Author Note: This is not intended to be Johnlock, but can be read as you wish.
My Legionnaire.
He already had been to war and back. He had already been shot on the shoulder and kidnapped far too many times to count, but nothing could have prepared army Doctor John Hamish Watson for what now laid scribbled in the letter in front of him.
"What are you going to do?" Had said Sherlock while softly scratching the strings on his violin. He was staring at the window with his back turned to the doctor.
"It's not like I can say no," He responded, swallowing hard and getting up. "I think they really need me." He got to the sink and emptied the remaining of his tea down the drain. He was honestly too confused to drink.
"You know," The detective began, pausing mid-sentence, as if pondering something. "Although I would very much hate to ask for assistance from my brother, Mycroft could..." He turned around and trailed off. By the look John was giving him he knew there was probably nothing he could say to change his mind.
"They are not just my comrades, Sherlock. They are my friends too." He responded, as the other man nodded and turned around to continue bowing. "If- If they need me, I think the least I could do is help."
"You don't owe them anything, you have saved their lives before," Sherlock mumbled, "And I find it," he paused looking for the right word to use, "unjust, that you have to go back again when you already have done so much more than this nation could ask for." He shifted his fingers vigorously in the instrument's neck.
"I guess you're right, but that's still no reason to abandon my mates to their fate, not if I can still do something about it." John sat on the couch with his face between his hands. "I'm the only doctor who doesn't have to be trained, and they say I can come back as soon as the bloke they're training finishes the course." He spoke out, he could feel his stomach turning inside him, it was not as he wanted to return, but he just couldn't turn his back on them so easily, after all, they have helped him too.
"Which is," Sherlock paced a bit closer to the window until all John could see of his face was a thin line of skin of his side lit by the soft light of the lamp across the street. "when exactly?" He said in a tone the blogger couldn't decipher.
"Two months." John answered and stared, trying to catch some emotion in the detective's face. But all he could make out was the chiaroscuro of the shadows over his face. The flat fell quiet for what seemed like ages. John assumed Sherlock had been swallowed to his mind palace, and that was probably his cue to walk up the stairs and get some rest. God knows he needs it. The detective was, most likely, going to stay like that for hours straight. Violin placed under chin and fingers tucked around its neck, like a statue. He does that, and John couldn't deny it freaked him out a bit.
However as he made for walking out the door, the detective spoke out again, his voice cold and distant, but John still could see through it. "When are you leaving?" He asked and the other man scratched the back of his head.
"They told me to come as soon as possible, but I think-" He was interrupted before he could even begin to explain the causes of his decision. "When are you leaving?" Sherlock had urged, this time louder and faster than before. He wanted to know when was John going to be packing up and saying goodbye. He didn't need him to explain his motives. Sherlock knew where his heart was coming from, and he could never go as selfish as denying others the help himself had needed a few years ago.
He knew a man like John could not and should not waste his life away cleaning after him, and making him tea. Of course, he had saved Sherlock's life in more ways that he would ever know, but he would never make him go against his morals, even if he despised the idea of watching him leave, with a high chance of never returning again. If he felt like he needed to go, for them, for himself, he understood. He just needed to know.
"Tomorrow."
It was odd, being back in Afghanistan. He had already gotten used to his life with Sherlock, and now returning to war was something he never thought he would experience again. Although it was only for a few months and he was just acting out as a doctor -he admits he missed the rank Captain- he recognized the danger behind the whole situation, and so he decided to write Sherlock a letter every day.
First they started out as little notes, just a simple: "Sherlock, I'm doing alright. Miss you already. PS: Please don't burn the flat down when I'm gone." to let him know he was still alive. But then, as the days rolled out, and he started to lose people again, they became much longer and affectionate.
One particular day, he was feeling far from good, he had tried to save one of the higher rank soldiers but the wound was unfixable. He died, and John ended up crying, with his knees to his chest and hiding in his tent. He hated this part of the job, he was supposed to save, not let them go, and thinking about how fragile the line between life and death is, made him write a three pages long letter, with shaky hands and sorrow filled words. He knew Sherlock would probably take one look at it and he could be able to read between the lines. He does that. And then he would go back to whatever experiment or case he was working on.
After three weeks of letters he had written for his flatmate, he had not received one back, and this pained John. He knew Sherlock was not one for sentiment but he thought he had seen worry in the detective's eyes when he left that morning. He had said goodbye -more like a See you later- to Mrs. Hudson already, and he entered the flat for what was going to be the last time in a while. Sherlock stood in front of the window for a change, and bowed at his violin slowly. "I guess it's time, Sherlock." He had said, and the detective answered with something similar to Time for what?.
"I'm leaving." He had said, and Sherlock continued playing, his hands moving fast. "Please shut the door on your way out." This was when John couldn't take it anymore, he was leaving for war, for Christ's sake! "Can you at least look at me, Sherlock?" His voice came out hoarse from anger, it was impossible that someone could be that inconsiderate. Sherlock turned around and looked at him nonchalantly, John seemed angry, with luggage in hand. "Happy?" he said, and although John should have found it rude, he saw something in Sherlock's eyes resembling concern and the other man couldn't do anything but to say "Yes."
Still, the doctor had hoped he would at least try to contact him, even if it was just to tell him he was bored. Damn, he would even want to read about the experiments he was doing with his jumpers if it came out of his friend, he just wanted to know he was alright. So one day, he decided to send two letters, one for Sherlock, the other for a man John knew would not resist meddling in Sherlock's business. So he wrote a few lines asking Mycroft how was his brother.
The answer came back two days later, and the blogger could not have been happier to get any information from them. Mycroft had written to John, telling him Sherlock was alright and working, but saying that he was awfully quiet most of the time -which was rare for him since he can never seem to know when he should hold his opinion- but other than that he seemed fine. John hated to admit it angered him a bit to know Sherlock was doing good without him, it made him feel unneeded. Useless. But this thoughts left him as soon as he reminded himself everything he had done for him. The detective did care, he just never says it.
The weeks passed by, and John refused to quit his habit of writing to Sherlock, even though he hadn't had any response from said detective. Sometimes he received letters from Mycroft, but there was never anything new, Sherlock was still fine, still quiet and still alright without him.
If his calculations were right, he had only one week left until the man who he was filling in for was ready to come out to the battlefield. He didn't pass a good time there, but it was not hell either. There were bad days, and there were days that were better. He had had to shoot some soldiers of the other side, but saved a few of his own. So it was not all ill news.
On that day, he got shot again. It was not really painful but it was serious. His abdomen was pierced with a bullet and the blood loss was not the only dangerous thing there was about this. The other doctors did everything they could to manage it there, but unfortunately better care was needed for this sort of wound. He was translated to a small hospital near their location.
He was thankfully awake and conscious when he got there, and the doctor tended the wound quickly. And when he was back to his mind as the sedatives worn off a bit, he was told he was going to need surgery. The operation was not an emergency but it was very delicate. The bullet had gone far, and deep into his body. It was not currently causing any damage, but it obviously had to be removed. The problem laid on how they were going to pull it out, one slip of a hand and he might not be able to tell the story. And it worried John the fact that it may be on that operating table that he would ironically lose his life after everything he had gone through.
The surgery was scheduled for two days after and John was to stay in his hospital room until then. When he was finally left alone he reached for a napkin from the unfinished meal they had brought him. And with a pen he found in one of the drawers he wrote his daily letter to Sherlock. Once he was done he asked for a nurse to come in and asked her a big favor. She had doubted at first, but after John told him the story about his best friend and everything they had shared she was more than happy to agree. Although this had to be a one time thing, she couldn't risk losing her job.
So it went, the last letter he was going to be able to write before arriving home. And he hopefully wished Sherlock would answer this time.
"You have another one, dear brother." Said Mycroft while walking in the flat and dropping an envelope in the coffee table in front of the couch Sherlock was sitting on. The detective shifted his gaze to the paper and then returned his lost eyes to the front, not really seeing anything at all. "Are you even going to bother reading it?" His brother had asked while supporting his weight on his umbrella.
Sherlock continued his scrutiny and paid him less attention than normal. Mycroft was getting really worn down by his brother's newest, yet another -annoying- personality trait: Quietness. He had heard the man utter four words in the last seven weeks, apart from his ever-so-clever deductions while on cases. But aside from that, nothing. Not a single word could be drawn out of the man's lips and he hated not to know. He, of course, knew this had to do with John's departure to Afghanistan, but it made him impatient the fact that his little brother wouldn't even talk to someone about his view of the situation. He knew Sherlock was not going to run to him and cry out all his fretting pains over his shoulder, but he maybe could have said something to somebody else, somebody that was not his arch-enemy. But still nothing, he had asked around and everyone seemed to have the same impression, Sherlock was not there.
He was there physically, but he seemed sort of trapped inside his mind palace, only bothering to sense the world around him by mere necessity, and this worried Mycroft to no end.
John had sent him a few letters indicating his whereabouts and asking for Sherlock. Always asking for Sherlock. And the older man didn't know what to tell him anymore, it would be unwise to lie to the army soldier, but Sherlock would have his head on a stick if he found out he had laid down more worries in the doctor's mind. So he always resorted to answer with more or less somewhat around three words: Fine, quiet, working. Which were true enough not to cause him any inconvenience if the doctor was to return or his brother to come back to earth.
Mycroft then decided he would attempt to catch his brother's attention by his best asset, -and arguably his worst defect- curiosity. He let Sherlock know of a fact he had seen while walking up the stairs, letter in hand. "This one's different though, it was written on a napkin." He would say, and it's all it took to make Sherlock shift his head and face the -more or less- British Government with confused and interested eyes.
He quickly grabbed the letter and opened it's wrapping white cover. Hurriedly his eyes started glancing through words. Deciphering their meanings and interpreting their context. When his brother knew this was everything he could do at the moment, he left. Not even with as much as a goodbye, he already knew he would get no answer whatsoever.
As soon as Mycroft left and the detective could read in peace he was shocked from what the words were telling him, but not enough to stop going.
Dear Sherlock,
I had an interesting day today, maybe this letter won't bore you for a change. Today, at one week left to get back to London, I got shot again. We were defending a small camp of our comrades and we were not outnumbered this time. Still this bloke came out of left field and tried to shoot my Commandant, I tried to take him out of they way and got hit instead. The wound is not that serious, but it hurt like hell. I really wish you are reading these, because if you aren't then I'm talking alone to a bloody napkin, and I'll be this close to becoming insane.
Still, I'm glad the bullet didn't go all the way through and hit the Commandant anyway, it would've been ridiculous for all of this to have been in vain. Anyway, so now I have a bullet hidden inside my abdomen and some very worried doctors planning on removing it the day after tomorrow. The say it's a simple surgery, but I am a doctor after all and I, as well, know every step of it and the risks I'm taking, thank you very much. There is a high chance that I will not make it, the bullet is placed next to a very delicate area, and if they don't extract it the way they should the game is over. So before I go and it's too late for this letter to come to your eyes I want to tell you something, Sherlock.
You are the most insufferable man I have ever met, and probably the most complicated to have walked this earth, but I can't imagine a better friend than you. You saved me when my life was a bloody mess, and I could never thank you enough for that, Sherlock. Really, even though you make me make your tea, and play violin at three o'clock in the morning -seriously, why do you do that anyway?- and let me play bait for an ambush even when I don't know it at all, you are still there for me in your own odd way, and I honestly wouldn't change you if I could.
Even if everyone sees you as the sociopath you want them to believe you are, I know you better than that. I know you do care, even if you are constantly telling everyone otherwise. You may not express it as others would, but that is one of your things, yes? Not being ordinary.
Although my little brain probably would never understand how is it that you can go around living like you do, because it can't be easy always having stupid gits telling you you're a freak, I have always believed you have feelings, and as someone who has feelings you are also prone of getting them hurt. That's the reason you store them all away. Because you do care, and you're afraid to.
You are the most stupidly brilliant madman in the world, and it doesn't matter if it's just buying milk -which you never do, by the way- you always do it your own way, while telling everyone to piss off from your business elegantly.
If everything goes as planned I'll be arriving home a bit sooner than expected, if not I won't be arriving home at all. But know this Sherlock Holmes, you smart-arsed grown child, you are my best friend and I will always believe in you. So please if something bad really happens to me promise me you will eat daily, sleep when you must, and not give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack with one of your experiments. But mainly, promise me you will not change, and you will still be around working on the cases you love and annoying Lestrade and insulting Anderson -that sod has it coming anyway- and that you will not forget me in that big mind of yours.
Anyway, this is probably the last letter they're going to let me send you, so I guess I will see you on the other side, whichever that may be. Thank you for everything.
- John Watson.
Sherlock's eyes were already watering half-way through the letter, and he had to stop and regain composure before being able to continue. John was probably going to die, and there was nothing he could do to go and see him, at least one more time. It was then that the detective regretted not answering any of those other letters, but maybe he still had time to mend that.
He ran to the half-blown kitchen and drew out a piece of paper and pen. He started to write down his thoughts. The pace in his hands steady and elegant, but he could see from meters away the ink was shaken all the way through the whole script.
He was worried beyond his mind, and despair was not an emotion he handled well. That night after he was finished and the letter was sent the detective ended up crying and praying -act he had never done before- in John's room until three in the morning. Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, maybe just to John himself if he lived.
He couldn't believe he could be as stupid as not appreciating what he had until there was a high chance it would be gone forever. John is his whole world, everyone knows that, but he should have done something for him to really understand what he meant to him. But he didn't, he was stupid, and now it was probably too late.
It was surgery day, already past noon when the same nurse he had begged to send the letter to Sherlock came into his room with a white envelope between her slim hands. When she delivered it to him she smiled warmly and said "This came in for you today." And the second John saw his own name written delicately on the front of the paper in big black letters he knew what it was. The doctor thanked the nurse and asked her to leave him alone to read it, to which she only replied with "Don't take long dear, the operation is about to start".
He opened it quickly and he could not say he could be happier when he saw the familiar hand-writing all over the sheet of paper. He took a long breath and started reading.
John,
I don't mean this to sound like a farewell for I do not wish it to be one. I have come to realize that my attitude the morning you left for the station was a bit not good. Other people would have found it rude, I could've come across cold and uninterested. Others would have think of me as a machine, but you understood. Tis not that I was unaffected by your departure, it's that I couldn't bear the thought of you leaving, probably never to return again, so I refused to accept it.
I do apologize for my lack of response to the letters you sent me, and although I would find it very much amusing to see you talking alone to a "bloody napkin", I'll have you know I read each and every one of them, so you can rest your head on the fact of not becoming insane. There may have been no response from me before, but I assure you the conversation was never one-sided.
Even though I hope this will not be the last time we'll hear from each other, there are some things that I want you to know before you head for that procedure. You have always known I'm not one for sentiment but I can truthfully say I am proud of you, John Watson.
I know what you must be thinking right now, and honestly, it's annoying. You think the reasons I look up to you are the same as what ordinary people would think. I can guarantee you, however, that they are not.
I am not proud of you for being a solider, nor am I proud of you for being a doctor. I am not proud of you for your respectable record or your impeccable morals. I am not even proud of you for keeping up with me. Of course I acknowledge these facts as important and true, but they are not what I'm trying to emphasize with these words.
I am proud of you for tea, John. I am proud of you for being brave enough to wear those infernal jumpers that I loathe with a passion and want to throw into the fire, and not care about what people may think. I am proud of you for fearlessly putting your trust in a man who had always been known for being cold and careless. I am proud of you for being able to care for someone despite the fear of getting your heart broken, and for making tea for me with not just as much as a cuppa for yourself in return.
I have always known my blogger is a good man, not only honorable and loyal but he has a heart too, and a big one for that matter. I consider you my best and only friend and you have no idea how much it means for me to have you in my life, for I do not know what it would become of me if you were to die tonight in that operating room, so I refuse to think about that too.
So please do try to keep alive, for me; and I'll continue to pray for your safety to a deity that I do not know how to believe in just because you do, and you have always been better than me in those subjects. I don't think there's enough tea in the world for me to ever thank you for everything you have done for me. I am actually looking forward to the rant you're going to go on when you see what I've done with the kitchen, and I think you'd be glad to know the experiment gave surprising results. So please come home soon.
Yours truly, Sherlock Holmes.
This could not have been more surprising, nothing could have prepared Army Doctor John Hamish Watson for what now laid scribbled in the letter in front of him. He was sobbing like a child when the nurses took him to surgery. Sherlock, and his letter, and his experiments, and his madness wall the only thing he thought about as he counted down for the anesthesia to kick in. Just Sherlock until it all became black.
Sherlock was out of his mind more with each day, it had been 5 days since he got John's last letter and not himself, nor Mycroft had had any news regarding the state of the doctor and it was driving him crazy.
He took his violin from its sitting position on the couch and began scratching at it violently and fervently, despair ringing through the harsh melody. He heard the front door open and close, Mrs. Hudson was away with her sister, and the only one nosy and clever enough to break into their flat like that was his brother Mycroft.
Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and his stomach curled in anticipation. His brother had told him he would contact him as soon as his men could get a hold of someone for the tiny hospital where John was staying. And the fact that he was coming in person to talk about it to him could only mean ill news. The detective was not ready to face that sort of reality yet, he would never be. And now he was going to be forced to have all his fears proven right by Mycroft.
When he saw Sherlock he could have sworn he hadn't moved from where he had left him, just the change of clothes gave away any sense of movement. He took a deep breath himself and spoke up.
"I'm back." John told him. Sherlock stopped playing, turned around and looked at him. John found it hard to keep the staring contest with his flatmate for long. As he felt how his eyes, wide and unblinking, scanned every bit of his, and he couldn't quite understand why. Sherlock located the bandage on his side and the uncut hair, but other than that John seemed fine, and he could not have been more relieved about it. After the gaze stretched out reaching a level of awkwardness between them, the detective laid down his violin on the couch next to the window and strode to him with growing tempo, his pace gaining speed with every step. Once he was standing as close as the doctor as comfortable, he slowly snatched the bags from his flatmate's hands and dropped them carefully unto the floor. John stood still under the door frame unsure of what Sherlock was doing. When the madman raised and looked to his friend again, he quickly wrapped his long arms around him in a huge embrace. Holding him tighter than ever and hiding his face into John's shoulder. As soon as the blogger realized the situation he hugged the detective back and smiled. Glad to be back home. Sherlock said between sharp breaths "I missed you so much".
AN: I really hope you all liked it!