I wanted to put my spin on the obligatory depressed John fic. Only in mine John is in Afghanistan. This plot choice had nothing to do with my fantasy of seeing Martin Freeman in army fatigues… Nope. Nothing at all : )

Also I have absolutely no military background, so if I get some terminology wrong, try not to get too angry with me. That being said I'm always open to constructive criticism! Enjoy!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I promised myself that after I dropped therapy, I would at least keep a diary. I thought it would help a bit to write everything out, so maybe I could make sense of things. Or at least monitor myself to make sure I wasn't going crazy.

There was only one problem: I couldn't write a damn thing.

I stared at those blank pages for days unable to write a single word. It was a million times worse than when I was writing your blog. Back then you would laugh at me over my writer's block, when I was struggling to find the perfect phrase to describe the way that London looked when we'd run through it together in the night or the dreamy look in your eyes when you were dead to the world, trapped away in your own mind.

"It's about the facts, John!" you'd chide. "These pointless details are just sentiment."

And then I'd laugh and say that some people enjoyed the sentiment and go back to brooding over those pointless details all the same.

But now it's different. Now the words just don't make sense. Nothing really makes sense anymore.

This is actually the first time I've been able to write anything at all.

I think it's because I'm writing to you.

I can't help it. I used to tell you that your ego was so massive that you sucked everyone else's into your orbit. It's still true. Not just that you're self-centered (although you're definitely that, too), but that I can't think in terms of just myself anymore. You've forever changed my view of the world. You're a star, Sherlock, a bloody super nova. You pull people in, even as you're self-destructing, and then you don't let go.

I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts.

Maybe this can be less like a diary and more like a letter.

I guess I should probably start it off like a proper letter then.

Dear Sherlock,

I ran away.

After your…

After you…

Fuck, I still can barely even get myself to say it out loud, much less write it out on paper. After all of that happened, I couldn't stay in London. I saw you everywhere. I saw you hiding in every alleyway, spying from every rooftop, sitting in every coffee shop ducked behind the morning paper or a book.

I even literally saw you on the street a few times, or at least I thought I did. Once when I was having lunch with Harry I chased some tosser down for three blocks, screaming at him to come back; begging him to not leave me behind. And then he turned around. He didn't look anything like you at all, really. Same curls and height, but nothing else. I guess I just wanted it to be you. I had to mutter some apology about mistaking him for someone else while my sister stared at me like I was insane.

Maybe I am.

Certainly no sane person would do what I've done. No sane person willingly trades one nightmare for another.

London is your city, Sherlock, and I couldn't take it anymore without you in it. One day something in me just snapped, and I left. I ran away to the edge of the earth, to the one place where I knew that I would never see you again.

I re-enlisted.

I'm back in Afghanistan.

Xxxxxxxxxxx

"John, you coming to breakfast?"

John put down his journal and blinked in confusion.

"Breakfast?," his fellow soldier elaborated. "You know, the time when most people start their day with a bit of food? You've been here a week, and I've barely seen you eat at all!."

John glanced the man over. He was a young fellow, probably still in his teens. An American judging by the accent. If he was still this gung-ho, it was probably his first tour.

He attempted a sheepish smile. It felt gaudy, somehow reminding him of the fake gold jewelry he would seen worn by the women who worked the streets at night.

"I've been distracted, I guess," he lied. "You go on without me; I'll catch up."

The soldier grinned back at him. "Alright, see you in the mess hall," he said.

"See you…"

"Charlie," the youth provided.

"I'll see you later, Charlie," John said.

Charlie, he reminded himself once more. Despite sharing living quarters with about forty other men, he hadn't bothered to learn anyone's name yet. Actually, this could be the first real conversation he'd had that didn't consist of "yes sir" and "no sir."

"Maybe I should start putting forth more of an effort," he muttered to himself.

He jumped down from his bunk and threw on his fatigues. One of the reasons that he'd reenlisted in the six months after the funeral was that it provided his life with some sort of structure again. Protocol dictated how he spent his every waking moment, dividing his time equally between sleeping, drilling, and eating.

Once upon a time he might have regretted the intrusion on his personal freedom, but now he welcomed it. It allowed him to drift through his days. Untethered. Numb. He never had to worry about what he was doing or where he had to be next. He never had to think at all, really.

John stepped out into the desert morning, bracing himself against the warmth of the day. His time in London had made him forget how truly unforgiving the desert could be. The Afghanistan summer was nothing like a day at the beach: the heat here could into a man's bones, leaving him cooked from the inside out.

Even though it was barely light outside, the base was already bustling with activity. Groups of men jogging past him on their morning run; helicopters touching down in the landing hanger; commanders shouting out orders to the new recruits. On the surface the scene was chaos incarnate, but any military man could see that controlled down to the smallest detail.

He side-stepped around a unit of men returning from drills only to be intercepted by a tall man with an extremely red face and short cropped hair.

"Are you John Watson?" he asked. Out of habit John looked at his chest. It was obvious from the number of medals that the man was his superior.

"Yes, sir," he replied.

"There's been a air raid about 10 miles from here. One of the local schools partially collapsed, leaving some civilians trapped inside. Suit up. We leave in ten," he said gruffly, nodding toward one of the choppers.

"Yes sir," John replied once again.

As the man walked away John was overcome by a familiar fluttery sensation in his chest: The anticipation of danger. Sharp pricks of adrenaline trickled down his back and settled at the base of his spine.

For the longest time he had forced himself to remain numb. Feelings lead to memories, and the memories led to questions. Questions led to pain. But now it was like a damn had opened up inside of him, and everything was flooding back in.

John closed his eyes and forced himself to breath deeply. This was the state of mind that he associated with Sherlock the most of all, this ache for the chase. John could almost see him now: the hunger reflected in his grey eyes after he had worked everything out and the only thing left was to bring in the perp. That look was predatory, cruel even.

God, he loved it.

Suddenly a chill fell over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end, and even in the middle of the desert he felt himself shiver. John knew this feeling quite intimately. He had experienced it many times in the flat when Sherlock was "studying" him: it was the feeling of being watched.

Not even daring to breathe, John turned around.

"Sherlock?

Xxxxxxxxxx

PPPPPPPPPPPPP

When Mycroft Holmes was awoken at 3:30 in the morning with word of an important visitor in his sitting room, he had about a dozen possible identities in mind. By the time he descended the stairs in his dressing gown, he had narrowed it down to two different secretaries of state, the cultural attaché to Greece, the head of the M-16, and a certain female dominatrix.

When he saw that it was only his brother, he was a little disappointed.

"I thought that you would know better than to come back here," Mycroft reprimanded.

Sherlock grabbed a pillow and leaned back into the sofa "It's safe," he argued. "People that live boring lives expect boring things. They only see what they wish to see."

Too true, Mycroft thought before wrinkling his nose in distaste. Sherlock had neglected to take off his raincoat and was dripping water all over the fine velvet.

"What is your business then, brother?"

His brother's eyes narrowed. "You know why I'm here, Mycroft."

"I'm afraid I have know idea what you mean," Mycroft verbally backtracked.

He did know, of course, but it was always fun to watch his brother throw one of his tantrums.

"Well it's sure as hell not to bring a message from mummy, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smirked. "It was a lovely visit. We should really spend more quality time as a family, you know."

Sherlock was the first to break (as he always was). He sprung from the couch with cat-like grace and rounded on Mycroft, reminding him of a panther stalking its prey.

"I have no time for your games, Mycroft, not tonight," Sherlock snarled. "I have a question and I need it to be answered truthfully: why did you sign those papers?"

"I'm assuming that mean the papers that allowed John to re-enlist."

"Have I ever given a damn about any of your treaties before? I know that you signed them," Sherlock said, circling around him. While another man would have been intimidated, Mycroft was unfazed, and more than content to stand perfectly still. He was used to his brother's penchant for the dramatic by now.

"John was medically discharged from his previous tour for a psychonumatic limp, not to mention that he just witnessed his flat-mate commit suicide by jumping from a ten-story building. There's no way that he would have passed a psychiatric evaluation. Not without the signature of someone important."

Mycroft was puzzled. No one could be that dense; not even Sherlock.

"A flat-mate? Do you really think that's all you are to him?"

Sherlock ignored his perfectly reasonable question and grabbed the collar of his dressing gown. "Do you think that I care about titles? Mycroft, he's going to get himself killed!"

And now he was touching him? Sherlock had never been one for brute intimidation, or even physical contact at all unless it was absolutely necessary, instead preferring to fling insults and accusations from afar in a battle of wits. It was completely out of character.

He had never seen his brother so unhinged before.

Mycroft sighed. "If I hadn't signed them, then he would have."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"Mrs. Hudson was keeping an eye on him for me. She called me one day and said he had been acting odd lately. Moving out of the flat, losing weight, not returning any calls. She was worried. I searched his apartment myself and found a revolver in the drawer of his nightstand, cocked and loaded with only one bullet. We both know that a man who sleeps with that at bedside only has one thing on his mind."

"No. No that's not possible," Sherlock murmured, reeling backwards as if Mycroft had hit him. "John was different. It wasn't just me – there were others – I wasn't the only one who mattered. How could I have affected him so deeply that would make him want to…"

He stared Sherlock, standing there in his raincoat, grappling with the one thing he could never truly understand. He looked so lost. It was one of the few times he had ever pitied his brother.

"I have to go," Sherlock said abruptly. He moved towards the door.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called, trying to disguise the care in his voice, "Try not to do anything stupid."

Sherlock stopped mid-slam and scoffed. "Try not to eat too much cake."

Mycroft stood alone in his foyer and laughed until he cried. Why had he ever felt sorry for such an insufferable brat?

Xxxxxxxx

John gasped. It hurt to breath, like someone had punched hard him in the gut.

You're dead.

You'redeadYou'redeadYoudiedYou'redead.

I saw you die.

I saw you fall.

I'm going insane.

He fought hard to draw breath. "Sherlock?" he finally choked out.

There was no doubt that it could be anyone else. It was all there: the angled contours of his face, that white ivory skin, long graceful limbs.

And those eyes. Even in his memories he could never quite get them right. But now, when Sherlock was standing right in front of him… god, he could get lost in eyes like that. There were entire worlds behind them; lifetimes of knowledge and memories. They were beautiful and complex and alien. They were his.

"You're not real," he murmured. He slowly brought his hand up to touch his friend's face.

"Watson!"

John spun around to see a group of men, including his commanding officer entering one of the helicopters.

"We're speeding up the plan," the red-face man called, screaming to be heard above the roar of the blades. "Get in the chopper, NOW!"

"Yes, sir!" John replied.

When he turned around, Sherlock was gone.