John doesn't want people ask about his time in the Army. He doesn't want to be known as the "Army doctor". He is just John Watson. He works at the hospital in a position that he is woefully over-qualified for because he likes the routine of it all.
He hates it when people tell him what a hero he is. How brave he was to joining the Army. He didn't want people to congratulate him on saving so many lives. Because honestly, for every person John managed to save, there were always three more that he hadn't been able to get to in time. So he dreams about the ones he wasn't quick enough to save.
John despised the way people looked at him when he still walked with a cane, the way people went out of their way to help him or pay for his meals or looked at him with the kind of trepidation that only the disabled knew. As if his limp were contagious somehow, something they could catch if they moved too close to John.
And then everything changed. John met Sherlock Holmes, the strangest man he had ever met. Tall and thin from forgetting to eat, Sherlock's gaze had torn down all of John's walls and left him naked before the detective. When John said "That was amazing" after Sherlock explained how he knew everything about him the first time they met, it held a double meaning. Certainly it was truly amazing that Sherlock could infer so much from seemingly trivial details. But he was also amazed that within the detective's voice he could not find a trace of admiration, pity, or even misguided empathy. Sherlock merely stated the facts, nothing more and nothing less. And John appreciated the fact that Sherlock didn't treat him any differently when he walked with that limp than he treated anyone else. He made no move to help John with anything, took him to a crime scene without hesitation and cured him of a limp that had never really existed. In a way, Sherlock had saved John, not from himself, but from everyone else.
John slowly made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He knew Sherlock had probably deduced that he had had a nightmare, one that left him shaky and teary-eyed. He felt Sherlock's boredom as the detective laid on the sofa in his dressing gown, and to him it was gift. Not having to explain himself or relive the dream once again was what he relied on Sherlock for.
"I'll have tea, thanks." Sherlock's voice floated after him. John cleared his throat.
"Yeah, sure." He set about getting the kettle ready and joined Sherlock in the sitting room. "Don't you have a case to work on? Lestrade said-"
"That case is boring, no more than a five." Sherlock waved his arm vaguely in the air and let it drop back down. "Honestly, John. You'd think the criminals in this world would be able to come up with less predictable methods." Sherlock went on to explain every detail in the same bored voice and John listened. The kettle whistled and he retrieved the tea for himself and Sherlock.
"You know, Sherlock, most people would be glad that they had just solved a case." John pointed out, and he was rewarded by one of Sherlock's how-can-you-be-so-stupid-and-still-breathe looks. "I'm just saying."
"Yes, of course John. The average human brain with its limited capacity would surely be satisfied by solving such a predictable theft. But I'm bored."
"You're always bored." John checked the time and saw that it was indeed too early to be awake, almost 3 a.m. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"John if you're tired, go back to bed and leave me in peace." Sherlock dismissed his partner. John sighed, finished his tea, and made his way back to his room. He had just laid down to try and sleep again when he heard the first notes of the violin. Sherlock was tuning it. John let himself listen to the vibrating strings, wondering how someone so seemingly emotionless could play such sad pieces of music. As the song began, it became clear to John that it was the same song Sherlock had been composing after the "death" of Irene. It was beautiful, almost clinically so, just like Sherlock's mind John decided. His sleepy brain was relaxing under the weight of the melancholy notes of Sherlock's violin and before John could consider it, he had fallen asleep.
Sherlock continued to play to the end of his song. Contrary to popular belief, he did care about John. However, he knew John well enough from the first day of meeting him to never pity the doctor. John was not looking to be admired for his actions, and so Sherlock did not. John did not want to talk about his time in foreign lands, and Sherlock didn't have to patience to listen to it, if he was being completely honest with himself. He was perfectly content to treat John as he would a friend, at least in his version of friendship. It had been so long since anyone had truly appreciated his work without trying understand him as a person. John just accepted that Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. It was a perfect partnership.
Not to say that John's reoccuring nightmares weren't troubling. They deprived the doctor of sleep at least once a week, sometimes more when John was under a lot of stress. Sherlock replaced the violin where it belonged and resumed being bored. Sherlock suddenly sat upright as a detail of the case he had tossed aside suddenly emerged. It had gone from a five to an eight in his mind. John would need his rest.
The game was afoot.