This was written for a prompt which wanted John as a Nazi in WWII, with Sherlock on any side of the is taken from Azure Ray's Tints the Shade of You

Warnings: This is set during WWII. I mean no offense with my portrayal, and also do not mean to minimize the vast effects of WWII by having the fic gloss over the majority of it/them.

Tints the Shade of You

Later, they will talk about the war. They will be careful, and skirt around explicit recriminations. John will cry, and Sherlock will look at him for a few minutes before hesitantly putting a hand on John's shoulder, a frown marring his face because the war wasn't supposed to teach him how to feel. John will collapse onto Sherlock's bony shoulder, and arms will wrap around bodies, desperately tight, as kisses are pressed into hair. And it will almost feel like healing.

But right now, there is no foolish hope of being healed.

"You have to leave Sherlock," John says, pacing through 221b, refusing to look directly at the man who sits in the corner.

"Why John," Sherlock slurs. "How nice to...to have you back."

John twitches. "You're drunk."

"And you," Sherlock says flatly, "are a Nazi."

John freezes, his back to Sherlock.

"Do you know what is happening, John?" Sherlock asks, suddenly sounding terrifyingly sober. "Do you know what you are doing?"

"I am doing the-" John starts, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"Do you know how many people you're sentencing to death?"

John turns his head a small fraction, just enough for him to see Sherlock out of his peripheral vision.

"'It's all fine,'" Sherlock quotes. "Isn't that what you used to say, John? Any of my per...perversions. Any of our perversions, it was 'all fine'. Is it all fine now, John?"

"I don't have a choice," John says, before he can stop himself. Immediately, his stance reverts back to stiff and commanding. "You have been warned, Mr. Holmes. Whatever...whatever happens to you now, I cannot be held accountable."

He hears Sherlock lurch to his feet behind him, and his hands ache with the urge to unclench and touch him.

He whirls around, he cannot help himself. "Survive," he orders. "Survive. For...for me."

Sherlock sneers, and John forces himself to march out of the door before either of them can speak again.

There will be no way to heal from it—no words or actions will fix the damage that was done. It will be completely irrevocable, no matter how hard anyone tries. But there will be times (when Sherlock will smile at John as they carefully squabble over something petty, when John will map the scars of the past on Sherlock's body with lips and tears and love, when they will do a thousand normal, domestic things together) when they will almost be able to function as if the war never happened.

The damage is never completely gone, but they survive, and then they adapt, and fight to learn how to live with each other, despite it all.

Fin