Teshka said: Hmm...let's see if I can come up with a prompt on the spot...Got one!
John and Sherlock are married. John gets contacted that he's needed for active service again. He leaves for several months/a long time, I'll leave the time up to you, and returns abruptly when he gets injured. Again, I leave where the injury is up to you, but I think it would be fitting if it would be a bullet wound. Sherlock helps John recuperate (obviously) and...I don't know what from there :) I don't even know if there is a 'from there' sooo...this is really just an outline, you can add or subtract whatever you want, and you don't even have to write it if you don't want to :)
You have no idea how often I almost wrote M*A*S*H instead of just "field hospital" in this one. I don't know if they're even called M*A*S*H's in Britain! It's for the best I suppose, I can't imagine Hawkeye and John getting along. Also, I'm just a measly writer with no idea how long a bullet wound needs to be treated or how long until you're walking again or anything so please take pity on my lack of medical knowledge.
Hope I got this right, Teshka, enjoy! :D
He was to serve one more tour, an estimated nine to twelve months of active duty.
The most agonizing estimated nine to twelve months of Sherlock's life.
He wanted to find the person responsible for John's being pulled back into the nightmare of gunshots and screams, and he wanted to strangle them. No, strangulation was far too good for them. He'd have to think of some other form of torture.
John of course was gracious about it, marched off with a sense of honor mixed in with the dread. Sherlock however was not happy about this at all.
He found himself playing with his wedding ring, a sentimental habit most often found in housewives that have found themselves aware of their husbands affairs. Certainly not the behavior of Sherlock Holmes. Yet here he was twisting the golden band around his finger, studying it as though it were a complicated logic problem. The metal soon grew warm from the constant attention of Sherlock's fingers, and the detective grew tired of his nervous fretting and so tried to find something else to do.
In John's absence the past eight months the flat had gone from bad to worse. With Sherlock free to do what he pleased without John there to command his husband clean up his chemistry set when he was done and to not stab their mail to the wall because it would come out of their rent, the place had gone to hell and back.
Sherlock stepped over a broken Erlenmeyer flask, careful not to brush against the fragments of glass. He paced around the living room, his mind racing. He couldn't remember how he used to live before John came into the picture, he couldn't remember how to live!
When his phone began buzzing he clacked his teeth together in irritation. It was an unwelcome interruption into his thoughts, but with any luck it would be Lestrade calling with a new case. He grabbed up the phone and without even bothering to check who was calling he answered it.
"What do you want?" He growled into the phone.
"Do try not to put yourself into a nervous fit, brother."
Mycroft. Of course. Tch.
"The question still stands. What do you want from me? I'm very busy." He snapped, collapsing onto the couch and folding his legs up against his chest.
"And by busy you mean of course pacing and staring a mold collection in the bathroom. Won't John be pleased to see that when he returns in two days."
Sherlock Holmes was a man rarely surprised, but at these words he gaped and one could almost picture his jaw comically striking against the ground.
"What did you say?" He hissed.
"John will be returning in two days. He has been honorably discharged due to serious injury in the line of duty. It's quite remarkable really, he's being hailed as a hero as we speak. Apparently he was shot while dragging an eighteen year old boy to safety to perform an emergency surgery right on the battlefield." Mycroft commented, practically yawning with boredom.
Sherlock felt a glow of pride in his chest for his husband's actions, but at the same time that pride was matched by a feeling of dread deep in his stomach.
"He was shot? Again?" He hated how his voice trembled, he could show no weakness to Mycroft it was really unacceptable.
"Don't worry. He was shot in the leg, nothing fatal but for obvious reasons he cannot continue. Right now he's being treated in a field hospital but they'll be shipping him back in two days. I thought I'd call to tell you." Mycroft replied.
"...what do you want? Why are you going out of your way to tell me this?" Sherlock asked, distrustful.
"Sherlock, contrary to what you and your husband believe I am not out to cause you both great annoyance and pain. I am still your brother whether you want to believe it or not." Sherlock could practically hear his brother rolling his eyes on the other end of the phone.
Sherlock sat silently for a moment before hanging up as both Holmes boys would agree that no farewell was necessary.
A jittery sort of excitement and worry began filling Sherlock, he felt as though he would start twitching. He stared at the mess of the apartment and leapt to his feet, filled with the sudden urge to make it all right for John's arrival. Inwardly he groaned at his sudden domesticity but on the outside he began whirling about the flat, dumping trash and old experiments away and disposing of the limbs in the fridge. When he finally finished he stood in front of his work with a sense of satisfaction.
John is coming home.
John is hurt.
The two thoughts were wrapped around each other, being thought at the same time at lightning speed. Sherlock didn't know whether to be happy or sad, relieved or worried. So instead of pacing around the flat some more he approached the bookshelf where he had piled folders and folders of notes from past cases. He grabbed a folder, ran slim pale fingers over the tan paper and then began busying himself reviewing past cases.
Pointless, but effective. He thought to himself. Better than counting the seconds and minutes and hours until he walks through that door again.
When John came home, Mycroft made sure Sherlock wasn't at the airport. He foresaw the sort of scene that would occur and so instead instructed Mrs. Hudson to keep the sulking detective within the flat with the threat of revealing to John just how many cigarettes he had smoked in the doctor's absence. Then he sent a car to pick John up and bring him back home.
Sherlock was close to pushing past Mrs. Hudson and running to the airport by the time John finally arrived home. As it was, Sherlock did manage to nearly trip over his own feet running towards the doctor. He embraced him tightly and lifted the shorter man off his feet, allowing the crutches the wounded man had been using to fall to the ground. It was only when John winced and gave a short intake of breath indicating pain that Sherlock let go.
"I missed you." John stumbled, leaning against the car. "But that's no reason to cause me even more bodily harm."
Sherlock sheepishly gathered up the crutches and returned them to their owner, holding his husband steady as he regained his standing position.
"John." Was all that Sherlock managed to choke out, and John leaned up to press a kiss to the detective's lips.
"Help me inside, love?" He asked.
After much fretting from both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, John managed to make it up the stairs into the flat. He scanned the room for the usual signs of Sherlock being left to his own devices and Sherlock was pleased to see the surprised grin that came from viewing the clean flat.
"You didn't go and do anything stupid while I was away did you?" John teased.
"Of course not." Sherlock smiled. "Although apparently you did. I thought I told you to come home in one piece."
"Well now I have an excuse for my limp." John winked, settling into the couch and laying the crutches against the floor.
Sherlock immediately sat next to John, gluing himself to the soldier's side. He grabbed John's hand, and leaned in towards the doctor just to breathe in that sweet earthy scent that was John.
"You're not leaving again." He demanded.
"Sounds fine to me." John replied with a yawn. Sherlock took the yawn as an invitation to start caring for the doctor immediately.
"Bed." He stated, and actually picked John up. John blushed, he hated it when Sherlock used his extra height to make something like picking up a full grown man easy.
"Hey...what are you trying to do?" He growled.
"I'm taking you to bed." Sherlock pressed a kiss to the doctor's forehead. "I thought that was obvious." He lay John down and then curled up next to him.
"I could get used to you being helpful for a change." John teased.
"I don't plan on leaving your side." Sherlock murmured. "No one is going to hurt you again."