It was amazing, the image of silver-lit stars on a pitch black patch of sky that—if you looked just right—could feel just as round as the world itself was. Back in London, the beauty of such things could not be so easily seen, the skies often covered in a blanket of grey, water-bearing clouds that wet the city in its mournful drizzle only to leave it with the freshest, most intoxicating scent. It was something you learned to live with. You bought an umbrella, a good few coats, and you went about your day with a smile on your face. Or at least, that's what John liked to remember. He left out the nasty bits; the parts where some people—despite British stereotypes—were rude, cruel even, but never as cruel as those standing next to him, guns in hand, knives at their hips, and a look in their eyes that showed just what they had been trained to do.
They were soldiers, each one of them drilled until they didn't ask questions any longer, but instead, saluted with a shout of, 'Yes Sir,' and did as they were ordered. And God did he despise it. Despite the common disbelief, John had joined to help people, not slaughter them, but in the end, no one ever went to war and came back with hands that had not touched the blood of another soldier, friend or foe, and he was no exception, especially with the title of 'medic.'
Nothing good came of it, nothing except maybe the boost in jobs for the preparations of war and the slots to be filled; however, those killed would never get to see the results, and what was more, those who did survive to see the end were never quite the same as they were before.
As if to help prove his point—or perhaps it was just the world working against him—there was the sound of a loud, deep boom that shook the air around them, sending sand into the sky and showering them in the small bits of earth and shrapnel. All at once, they ducked, hiding behind one another as the debris showered down on them.
"John!" a familiar voice called, but in the turmoil that was the battle field, it as was hardly possible to discern who it was, and again, there was the same loud boom as before, only this time, he was shaking, but not of his body's own accord.
Fear struck within him as quickly as a match was set to burn, and instantly there was a pressure on his shoulder. He'd been shot, yes, but that was a long time ago. The sensation now was not the white hot pain of a bullet going through him, but rather that of the hand that belonged to his best friend and flatmate.
. . .
With a bit of a jolt, the blond was back in the present time, laying on his bed and flat on his back as a tall and almost fearsome figure loomed over him, gently shaking him awake as he always did when John was having a particularly rough night. His breath came in soft pants, his hair awry and sticking up in all sorts of ridiculous ways that only Sherlock seemed to be present for. It was only a moment, but in that time span he had gone from panicked, to anxious, and was now entering a shaky aftermath.
Reliving his time in Afghanistan was never a walk in the park; the dreams only a grim reminder of the lives lost, pain, and torture that had ensued. Time and time again he would have these nightmares, but since moving in with Sherlock almost six months ago, the ending had changed, and instead of waking up alone, it was now to the sight of the World's only consulting detective.
"Sherlock—" he'd opened his mouth to speak, but instead of the thank you as planned, there was a loud clap of thunder, and for a split second, John feared that this too was only a dream; however, Sherlock's image did not disappear, nor did he fall down, shot and dying. Instead, he nudged John's legs out of the way and plopped himself down on the edge of his bed, attempting some bit of extra comfort without the awkwardness that was Sherlock trying to be somewhat kind and comforting.
"I feel I should mention that you are still progressing despite your current state." Sherlock said after only a moment's wait, not bringing his green-blue eyes to move away from John's damp figure that was now sitting up, slouched over and exhausted.
Normally, John would just scoff and shake his head, much like he did when he was first returning to civilian life, but since being here with the tall detective, things had changed, and even he was able to admit it was for the better.
"How long?" came his groggy response, blue eyes blinking and looking about the room as the lightning flashed outside once more, returning to them the sound of thunder and distant memories.
Sherlock gave a short blink; just enough to show that he registered there had been a question before he slipped off into a good six seconds of silence in which he retreated to his mind palace to collect the data that John couldn't competently keep track of himself; not that he minded. Eventually he gave an answer of, "One month," before going quiet again, and then, without warning, he continued, "One month since your last night terror, which is considerable progress from the time when you would have them nearly every night. Your bags are much better because if it." He added in only the way that Sherlock could without being too offensive because really, if Sherlock noticed such a thing and was telling you it was better, it was as close to a compliment you could get without having to wonder whether he was lying or not.
John gave Sherlock a thankful smile in return, letting a bit of his anxieties roll off his back as he relaxed, leaning against the headboard and letting his head hit the wood with a dull thud that resounded in the quiet room.
Sherlock looked so calm and natural in the light filtering in through the window; an orange glow just barely shadowing his features. His expression was still neutral, though it was definitely one only John himself got to see. The detective was so cold and defensive towards anyone else, Mrs. Hudson being the closest anyone had gotten, and even then, she gave him the necessities; made him breakfast and his daily cups of tea, made sure he was well when she could, and even stayed round to play a game every once in a while. She was his landlady, but also his keeper in health, a caring old woman and mother-like figure he had grown quite fond of.
As the seconds passed, their time together became a minute, then three, and then five, Sherlock counting each second in proximity to the heaviness of the rain as the storm seemed to pick up. After the sixth minute though, he stood, straightening his dressing gown and looking down at his doctor.
"Goodnight, John," he said, gaze lingering only a moment, before he turned on a graceful heel and made towards the door, "Do try to sleep. Gavin has requested me down at the Yard tomorrow morning." And with that, he shut the door, leaving John to himself once more.
Despite being alone to deal with his own—still—calming troubles, John had a thoughtful look on his face, his lips not so tightly pressed together as they often were and his eyes downcast to look at the sheets that had pooled in his lap.
He didn't miss the distinct connection that he and Sherlock seemed to have developed over the past six months; how he so blatantly explained how Lestrade had asked for him, but at the same time, established that John was going too because it was now something that went unsaid most of the time. Sherlock didn't have to tell him to be ready because he was always ready, on the edge of a surge of adrenaline wherever it was presented.
But the point of the matter was that they were a team now, not only flatmates but friends, and not only friends but partners; a detective and his come-home army doctor with a blog always at his fingertips. They were officially Holmes and Watson.
It was something of a comforting thought as John slid back down under the duvet, closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath as he relaxed, falling back into a more shallow sleep than before.
. . .
"John! I do implore that you get up now before I am forced to come up there and rouse you myself!" came Sherlock's voice from the bottom of the stairs, pulling said blond from his slumber.
It had been a year now that the two of them ad roomed together, but more than that, they had bonded, truly become closer than either of them had anticipated. Sherlock had openly admitted that no, he didn't have friends, but he did have John, who he described as his only friend, and in that moment, John had found the other to be less machine-like and more human than that first day they had spent together.
And it was from there that they grew closer, relying on each other for most things, engaging one another, and basking in the presence they each carried. There had even been a time where they had spent a week straight with just the two of them; neither leaving 221B and both of them nearly constantly beside the other. Sherlock had assured everyone, including John, that it was for a low level case, one he didn't need to actually be present for, but John was sure it was more than that. It was the times when he was closest to John that he was worried. Sherlock always got a bit clingy when he was at a stress point and thinking about slipping into that habit of his.
Either way, good or bad, John had stuck by him, and just like every day and, including this day, he was up, yawning and rubbing at his face as he entered the living room of the flat, deciding now whether or not he wanted his tea there or if he could risk it at the table.
"Finally, you're up." Sherlock commented as he walked into the room, buttoning up a finely pressed shirt that was as tight at all the rest seemed to be, "I've taken the liberty of making you your morning tea; it's on the counter. Please, get dressed and be on your way, I am expecting company."
Sherlock's speech as fast and precise, a key factor John noted as he watched him pace, rolling up his sleeves and gathering a few papers here and there as he moved the mess from one spot to another. John would be lying if he said he wasn't a bit suspicious, but even so he went to grab his cup of tea, masking the bit of repugnance threatening to spill onto his face at the taste, though he was certainly improving.
"Somebody important?" he asked, placing the cup back down as he slipped on into the bathroom to clean himself up a bit.
The blond could actually hear the internal turmoil boiling within the detective at the question, and he was smiling even more because of it. Sherlock hated stupid, obvious and unnecessary questions, and it was perhaps why John even asked them at all.
"More important than your date."
. . .
It was from on top the roof that a set bout of notes in a string of music played from Sherlock's phone, the sound John's specific text tone that he had composed and recorded himself. Sherlock quickly opened the text, and a moment later, he'd brought the phone to his face, shielding that side to the cold wind that reached him so far up.
John stood below him, Moriarty dead behind him, and three bullets in their barrels ready to strike death into their targets. More than once, Sherlock had to remind himself that he was doing this for John, and the others too, but John was still his main focus. So often he thought about the trouble he caused, the complications, the frustration, but alongside it stood the good Doctor Watson, and somehow, that seemed to make him feel better; except this time, it didn't.
This time he was staring down at John's small form, listening to the desperation in his voice, the crack of emotion as he tried his hardest to talk him down, to make him believe just how great he was, to see what John saw.
And he did, some things less than others but he saw what he was getting at and he was oh so thankful to have him, and even more regretful to leave him. But John's shout of his name was the very last call as he threw the phone down, closed his eyes and gave a single shaky fall.
. . .
John had watched it all from his place on the ground, and he still saw it in his dreams, pleaded with it to go away, to not remind him that he had failed his best friend. His greatest accomplishment in life had surely been the relationship that the two of them had retained, and quite fittingly he supposed his biggest mistake was not being able to save him.
He still didn't understand why he had to do it, didn't believe for a second that he was nothing of what he had so obviously been their entire time together. So why?
John asked himself that every day, each morning when he woke up. Why did he leave him? Why couldn't he save him? It was a terrible existence to live, full of guilt and questions without a single answer to be given. More than once John contemplated joining his friend on the other side, just so he could yell and ask him; beg him for the truth he was sure he hadn't gotten on that day.
In the end, he hadn't been able to do it, guided by his loved ones to a recovery from the one too many drinks and the one too few meals, and back into a life where he had been able to find her. She had been his replacement—as a friend and a lover (though they had never been a couple nor romantic in that way)—and though she was not as brilliant or as bright, she was loving and caring, there when he needed and far away when he required space. It was a love built on trust and need, and with it, John managed to perhaps not feel so guilty about being the one left behind.