A/N: Hello all! So, this particular was inspired by another fanfiction called "Five Times" by atasteofarmageddon. It's a very good story, so if you like this chapter I suggest you go read it! Also, thank you to any of you who have followed or favorited, I greatly appreciate it. And now, enjoy!
John was seated in his dilapidated arm chair, the Union Jack pillow bunched up right at the tense spot of his back, hoping to settle down after a rather tiring day at the surgery. But when Sherlock called him from upstairs, the only thing that surprised John was that he was upstairs, where John's bedroom was. He had given up sighing every time Sherlock yelled for him to "come quickly!" or "bring a petri dish" or "put on your coat, Lestrade called." It would have made him sound like a permanently boiling kettle. So he just heaved himself out of chair and dragged himself up the flight of steps. He was much more surprised, however, when he saw what Sherlock was doing in his room.
"Of all the places to put these, I wouldn't think the very bottom of your drawer would be the most obvious."
"What do you want me to do with them?" John asked, staring at the chain of small silver beads with two, slightly worn metal discs clinking quietly as Sherlock held it in the air in front of him. He decided to ignore the fact that Sherlock was looking in the very bottom of his drawer, though it did not exactly make him happy. "I'm not going to wear them, I don't want to hang them up, and I have no one to give them to." The end of the statement stopped Sherlock's already forming retort.
"Why would you give them to someone? They're yours; they have your name on them."
John didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the man's obliviousness to displays of affection. He reached out and took the dog tags, their familiar engravings-his last name, blood type, and other essential information-glinting in the faint light. "Sentiment, I guess." Sherlock was still staring at John, one eyebrow quirked slightly higher than the other and his lips pursed in a thin line. John stared stubbornly back- this man was a genius. He surely didn't need any further explanation. But finally the detective sighed heavily and rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"I obviously don't understand, so if you would pleaseā¦"
"You've got to be joking." At Sherlock's frustrated groan he gave in. "Right. People usually give their tags to someone they care about; their wife or child or something. It's kind of a way of reassuring said loved one that they're safe, they don't need them anymore. And the person receiving the tags wears them because it reminds them of the person that served. And I don't think you're getting any of this so I'm just going to stop now." John was watching Sherlock closely, hoping for a moment of realization or a nod of understanding or even just a flicker that Sherlock recognized that John was speaking English. But it didn't happen. If anything, the confusion seemed to grow. "Ok, let's just leave it, yeah?" He rose and carelessly dropped the souvenir of his Army days onto his bedside table before walking out of the room, calling to Sherlock until he heard the lanky man follow him down the stairs.
Sherlock spent the rest of the evening, and most of the night, playing the violin. He stared out the window and skimmed the strings with his bow, brow creased in deep thought. John simply ignored him; it was normal Sherlock behavior after all. But, the next morning, when John noticed that the tags were not where he had put them and that there was a silver chain around Sherlock's neck, he came to a sudden understanding of what Sherlock had been so engrossed in the night before. And he turned away very quickly so the incredibly observant man would not see the smile that was on the man's lips and the film of tears in his eyes.
