Peace

Diclaimer: I still didn't wake up to find I am Steven Moffat.

*A/N* "this peace is what all true warriors strive for" That was my prompt from krikanalo. It was a great Sherlock prompt, I gotta say, because the first thing that came to my mind was the BelieveinSherlock movement. I hope you enjoy what I made of it.
As always, a review would make me very happy, promts or ideas would, too.
Or the third series, but I guess none of you can get me that…?

I fight John Watson's war. Don't believe the lies. Moriarty was real. I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

It's on the Internet, on the streets, I don't remember how I first heard about it, but they're there. Millions, everywhere, all over the globe. These people, believing in what I say, "fighting my war".

Greg shows it to me when I meet him at the pub on one of these golden October evenings when everyone else feels light and happy and I don't even care to know what day it is. I guess he thinks it would comfort me to know there are others out there.

And in a way it does. And in another it doesn't.

"You know what kept me carrying on in Afghanistan?" I ask him and look at the DI over my glass of beer. He's looking better than when I've last seen him, not okay, but better.

He gives me a puzzled look, and I guess my reaction must seem a bit random to him. Great, now he'll worry about my head again.

"No."

"I wanted peace, I wanted my bloody peace of mind back. And I thought that somehow, if I'd reach something, if I could help win the war, that would help me. And then they sent me back."

My mind wanders back to those first days back in London, back in "civil life", without my permission.

The John Watson I knew couldn't stand to be anywhere else.

Yeah, I'm not the John Watson.

"I thought I'd never sleep again. I kept dreaming of all that stuff, and I felt like they'd taken away my only chance of getting rid of it. When I left, I missed London so much. I thought this was the only place where I could ever be. And then I came back and there was no place for me in the whole stupid world. I couldn't stand to be here. I couldn't stand to be anywhere else."

Somewhere in the corner of my mind a little voice notes that Greg starts to look very uncomfortable. I decide to ignore it. It feels good to talk about this.

"When I met Sherlock's brother for the first time, on the night I met Sherlock, he said something about me missing the war. He said a lot of creepy stuff that night, but it was the first thing he said that actually scared me, because he was spot on, you know? He'd seen right through me."

This conversation with Mycroft Holmes, just like most other memories, is always there in the back of my mind, like a movie on hold.

Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?
The war doesn't hunt you, Doctor Watson. You miss it.
Welcome back.

"That's in the family, I guess," Greg mutters and proceeds to stare at his pint.

"Yeah. He left and just said 'welcome back'. At first I thought he was talking rubbish or just trying to sound cool, I wasn't back at war or anything after all. But after a while it started to feel like that again. It was giving my life a purpose."

"You've got it in for dangerous jobs, don't you?"

"What did you have in mind when you started working at Scotland Yard? Paperwork?" I mock.

She said you like it, you get off on it.

And I said danger...and here you are.

I wish my brain would stop this.

"You didn't deserve this, John," he says after a while, still not looking at me.

"Would anyone?" It's kind of a rhetorical question, and he sure enough doesn't reply.

I wonder if the guy behind the counter ever overheard a conversation as depressing as ours. What's really sad, though, is that to me, this is more like a bit of cheery chit-chat.

"Anyway, that's why I think it's so stupid… fighting 'my war', you know? Because I'm a soldier, and I've got no war anymore. No purpose."

"John, don't say that-" he says, almost begging. I frown. Does he really think I could be suicidal?

I guess he does. And I guess that's the logical assumption given my behaviour.

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna...you know. Not my style." That doesn't even sound reassuring to my ears. "I'm not… I'm okay. Really."

He shoots me a dark look and replies: "No. If I'm not okay, there's no way you could be."

What's that Ella always says? "The best I could be, given the circumstances."

Greg snorts and orders another beer for both of us.

Also a way of solving problems.

It's paradox, really. I'm fighting all this time, just to have peace. And I want to stop fighting so badly.

But I can't.

Don't believe the lies. Sherlock Holmes was real. John Watson's soldiers.

*A/N* P.S.: My spacing seemed to bother some people, so I tried to change it, tell me if it's better now...