Pause
"What do you mean you threw them out?!" An enraged Doctor Watson stands in the kitchen wiping off old photos from his army days. Shots of himself in uniform before the bullet, others of his mates, a few of landscapes and people in the places he'd gone. They and his dog-tags were all he'd kept from the war.
"Exactly that John. I disposed of them." The detective lays sprawled on the couch in his usual post/pre case pout. His incredibly matter-of-fact tone only serves to anger his doctor further.
"Unbelievable! You… You Cock! They aren't yours to get rid of!"
"They were taking up space."
"In my Bedroom!" John's hand slams down on the counter angrily; too angry to look at Sherlock.
"Your old bedroom. You don't use it anymore." A nonchalant wave of the hand punctuates his statement. Sherlock was beginning to get quite annoyed himself.
"Yea but I keep my things in there. You can't just decide to throw my possessions away!"
Sherlock snaps before he can think over the most logical response. "I do not see the logic in keeping these photos. Don't you remember the events? You don't need them!"
"Don't need them?! Don't bloody need them?! This is all I have left of that huge time in my life and you throw them the fuck out because I 'don't need them.' Yet you keep decomposing body parts moldering in the fridge for months until I need to disinfect the entire kitchen. God forbid my photos take up a shoebox in the damn closet! Christ Sherlock-"
"Pause" The interjection is almost silent in the wake of John's rising volume, but it is heard. John's next statement is abruptly cut off the moment he hears Sherlock's quiet utterance. A sigh escapes John's lips as he tries to get under control. "Say it." Sherlock continues.
"Yes, Sherlock, I love you. I'm just angry." He clarifies this in the most caring voice he can muster at the moment.
Sherlock nods, face set rigidly as he stands; ready to continue the fight. "Unpause. John you only keep them out of sentiment." His irritated, above-it-all tone is now back in full force. He speaks as if to a bratty child who won't listen to reason. "Can you even tell me who any of those people are? Where these were taken?" The challenge is clear in his tone as he plucks the photos from John's hands and lays them in the free space on the kitchen table.
John's steely captain voice makes an appearance each time he touches a picture or person. "Afghanistan. America. Australia. Sholto. Sanders. Moran…." John eventually makes his way through all the pictures naming every locale and soldier within- adding to the vexation of Sherlock. "They were my brothers in arms. I have countless memories attached to each photo. Nut just one. It's my own version of a mind palace."
Silence falls over the flat. John silently simmering, waiting for Sherlock's retaliation. Sherlock thinking a mile a minute, fingers steepled under his chin, rationalizing this new information. "I see." He mutters at length.
John blinks in surprise at the almost-apology; all the malice suddenly gone. His mouth opens and closes again a few times before he remembers how to speak. "Good. That's, ah, that's good. Glad you understand. Tea?" he turns away quickly to turn the kettle on and prepare their favorite mugs.
"John?" Sherlock's voice comes from barely a foot away and it is pitched low, unsure as it always was after a fight.
John's shoulders roll back, relaxed. He speaks warmly, still preparing their tea. "Yes Sherlock, What is it?"
"I love you too."
"Come here you git." John smiles, pulling his detective into a tight hug. "Let's see if we've got an interesting case yet, yea?"