A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has added this story to their alerts and favourited it, and a huge thank you to those who have taken the time to review. Hope you enjoy chapter 6 :)
Twenty minutes later and the tea had brewed, and John sat in his worn old armchair with a steaming mug in his hands. He closed his eyes and pretended that he wasn't angry with Sherlock, angry that he had died and thought that John would always be waiting for him, like a dog. He wasn't Sherlock's mongrel stray; right now he was the property of the British army, with the tags warm against his chest to prove it.
He sipped his tea and wished himself back to three years ago, when Moriarty was still just a shadow and Sherlock a warm gravity well with the whole world trapped in his orbit. John had felt safe, then, because their enemies were always after Sherlock- he was just a bystander, the pawn in a much larger game. Then, with Sherlock dead, John could feel the eyes turning on him, looking up from below, waiting for him to fall too.
He had decided to escape. The army was familiar, comfortable, as easy to fit back into as his old combats and fatigues were. He was free and in control; he had a hundred men and women under his command and he was a good soldier and the best doctor in the regiment. How could Sherlock expect him to want to change back to his old life, where it was always Sherlock and John? He had once more come to enjoy being addressed as "sir" and "Captain" and for once when he entered the room, he was the most important person there. He was the one that everyone looked up to and respected, not Sherlock. For once he had made his life about him and then all of a sudden Sherlock had swept in as usual and wanted everything his own way.
"No." John's voice surprised himself.
"What?" Sherlock had been sat staring into space until John spoke, his tea cold and untouched.
"The answer's no, Sherlock. I'm staying in the army. You made your decision to leave three years ago. I'm making mine now. Don't try to change my mind."
"I wasn't going to," Sherlock said softly. He seemed unfocused. "You go and play tin soldiers with all the little people. It makes no difference to me and my work."
"TO HELL WITH YOUR WORK, SHERLOCK!" John exploded. "Who in the world actually gives a fuck if one of 'the little people', as you put it, gets murdered or kidnapped? You certainly don't care! You just want the mystery and that's what the police are for! You may as well have died for all the good you do in the world!"
"You don't-"
"No, I didn't mean that."
"John-"
"You're not getting an apology." John wouldn't meet Sherlock's eye. "You might ask why the hell I want to risk my life every day, fighting for people I don't even know. I can't answer that. But if I know one thing, Sherlock, it's that I don't enjoy seeing people die. Unlike you, I'm not amused by watching the life drain out of someone who gave his blood for his country."
"Is that what you're hoping for then? To die in a blaze of glory? John Watson, the courageous hero, giving his life for those he loved? Bravery is-"
"By far the kindest word for stupidity, I know, Mycroft told me."
"Actually..." Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I was going to say bravery is the quality I admire most in you, John. Even now- you're standing up to me, telling me what you believe in, challenging me to fight back. You are the most courageous man I've ever met."
John was speechless. He had sat and abused Sherlock for two solid minutes and out of it all had come the one praise that he'd craved his whole life. He was brave. He swallowed, unable to speak.
"I think you should know," Sherlock continued, "That I had no choice after Moriarty killed himself. Unless his snipers saw me die, then Lestrade would be dead. Mrs Hudson would be dead. And you, John, would be dead. There was nothing I could do; you had to truly believe that I was gone for good. I don't know what I was expecting when I came back... but I had hoped... I had wistfully hoped you would continue my work."
"I'm... Sherlock... Sherlock, I'm so, so sorry. I didn't know... I had no idea..."
"Yes, I realise that now. I did think that you would listen to the recording I made of the final conversation between myself and Moriarty, but I clearly miscalculated your reaction. If you had, you would have probably understood a little better."
John's mouth was dry, but his eyes weren't. For the second time in two hours he found himself in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, face buried in his shoulder, his shoulders shaking with frustration and apology. As the two men stood there, John realised that Sherlock was crying too. They clung to each other for some time, each finding solace in the other's embrace. John knew that the brotherhood of the army would no longer be enough for him, because he now knew that he was Sherlock Holmes' equal.