A/N: I want to dedicate this story to every soldier from every country both at home and deployed. May God bless you and keep you safe, and just know that we're all behind you with everything we've got. I also want to dedicate this to all the families that lost someone that day. We will never forget.
It had all started ten years ago.
Even as an Englishman, John had felt hollow. It hadn't seemed quite real, as if people couldn't really do things like that to one another. Could they? But they had. Three thousand people dead in one day. The sense of unreality hadn't lessened as the day went on, almost like his brain wouldn't allow him to actually think that such a thing had happened.
He had been in his final year of med school at the time. Ten years later the events of September 11th still didn't seem real, but others since then were too much so. Bullets, bombs, people dying in front of him while he tried to save their lives. Pain, blood, some of it his, and nightmares that refused to leave. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against the glass window in Lestrade's office.
His hands were clenched into fists as he fought to drown out the memories, but it was no good. It was the tenth anniversary of the attacks today, and reminders were everywhere he turned. They needed to remember, everyone everywhere in the world did, but right now John desperately wished he could forget. The familiar feelings of anger were pushing their way to the surface, anger at the terrorists for doing everything they'd done, and anger at himself for the ones he'd tried to save but failed.
He spun abruptly on his heel and decided to get some tea, leaving just as Sherlock and Lestrade were entering the office. He didn't respond as they spoke to him, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back as he went down the hallway, probably pinpointing things even John didn't know. Well, let the man think whatever he wanted. The anger was forcing itself ever closer to the outside as he made his way to the canteen, and was rapidly spiraling out of his control. The last straw came when he had his tea and as he turned to sit down his bad leg gave out on him.
It was just for a second, and he caught himself, but it was enough. He flung the styrofoam cup into the sink and pounded the cabinet door so hard he almost cracked it. He crossed his wrists and leaned his head against them. He breathed in deeply and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get himself back under control. He was in Britain, not Afghanistan, he had nothing to be afraid of. They were just memories.
He almost threw a punch at Sherlock when he put his hand on John's shoulder. "What?" he snapped. He knew he was being rude, but he just didn't care right now. Both Lestrade and Sherlock had entered the canteen, and John had a feeling he knew what they were there for. He decided to preempt them. "I'm not in the mood right now."
"I know." Sherlock stared hard at him. John stared right back, seeing the taller man's iron resolve. He sighed.
"But that's not going to stop you, is it?" Sherlock shook his head. Lestrade spoke up from by the door.
"It's not going to stop me either. What's bothering you so much, John?"
"Nothing." John replied tersely. Three could play the resolve game. If he'd thought it would've worked, he would have just pushed his way out of the room, but he was gradually realizing that he had no choice but to open up.
"John, you left a mark on the cabinet door and almost gave me a right hook when I touched you. That's not what I'd call alright." Something in Sherlock's voice caught at John. It didn't lessen his anger, but it gave him the ability to voice it.
"Do you know, it's not what I'd call alright either, is it?" he yelled. "Do you want to know what's wrong? What's wrong is, everywhere I turn today, I just keep getting reminded of the war. Everywhere I go, I remember people I saw get killed!"
"You did good things." Lestrade told him. "You should be proud of yourself."
"Proud? I haven't got all that much to be proud of. I'm a doctor, my patients aren't supposed to get killed, they're supposed to live. Men, good men, died in front of me while I was supposed to be saving them. What have I got to be proud of?" Scotland Yard wasn't very busy that day, and John's yells had attracted quite a bit of attention. Finally, Lestrade spoke up.
"You've got more to be proud of than you think. You've got quite a lot to be proud of. I know you saw a lot of people die, too many, but you saved a lot of people as well. Think about how many families out there would have lost someone if you hadn't saved them." Sally Donovan cut in as he stopped.
"Yeah, and that one would be dead about six times over if you hadn't been here." She gestured at Sherlock. "Not to mention about half of us."
"They're all right, you know." Now it was Sherlock's turn. "You've saved every single person in this room at some point or another, including me. Especially me. You're my only friend, and you actually tolerate living with me, and the almost constant threats to your safety. Without you, I wouldn't have anyone, and you mean more to me than any other person ever has."
"I think what we're all trying to say is," Lestrade picked up, "you mean a lot to a lot of people, including us. And we know that you'll never forget the war, or all the men that died, but you saved just as many people, and not just physically. That's what you have to be proud of."
John looked around at the group of people surrounding him and felt something change in his heart. The coursing anger had faded, replaced by a sense of peace and serenity. They were right. He knew that he would always remember, but it wasn't what he remembered; it was what he chose to focus on that counted. He looked each of them in the eye in turn.
"Thank you." It was simple enough, but it was all that needed to be said. The group dissipated, each going back to their individual jobs, until it was just the original three. Lestrade told them they could go ahead and go home. Sherlock had solved the case they'd been working on anyway. Smiling slightly, John turned to Sherlock.
"You ready to go?"
"If you are." Suddenly, Sherlock reached up and put his hand on John's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "You do know what we all said was true, right?" John returned the gesture.
"Yeah, I do know. I thought for a while that I didn't, but I do now. Let's go then; I need some new tea after I chucked mine in the sink." The two men turned and headed out into the September air. John's leg didn't give him any more trouble.