TheDarkestShinobi: Edited to now include a funeral scene, which was inspired by a line I read in a Captain America photo.

Start

"You men have been selected to locate this group of insurgents." John crossed his arms as he watched some faces come up onto the screen in front of them. He'd been good with details and tries to remember as much of their faces as possible. The men next to him were doing the same and the room was quiet with the exception of the shuffling of papers for a few minutes.

"This is the man in charge of this operation, Captain Jesse Miller." The man stood up with a brief nod and a smile before sitting back down.

"Your main point of communications here, Martha Smith," She waved

"and your Doctor, John Watson." John was standing in the back, so no one noticed him right away.

"Right then," the eyes located him and he smirked "try to make my job easy."

"I'll leave you all to get better acquainted, tomorrow, your assignment begins." John was suspicious of his 'death' if they weren't going to change his name, but the opportunity to seek out Mycroft had past, and he had a group of men to befriend.

No drinking the night before they started, but military gents always found ways to have a good time. It only took the night for them to grow close.

…

"Are you going to the funeral?" Sherlock looked up from the floor and tilted his head. Mrs. Hudson took another step into the apartment; she was in a black dress and hat with t small veil covering her face. "John,"

"He's not dead." Sherlock's face turned into one of confusion "so why would I attend his funeral?"

"Oh, Sherlock, I know what it is like-"

"He's not dead." Sherlock said firmly. "Go if you wish but I need to focus if I'm to find the killer before his fourth victim. Good bye."

"but-" she stars softly

"Goodbye," his voice is harsh before he levels it off "Mrs. Hudson."

He shuts the world out then with a small breath. He needed to visit his mind palace.

…

"Teams of four, at entry points here, here, here" Jesse pointed to different parts of the map with his pointer, "and here." John nodded as he took out his weapon and cocked it, the others doing the same. He studied the map as Jesse split the teams up and Martha's voice sparked in his ears. Jason, self-appointed leader of their group patted him on the shoulder and he nodded. He took up the rear and adjusted his med pack.

Quick and easy they said, but the fact that there was a group of 16 didn't give John hope. He raised his gun,

You have intermittent tremor in your left hand

Not now it didn't.

You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, you miss it

"Now," The static in his ears cleared up to say and he ran forward with the rest of them.

…

Veils, purity. He shook those thoughts away. One of the women had been married. Married, yes, veils, all the woman wore the same veils.

He never touched the girls, so he was saving them. Saving them for Christ, maybe, they were positioned the same way he was claimed to be. No, no, not Christ. God. Yes, this man thought he was a prophet, messenger, deliverer.

Sherlock's face turned slightly as he raised his hands further. There was no pattern to the locations that would imply a fifth, think, think! Fifth floor, second floor-2 on the second floor, eighth floor, white walls, tiled walls, brick walls. The women had makeup, and were shaved, the perfect idea. He did love them. These women were picked. Meticulously picked out the women beforehand, the place and time had to be planned.

Their heads were tilted to the side-John's head was against the couch, foam at the corner of his mouth and a bit of vomit on his shirt.

Toilet flushed, still traces of vomit on the side where his hands were. Sherlock shook his head. Focus. The chair had been thrown into the wall with enough force to break it. The table had been smashed with force. John could do it; even years out of service that training left him strong enough to put a hole in the wall. Sherlock's head jerked violently to the left

The scars had been exact, Sherlock remembered them clearly. That was way too much detail for a fake. His eyebrows twitched, hands jerking and head moving to the right.

It was real. He kept shaking his head. Going through the evidence

Teeth-real-no

Scars-true

Records-his-but

Blood –real

"No." He spoke as his eyes opened. He wouldn't believe himself. He couldn't.

…

There were rows of men in uniform standing the entire time to show their respect, none without tears in their eyes or running down their face. Mrs. Hudson couldn't stop the tears if she tried, she had seen far too many of her friends in caskets. She let out a small moan as a man gently rested his hand on her shoulder. She looked up towards him.

"Hello Ma'am, my name is Julian Miller," she looked away from him. "I served with John in Afghanistan, he was a good friend."

"I was just his landlady," she mutters and he uses his hand to gently turn her around to hug him. She gripped his uniform as she let herself have a good cry. She was here to bury another one and she didn't know if she could do it anymore.

"He was a great man." He said strongly, only breaking at the end as he shook his head.

"The best kind." She agreed in a soft voice.

Mike Stamford stood with closed eyes, nodding. After a second spent composing himself he opened them and walked towards the podium. The murmurs quieted as he approached it and the crowd, because there was a small crowd, was silent as he cleared his throat.

"In war you learn the worst of people," he started, his voice was low and strong, but he was trying a little too hard to keep it steady. "You see them at their lowest, at their most desperate." He paused and took a breath. "When you go to war with John Watson, you see that the worst of some people can be better than the best you've ever been." There was a chuckle from the crowd. Mike looked to the casket and then back to the crowd.

"In Afghanistan, you learn to run like you've never known," There were lots of nods "and you run until you have to walk," Mike's voice got stronger as he went on "when you can't walk anymore you crawl," Mike's voice was proud and strong now and the men in the audience stood straighter, stood stronger. "And when you can't do that, you find someone to carry you." The audience listened, captured. Harry collapsed in her chair. Ms. Hudson would have fallen if Julian hadn't held her up. "And John Watson was the man that would carry you even when he couldn't walk anymore."

He looked up, because he knew that's where John would be.

"John, I'm asking you to carry us one more time, carry us through this because you truly were the best of us, and you've made all our lives brighter."

…

John steps over the man with the hole in his side and lowers his body enough to start working. He can hear enough gunshots and shouting to know it's almost over. The other gets patched up rather quickly, the shot more of a graze than John initially taught. The other shooed him away as he clutched his gun and said he'd be fine.

The shots are over now, and two others come to help this one out. John is walking around when he spots Jason standing over a body. Jason lowers himself and sticks his fingers against the side of the man's neck looking for a pulse. He must find one because he reaches down and twists the neck until it crunches. John's boots sound heavy against the wood floor and Jason turns to him before turning away and stepping over the body before checking another.

"There are others, back home, who think they are crazy," the next one has no pulse and John uses his gun to lift the man's shirt and sees the swirl on his neck that the group had. "They think because they are quirky, they are monsters." John lets the coat fall and steps over the next body. The round that hit him took half his face, but John only spares it a glance, he's seen much worse done to people who were a lot better.

"But look at us, we enjoy this, hell we miss it. We're the monsters."

"We can be," John says to Jason as they turned away from the lot, safety on "We certainly can."