more before asking a hesitant, "John?" He had taken shaking steps closer to the detective and finally found his voice. "You... BASTARD!" he roared. He shook with pent up emotion. Clenching his left fist unconsciously, John continued to rant. "You were dead. I saw you fall. I took your bloody pulse for God's sake!" "John I know, please, just let me explain!" He extended a hand to grasp the doctor's shaking shoulder, but was halted as he connected with John's fist. Sherlock stumbled back from the force of the blow, clutching his cheek where the soldier's fist had struck. John took advantage of his confused haze to knock him to the ground. Straddling his waist and gripping the front of Sherlock's shirt, John raised his still-clenched fist as if to punch him again. Instead it shakily fell against his shoulder.

"Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years." he sobbed. Gripping the back of his neck, Sherlock pulled him forward until their foreheads were pressed together. "I'm sorry, John. I had to. Moriarty was going to kill you. You, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. He had snipers for each of you unless I jumped." His grip tightened as his explanation continued. "I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't bear to lose you." His desperation began to leak through his words, but John ignored it, his own pain outweighing all compassion for the detective. "And you think I could?" he spat. "You think it was any easier for me to lose you? To see you jump from that God damn roof? You think that was easy?" His voice cracked on the last syllable. Sherlock winced and tried to continue, but was cut off before he could begin. "Why come back now? Why wait three years and come back now?"

"My plans took... longer... than expected." "Plans?" His voice had reduced to a whisper now. "Yes, to destroy his web of criminals." The doctor drew back slightly, though still within his grasp, and opened his eyes to examine his face. "You're an idiot." The murmured tease made Sherlock's eyes snap open to search his friend's gaze. "You didn't have to do that alone. Why didn't you tell me? I would have helped you." Now it was Sherlock's turn to have anger flashing behind his gaze. "That was the point! I did it to keep you safe, not put you in further danger." "I'm a soldier Sherlock. I don't think-" "That as well!" He snarled. "I come back a year ago, expecting to find you here, safe, and instead, Mycroft tells me you've gone off to Afghanistan again. Why would you do that?"

He stiffened, instantly feeling defensive. "I told you Sherlock, I'm a soldier. It's my responsibility to serve!" The detective shook his head desperately. "No it's not John." he insisted. "You served your time, you were injured. You didn't need to go back.

"Do you know how worried I was? Not knowing whether you'd come back injured again, if at all." Seeing the detective so upset caused a dull ache to resonate through the doctor and his anger subsided completely for a moment. "I was terrified John." The admittance was barely more than a whisper but the imploring look in his eyes spike volumes. John peered at his friend then reached up to cup his face gently. His pleading look was returned with something the genius couldn't quite place. It stirred something within his chest and Sherlock found himself murmuring, "John-" Leaning closer, John said in a hushed tone, "Shut up Sherlock." Moments later, their lips brushed. I was just the faintest whisper of contact, but Sherlock pressed into it, eager for it to last even as John withdrew. Their breath mingled as the seconds ticked by. Finally Sherlock recaptured John's lips. This was not the gentle brush of lips, but a searing, desperate kiss. Both poured their raging emotions into it as they deepened the kiss. When they broke apart, gasping for breath, John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's. "I'm still pissed at you." he panted lightly. The detective gave a miniscule nod and breathed, "I know." "You have a lot to explain." Another nod and he opened his mouth to begin. Instead, John captured him in a kiss once more and murmured, "Later."

Fin

A.N.: And there you go! It's unbeta'd, so if there are any mistakes I'd appreciate being told. Otherwise, let me know what you think! This is my first attempt at Johnlock or anything even remotely romantic. So the kiss thing probably sucks... But I'd love to hear what you think.