Author's Note:

This chapter is a little more serious than the previous ones. Get ready, the next 12+ chapters are pretty intense with a few light hearted chapters strewn in between.


The last time…no…now was not the time to think about that. Later, when he was alone with his thoughts back in the flat in London but not here with John. Sherlock tightened his hug around the other man and pulled him closer gently, giving a light kiss on his forehead. Now was not the time to let the game get in the way of comforting his fiancé. "Is there anything specific you wanted to discuss? I'm afraid normal conversation isn't my forte and I might need a few pointers." He gave a small smirk, hoping it would help calm John down a bit.

John laughed slightly, snuggling into Sherlock's chest with a bit of a smile. "Tell me about growing up," he whispered as he lifted a hand to rest over Sherlock's heart. "About your Mum and Dad and Mycroft. Did you climb trees? Fall in mud?" He wanted to know. He had never really asked Sherlock about it. It would be best to know since they were getting married. He turned his head to rest his chin on Sherlock's chest and study Sherlock's face intently. Memorize everything. Take it all in. His pale skin, his piercing eyes, his mouth that was almost always smirking around him. "Did you ever think you'd end up with somebody?" He asked softly as an afterthought.

"Well, I was pretty serious as a child. I was either reading or doing some experiment or other. Mycroft and I were terrible to each other. Mum always favored me and dad Mycroft. We were constantly arguing, fighting, trying to outdo the other so the other parent would notice us. It never really worked. I could do no wrong in my Mum's eye. The perfect, brilliant son. Dad's a military man. Complete opposite of Mum. When he was home, everything needed to be clean and in place. You can imagine how much he loved my room." Sherlock gave a small laugh and shrugged. "I would only climb trees, so I could spy on the neighbor. His name was Mr. Throughsdale. I never liked him. There was just something off about him. I mean he was nice enough and always polite. Turns out he was serial killer. I wasn't the one who figured it out, but I became enthralled with idea of them and started doing all the research I could on them." Another shrug and a moment to catch his breath. "I might have fallen in mud. I don't know. I wasn't outside often, really. And no, I never thought I'd end up with anybody. For a very long time, it didn't even interest me in the slightest."

Everything was different, so different, from what John viewed as a normal childhood. Then again, this was Sherlock. It was only natural that his childhood would be something drastically opposite of the norm. "Young Sherlock sounds exactly like the current one," John stated with amusement. While Sherlock was busy already being a genius John had been running around playing rugby and proving his father proud be constantly attracting female attention. "What's Hamish like?" He asked with a raised brow. That cat must've done something special to earn a spot in the flat.

"Stubborn, extremely loud if doesn't get his way, violent…" Sherlock shrugged, but continued on "He doesn't really seem to like anyone but me and even then I'm not so sure. He has sort of warmed up to Mrs. Hudson. He's bitten Lestrade and Mycroft on more than one occasion. When I leave him alone in the flat when I have dinner with Mycroft, I come back to a very messy flat. Things chewed on, scratched up. He isn't very house broken, really… Sometimes he'll want out and be gone all night but is always back by the morning. He refuses to eat anything but ham or jam. I talk to him and everyone thinks that's weird." Another shrug and he fell quiet.

"It sounds like you in cat form," John stated almost instantly, craning his neck to gently meet Sherlock's lips. It was long, slow, conveying every emotion John felt. Don't forget me. I love you. Stay strong. He pulled away and kept his eyes closed, placing his head under Sherlock's chin. With a small smile, and a laugh, John declared "We've been naked since you walked in the door." After a long moment he lifted his head and kissed Sherlock again, a little more urgent this time.

Sherlock snorted at the thought of him in cat form. Utterly ridic- His thoughts were quickly dispersed from the kiss, and he returned it. He clung a little tighter to John, hugging the other man closer still. He just held on quietly, enjoying and savoring this moment. Once more he returned the kiss, eyes closing in contentment.

"I love you," John muttered against Sherlock's lips, his voice desperate. "I love you. I want you," he gasped for a breath and sucked on Sherlock's neck. "I need you. Never leave me." He lifted his head and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Please, never leave me." After a long, intense gaze John moved his mouth to Sherlock's ear. It was slow and deliberate, his lips lingering against Sherlock's hair line before he spoke. "I want to fuck you," he stated with a bit of a growl. "And make you scream my name until you don't have a voice."

"I love you too and I would never leave you, my dear doctor." Sherlock had a hard enough time coping with John away at war; he couldn't even begin to fathom ever leaving the other man. His body shivered from the kissing and sucking, his head tilting to the side. He smirked a bit, "You might want to wait for your breakfast to get here. Otherwise we might have a repeat of last night." The smirk got a little bigger.

Breakfast. For some reason, despite the rather obvious growl of his stomach, John regretted ordering food. "You're probably right, not that your ego needs it." He took several deep breaths to calm himself, willing away the half-erection he had. "Sorry about that. I'm just happy I'm eating a real meal at a proper time. It's a nice change." He twisted slightly against Sherlock's body, wincing as he pulled his dog tags over his head and tossed them on to the bed. It was quite uncomfortable to lay on top of somebody with the chain digging against his skin. "Tell me about London," he asked in a whispered, looking at Sherlock with a smile.

Sherlock sat up slightly, and reached for the discarded dog tags. With his long fingers, he grabbed the chain and pulled them closer to him and then picked them up. He put on the dog tags, having missed them. The weight of the ring he had started wearing, just wasn't the same. He turned the tags and ring around on his neck, so they were behind him and wouldn't be in the way. "Well, it's pretty much the same. Except it is very boring without a certain army doctor there to liven it up." He gave a small grin, his fingers trailing along John's back lightly.

Watching Sherlock put on his dog tags made John smile. "I'm sure it's not as boring as you think. I bet it's beautiful. When it rains and cools down. People can walk the streets there, care free, and go into shops" His eyes had a far-off look, a lost smile on his lips. "I miss it." He missed Sherlock, naturally, but the thought of London tugged at his heart and made him more homesick than he cared to think. "I miss our flat and it's organized mess and ridiculous experiments." He managed to sharp laugh, almost bitter. "I am even starting to miss the body parts in the fridge."

Sherlock watched John thoughtfully for a moment and then a smirk tugged at his lips. "You know, I haven't done an experiment since you left. However, the flat is no longer clean like it was. Just as messy as ever. Messier than usual, actually, due to Hamish. He has a tendency to throw tantrums when things don't go his way. I've managed to only shoot the wall once while you were gone. Lestrade walked in on me and took my gun." He puckered his lips in pout at the thought. "No one lets me have any fun John."

"Shooting the wall isn't fun, Sherlock. It's incredibly dangerous." John warned with a smile on his face. It sounded like everything had stayed the same, something that Sherlock needed. A sense of normalcy was best for anybody in their situation. He ran his hand down Sherlock's chest, his eyes locked on the wedding band on his finger. "Do we want a wedding cake? I mean, after the ceremony are we going to have a reception? It sounds like your Mum will want one."

"A reception…?" Sherlock echoed because that hadn't even occurred to him. "You are right though, my Mum will definitely want me to have one. If she has it her way, our wedding will have all the bells and whistles. What kind of cake do you like? I'm not picky. Food is food to me. Something necessary but not something I worry or think about." He rested his chin on John's head lightly, giving him a small hug.

"Isn't a typical cake vanilla or something?" John asked slowly, his mouth twisting to the side. "Honestly? I really think your Mum will take care of it for us. If we're getting married a week or so after I'm back then maybe you should start planning with her tomorrow when you're back in London?" It was a hopeful question, nearly begging the consulting detective to work with his Mother to make the wedding as wonderful as possible. "We don't want anything extravagant, obviously, but I'm sure you and your Mum could figure something out." The idea of the wedding was causing his heart to beat a little faster, his lips curling into a smile without him thinking. "And if the flat's clean enough then we could always spend our first night there."

"You want me to plan the wedding…with my mother?" Sherlock groaned inwardly. He needed to ask for money anyway. He wasn't looking forward to do either. "Yes, fine. I'll do that." He gave a smirk. "We could spend the first night at the flat and stay in my room, and certainly give Mrs. Hudson a good show." He only smirked bigger because he knew exactly how John would react to such a suggestion. "We still need to decide where to go. Was Paris something you really wanted to?" He'd been there before and while it wasn't his idea of a getaway, he would go if his fiancé really wanted to.

"No! I mean, not no. Yes. Not yes, I mean-" John's head shot up, his cheeks a deep red that had spread to the tips of his ears. He blinked quickly, his lips pursed. "That wasn't funny, Sherlock." The idea that Mrs. Hudson had already heard them the night before John had left was mortifying. He imagined it might be even worse on their wedding night. "M-Maybe we can stay in your room if she's... I don't know, away or something." He bit his bottom lip before speaking again. "Not really. I mean, Paris is that generic place, y'know? Why don't you pick? Maybe your Mum could help with that, too." The thought of Sherlock's parents completely paying for the wedding was unsettling him, though. "Want me to ask Harry if she can pitch in? I don't... I mean, I feel horrid having your parents pay for everything."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at John's response. It was exactly as he had envisioned it in his head. "If I have Mum pick, she'll most certainly pick Paris or Venice or some such place. I'm not sure my mother will let anyone pitch in to pay for the wedding. She is a bit of what people would call a control freak about those kinds of things. She probably won't let me help plan anything. As for my family paying for everything, it isn't a big deal. We have plenty of money." He gave an off handed shrug.

Why did it feel like John was learning so many new things about Sherlock? It would make sense, really, if he put everything together. Sherlock's card always had money on it. John was really the only one struggling, even with a regular job. "So you don't really use my checks getting sent to the flat, do you?" He asked with a small laugh, turning his head when he heard a knock at the door. "Ah, Christ, food," he nearly shouted as he tore out of Sherlock's grip and hastily wrapped a towel from the floor around his hips. Quick words were exchanged in Arabic before John returned to the bed, removing the towel as he climbed over Sherlock. "This looks amazing," he whispered in amazement as he settled beside Sherlock, his back pressed against the headboard. "Want some?"

"I have been. I don't really like using the family money if I don't have to. The Holmes are known for their arrogance and pride." Sherlock gave a small smirk and then shrugged. He watched John get the food, a clearly amused look on his face. He snuggled into his fiancé once he was back on the bed. He rested his head against John's side, and arm draping over the stomach. "No, I'm fine. You eat it."

John didn't hesitate, picking up the fork and digging into the eggs on his plate. "Tha's good," he muttered, the food shoved to one side of his mouth so he could speak from the other. "It is a lot of money. I wanted to make sure you're feeding yourself." He swallowed loudly before shoveling more eggs into his mouth, only stopping to pick up one of the glasses of milk and loudly gulp half of it down. "I'm worried your Mum won't like me." He picked up a link of sausage with his hand, putting the entire thing in his mouth with a small groan. "Christ, that's delicious."

Sherlock tilted his head up to watch John eat. He hadn't seen the other man eat with such fervor since he had been in that private, government hospital after being poisoned. "Of course she'll like you. What's not to like about you?" The person John should be worrying about was his dad. The man seemed to disapprove of everything he had ever done with his life. He kept that to himself, as he continued to watch his fiancé eat.

"I don't know. Mum's usually tend to that, though, find something wrong." John replied almost immediately. He finished his eggs and glanced around the plate before picking a piece of dry toast and biting into it. "You've never mentioned your Dad," he added as an afterthought. "Military, you said earlier? Maybe I've got a bit of a chance there." John shrugged slightly and finished his first piece of toast before gently moving the tray to rest beside him on the bed. Eating so fast had caused his stomach to expand and he suddenly had lost his appetite. "I miss decent food," he stated as he lifted his hand to rest on top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock gave a small shrug. "Yes, Colonel Siger Holmes. At least, I think he is a Colonel now. Dad and I have never really gotten along. Our relationship is even more strained than the one I have with Mycroft. Dad thinks I'm wasting my brilliance on a 'stupid career choice.' He thinks I should be finding the cure for cancer or working on the Hadron Collider in Sweden or something else that is boring." He didn't really like talking about his father and the distaste was clearly in his tone of voice.

"Didn't mean to bring him up," John managed to say through a yawn as he moved a hand to run slowly through Sherlock's hair. "Hate you being upset." Another yawn and suddenly his eyes were struggling to stay open. "Can I take a nap?" His eyes closed completely, his body slowly relaxing. "Wake me up in hour?" The meal had been so good that it had, quite literally, knocked him out.

Sherlock stretched a bit and resituated himself so his head was now on John's chest along with one hand. The other hand found his head and began running through the short hair lightly. The telly was still on and it hadn't registered really until the room was quiet. He was too comfy and lazy to try and find the remote to turn it off. That and he didn't want to wake up John. He wasn't tired himself, so he just laid there in silent reflection. He actually ended up losing track of time.

Blood. Too much blood. Who was screaming? Gunshots. It was him. He was on the ground, clutching at his shoulder.

John woke up with a scream, his body breaking into a cold sweat as he searched he room. Kabul. Hotel room. Sherlock. He took his breaths on gasps, his chest moving rapidly and his mouth wide open. That was the first nightmare he'd had since their vacation in Scotland.

The scream caused Sherlock to jolt upright, his heart pounding in his chest. It had startled him. Also, hearing John sound so scared was terrifying in itself. He collapsed back into his fiancé, almost immediately. He gave a gentle kiss on John's lips. "You are safe my dear doctor." He ran his fingers soothingly through the other man's hair.

John instantly wrapped his arms around Sherlock, a small sound escaping his lips as he started to calm down. "Sorry. I'm sorry," his voice was rough and he grimaced at the sound. He returned Sherlock's kiss, nipping at Sherlock's bottom lip as he pulled away. It had been more than an hour, perhaps three, since he had fallen asleep. "I didn't mean to scare you," he whispered.

"It is fine. You never have to apologize for waking up from a nightmare." Sherlock replied softly. He kissed John again, a little more passionately in hopes of distracting his fiancé from whatever had troubled his sleep. He rolled over so he could straddle John, his kisses moving from the lips to the army doctor's neck and he began to suck lightly.

The dream was playing over and over in his mind, hazy but a clear reminder. It wasn't until he felt Sherlock's body on top of him that he was distracted. He tilted his head back to expose more of his neck, his back arching slightly off the bed to press against Sherlock's. His body was on auto-pilot. John had no idea how to control his body but it seemed to be doing just fine without him really needing to think. His hands moved slowly to Sherlock's back, softly resting on the other man's shoulder blades. One hand moved to gently tug at the necklace that held Sherlock's ring. "Please," he whispered.

Sherlock hesitated, as he watched John. Sure, sex was a great distraction but he realized it had become his default setting when dealing with something that was emotional. Was that fair to his fiancé? Would John need more at some point? Would he be able to give more? His thoughts broke when he heard the army doctor's voice, and he realized they were face to face now when John had tugged at the necklace. "Are you sure? We can talk if you want?"

What kind of ridiculous question was that? Of course he was sure. He was responding eagerly to the man above him, nearly begging for it. Except... Sherlock had a point. This was the easy way out, fucking Sherlock to get his emotions out of the way might have sounded like a good idea but, in reality, it would probably be smarter to talk. The idea of talking about that dream though, about explaining it, was both nerve-wracking and embarrassing at the same time. John's eyes shot up to Sherlock's, his chest constricted, and his mouth struggled to form around his words. "Talk?" He asked softly as his eyes trailed between them, inspecting Sherlock's body. "J-Just... maybe just talk ab-about the dream?" He sounded lost, hurt, scared, and he hated it.

Sherlock wasn't used to hearing John like that. It was scary to contemplate. John Watson was a proud man and fearless. "We don't have to, if you don't want to." He didn't know what to say or do to make it all better. He didn't want John to lock himself in the bathroom again, because he wasn't capable of offering comfort. Weren't relationships supposed to be easy if you loved someone? Would he ever be able to handle all these emotions? No. Think about John not yourself. He could worry about himself later. His fiancé needed him right now and he was terrified he would somehow let the other man down.

John looked up at Sherlock. He had never told anybody about his dreams. They were personal, scary, and he never wanted to tell somebody else and have them to even have to hear it. "They're usually different," he whispered, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. "Sometimes they're really vivid. I can hear people screaming for me, for my help." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. "And I always get there right as they die, as they're crying out for their Mum. I get there just in time to watch them die. When, really, that's never what happened. I always got there in time to at least attempt to save them, y'know?" His eyes opened and met Sherlock's gaze. "Other times it's from when I got shot and the helpless feeling doesn't even leave after I wake up." After a pause his voice cracked and he slammed his eyes shut against the tears he felt coming.

Sherlock listened quietly; his light eyes never leaving John's face even when the other man wasn't looking at him. He relaxed his lanky form gently on the other man, careful not to apply all his weight. He reached over and took John's hand and gave it a tight a squeeze. He nuzzled the top of his head into his fiancé's neck for a moment, placing a small kiss on John's chest. He finally lifted his head so he could speak, "John…" he hesitated briefly as he sought for the right words, "…you are an amazing doctor. I know it must have been scary getting shot, but you're strong. Brave. Fearless. Loyal. Never doubt yourself for a second, because I don't."

If somebody had told him it was possible for Sherlock to be involved in an emotional conversation, especially one of this level, John would have laughed. Except here he was, saying everything that John had needed to hear for so long. He tightly squeezed Sherlock's hand in return before his other hand wrapped tightly around Sherlock's torso. "I'll try not to," he muttered into Sherlock's mussed hair. When really, John doubted himself all the time. Every injury. "If you were injured in combat... would you trust me?" It was a serious question and John's half-embrace tightened slightly.

"Of course I would. You're the only doctor I would trust to work on me." Sherlock replied as he used his upper body to return the hug, nuzzling his head into John's neck once more. He continued to cling to the army doctor's hand, and his free hand came to run through his fiancé's hair soothingly. He had hoped he said the right thing. He thought so, because everything he said was true. What was that called…speaking from your heart? Never would he have thought himself capable of that but for John he had tried.

John relaxed and let his thoughts drift away from his dream, focusing instead on the body on top of him. "Sometimes, at night, I have dreams about you," he stated after a long pause. "They're always simple and I wake up homesick. That's when I text you. You're usually in the living room, on the couch. All stretched out, your hands doing that odd little steeple thing under your chin." The hand on Sherlock's back started running lightly along Sherlock's spine. "And we drink coffee in the morning, discuss a case," a long pause, "And even though I feel homesick I wake up feeling so damn happy."

"I don't dream often, or if I do then I don't remember them. If I sleep after taking drugs or alcohol I usually have some sort of nightmare." Sherlock said with a slight shrug. He looked down at John with a slight smirk. "Do I really do that a lot? Put my fingers under my chin? I guess I never noticed. Always busy thinking about other things to realize it." His face fell serious once more, his gaze intense with worry. "The offer still stands to hypnotize you so you won't have nightmares."

For a moment John seriously considered Sherlock's offer. "No." He shook his head, swallowing and narrowing his eyes. "It's nice, really, but I can't help thinking that I deserve them, y'know? That... that they're part of me." He took his bottom lip between his teeth and shifted beneath Sherlock. It was true. The nightmares, no matter how hellish, were part of him. A stark reminder of who he was, what had made him. He would never admit it to Sherlock but some of the dreams about Afghanistan were pleasant, filled with adrenaline, and more than once while living at 221B he'd woken up with a hard-on from just the excitement. He had been about to open his mouth, to suggest that maybe they should take advantage of the position they were in, when the cell phone from Mycroft started ringing from his bag. John didn't hesitate and moved from under Sherlock, sliding off the bed and rushing to answer it.

"Captain Watson," he answered, silly because of course it was Mycroft calling. He stilled before jumping into action, ripping the bag open as he pinned the phone between his cheek and right shoulder. "Right. Okay. Where?" He was focused on yanking a clean pair of underwear on, freezing as the answer was read to him. "Yes. How many?" Socks. Pants. Belt. "Two hours. Can he last that long?" He picked up his tan shirt, held it loosely in his hand, and nodded. "Okay. Tell them I'll be there." He ended the call, tossing the cell phone on the table next to the television as he slipped his shirt on. "Sherlock, I've got to go." He turned to study his fiance. "There's been a tunnel collapse and we've got a soldier trapped in there that needs medical care. I've got to go take care of him before they can get him out." He was slipping on his camouflage shirt now, buttoning it swiftly and making sure the red cross was still on his left bicep. That was when he froze, looking at Sherlock before moving to the bed. "I love you," he whispered as he climbed on to the bed, balancing on his knees as he tugged at his own dog tags around Sherlock's neck to get him to move to his knees as well.

Sherlock frowned as he watched John rush around. No, no, no, no, no! Their time together wasn't supposed to end like this. He just laid on the bed, helpless to stop everything that had been set in motion. He wanted to yell and scream, demand that John stay. To be selfish and keep the army doctor all to himself until their time was up. He finally moved, when his fiancé pulled at the dog tags, bringing himself to a kneeling position as well. His blue-grey eyes locked onto John's. "I love you too." His voice was calm and even but it was damn near impossible to keep the pain from his eyes.

"I'm sorry." John's eyes darted between Sherlock's several times before he slowly pulled his dog tags over Sherlock's head and slipping them around his neck. "Three months, Sherlock. Three more months and you can come back, yeah?" He met Sherlock's lips softly, holding himself back because the car was already downstairs waiting for him. "I promise. And we can text and Skype all we want." He pressed their foreheads together, one hand clutching at the back of Sherlock's neck. He didn't want this. This was their time, a time for John to escape the war and see his fiancé and not worry about anything. "Mycroft already had dinner set up for you two tonight. You'll be fine. We'll be fine." He met Sherlock's lips again, a bit rougher than before.

Sherlock didn't say anything because he didn't trust himself to be a mature adult about it. He merely nodded at John's words. Mycroft was here? Why did that surprise him so much? He sighed, the last thing he wanted to do was have dinner with his older brother. He would rather be alone, brooding and breaking things in the hotel room. Be a child and throw a fit. He finally found his voice, "Be safe. Be careful. Collapsed tunnels are dangerous, could be another cave-in." And now every way one could die in cave-in came to mind. Sometimes he wished he was capable of turning his mind off.

John bit his bottom lip and nodded. "Keep eating. Take cases. Go outside the flat as often as you can." He moved from the bed slowly, picking up his outer shirt and slipping it on, buttoning it slowly. "And remember that when I get back we're getting married." His left hand moved up, his fingers wiggling so the silver ring would glint against the light of the room. "I'll be all yours." He pulled his shoes on, quickly tied them, and slipped his back over his shoulders. "After dinner you're going back to London. Enjoy it, no dust." He smirked and moved forward to meet Sherlock's lips, lingering for a long time before having to nearly sprint out of the room so he would actually leave.

And like that, John was gone. Down the stairs and into the waiting Army vehicle as his armor was shoved against his chest with laughter and greetings from his men.

Mycroft watched from the back of his car as John disappeared into the hot desert.

Come downstairs when you're ready. Don't break anything, I'll have to pay for it. We need to talk. –MH

Why was it harder to let John go this time around than the first? Sherlock just stared at the door, even after his fiancé was well gone. Good God, was he crying? He wiped at the tears angrily, but he couldn't make them stop. He growled his frustration, his breathing verging on the edge of hyperventilating. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to calm down. He was Sherlock Holmes damn it and he did not lose it emotionally. After a few more calming breaths he let his eyes open.

That stupid television was still on. In his blind rage, he couldn't find the remote. He got up off the bed and turned it off manually, punching the button harder than necessary. Miraculously, it didn't break but he busted three of his knuckles and they began bleeding. Sherlock ignored the pain and blood. His cell phone was turned off, so he didn't even know Mycroft and sent him a message. He got dressed hastily. He didn't want to stay in this hotel room any longer. It was no longer a happy place. It had been tainted and poisoned. He did a quick sweep of the room, to make sure nothing was left behind. He then grabbed his one bag and left, slamming the door behind him. Once down in the lobby, he threw the key at whoever was at the front desk and stalked outside.