A/N: There's actually a story with this one. I started it the winter of 2010-11. I got all the way to the part in the cab and had the brilliant idea with something in Sherlock's pocket and then. And then. I forgot what it was. But I think the way I finally finished it two weeks ago works really well. I guess you'll have to decide for yourself whether you like it or not. (And the thumbs bit! I'd written about the thumbs case in this fic before ASiB came out and when Mrs. Hudson said that line I totally flipped!) (In a good way!)

Also, there's a part that's a bit blatantly cross-over-y and you'll just have to square with that.

Also, here, have some more angst.

I'd better be off.

Sherlock did not take notice of John's morning-before-work routine after the first time. It was rather similar to his morning-without-work routine, excepting its earlier hour and the fact that it culminated in John leaving for the surgery rather than John sitting in front of the telly. Or, on better days, John racing out the door after Sherlock for a case.

It began, of course, with tea. Usually John stated some variation of "Sherlock, move your [expletive] experiments out of our [expletive] kitchen" while he searched for a cup. While the tea was steeping, he would go to the door for the paper, toss it on the table (if the Bunsen burner was off; if it was on, he threw it in a chair), and return to the stove for the finished tea. Then he would spend about a half-hour drinking his tea and scanning the paper.

This morning was different. John tossed the paper, front-page-up, on the currently flameless table, retrieved his tea, returned to the table, and murmured something just before dropping his mug of tea onto the floor.

The sounds of the mug shattering and John cursing were sufficiently distracting to cause Sherlock to glance up from his microscope and take in John, in his work clothes (pressed slacks with belt, tucked-in button-down blue shirt), his socks steaming slightly from the scalding tea (his feet would probably develop blisters), the pieces of the mug scattered around the kitchen floor. He went back to his microscope. "All right?" he asked.

"Uh," said John, in a voice Sherlock immediately recognized as the one he used to debunk rumors about his sexuality. "I'm going to, um..."

The next sounds were of the ceramic pieces clinking into the bin, a few quick swipes at the tea on the floor with the tea towel, and then the stairs creaking as John returned to his room, undoubtedly to change socks and possibly pants.

The next sound was the front door slamming.

Sherlock frowned, lifting his head from the microscope. He turned to look at the kitchen. The towel still lay on the floor beside quite visible puddles of tea, the paper lay unread on the table, the stove was still on. He glanced at the clock on his laptop: 7:15 AM. John didn't need to leave the house for another half hour in order to get to work on time. So where had he gone?

Ah, he thought with a quiet thrill, reaching for his coat. A case. A small, personal case, nothing terribly exciting, just a slight diversion. I'm not getting anywhere with the Winshaw problem at the moment, anyway. Might as well -

His phone buzzed. Lestrade. Another attack, thumbs gone. Will you come?

He finished putting on his coat and wrapped his scarf about his neck as he texted back, Of course. Ten minutes.

When he returned to the flat at three that afternoon, the fact that John was not home almost did not even register in his conscious mind; he made the obvious assumption that he was with Sarah and did not think about him again for another four hours, when a phone, not his, began to ring upstairs.

Odd, he thought as he bounded up the stairs. John never forgot his phone. But perhaps the incident with the tea and the subsequent clothing change had made him careless. Sherlock did not hesitate to enter John's room and pick up his phone from where it lay on the bed. He read the contact name: Sarah. At the bottom of the screen, it said that she had called five times already today.

Odd again, thought Sherlock, and again he felt the familiar thrill of a puzzle. He thought for another second before answering the call.

"John left his phone at the flat today," he said by way of greeting.

"Oh! Oh. Sherlock. Hello," said Sarah stumblingly. He grinned at her awkwardness.

"Hello."

"Well, um, listen, you don't happen to know where he's been all day, do you? I only just saw the paper, and well, I hope he's all right. I feel bloody awful for leaving all those nagging messages, though of course he could have let me know he was going to be out all day, even if he didn't want to tell me why-"

Sherlock interrupted her rambling one-sided conversation as quickly as he could. "He didn't go into the surgery today?"

"Uh, no." There was a short silence as Sherlock processed the new information and Sarah began to panic. "You mean, he hasn't been home?"

"What was in the paper?"

"What? Oh. God. You mean, you don't... you haven't seen, you don't know..." Sherlock listened to her take a few deep breaths. "Oh, Jesus, I thought at least you would have seen, I mean, you live with him, and you're usually so observant. When did he leave this morning? Normal time?"

"What was in the paper?" The comment on his powers of observation grated, and he had to strain to hold back his temper. He pounded back down the stairs and shot into the kitchen. The paper was still on the table, just as John had left it. He picked it up and held the phone to his ear with his shoulder. He began to flip through the first section.

"Christ, it's been nearly twelve hours... Do you have his sister's number? Maybe he went to see her."

"That's unlikely, seeing as how he hates her," snapped Sherlock, his patience evaporating at an alarming rate. He usually approved of Sarah; she was strong and of above-average intelligence, and she had helped them solve Sebastian's case. Unfortunately, she could apparently be just as thick as the rest of humanity when it came to giving Sherlock the data he needed. He hurriedly flipped through the world section without any idea of what to look for. "What was in the paper?"

"His platoon. They're dead. An attack last night. It's the front page."

A page tore as Sherlock whipped it back to the front. A large image of a burning military building took up a quarter of the page. Beneath that image were eight photos, victims of the attack. The headline read, "Eighty-one mltry. and civ. killed in surprise Taliban attack on hospital."

Sherlock studied the photos. He did not recognize the names or the faces; John never talked about Afghanistan. It was often very easy to forget that John had had a life before Baker Street. These men and women had been his friends. Supposedly, the bonds between army comrades ran deeper than those among civilians. The detective's brow furrowed. No, it was possible also in civilian life; the key to bond strength was shared experience, often of dangerous or life-threatening situations.

Not that it mattered. He was not jealous.

"Sherlock?" asked Sarah softly. He remembered he had snapped at her, and he felt something akin to guilt.

"I... had not seen today's paper," he offered as an apology. "He did leave earlier than expected this morning; I haven't had time to investigate -" He stopped when he heard her laugh without mirth, and his ire returned.

"Oh dear, I didn't mean to laugh at you. It's just - investigating. But maybe this is best, you know? Maybe he just needs some time alone. Not one to talk about himself much, is our John."

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried, really tried, to check his temper. "Yes."

She was quiet for another moment. "I'll just call you, then, shall I, if I hear anything?"

"Yes."

"And... you'll do the same, would you?"

"Yes, good-bye."

He hung up when she was in mid-farewell, and almost immediately the phone rang again. He started when he saw the name.

Mycroft.

He answered the call.

"John, I regret I haven't been able to offer my apologies until... Sherlock? What are you doing with Dr. Watson's phone?" Because of course his infernal brother could tell who it was by the way he was breathing.

"What are you doing calling him, brother dearest? It's not like you to make sympathy calls. Anything in particular you want to apologize for?" Acid dripped to the floor.

Mycroft sighed. "Where is Dr. Watson, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Sherlock."

Silence.

Sherlock hung up.

Right, he thought. Time to find John.

John didn't look at the paper when he picked it up at the door. He didn't see the headlines until he had finished making tea. But when he saw Sam and Major Abbley smiling up at him and then the burning hospital, it didn't take very long to put two and two together. He didn't even need to read the article. It did take him a while to realize that he'd dropped his mug and that his feet were mildly burned.

And that Sherlock had said something. He didn't remember how he had answered. He remembered going upstairs and putting cream on his feet, pulling on dry socks and trainers. He didn't even think of calling in sick; he needed a drink, and he needed time to process this. He grabbed his jacket and was out the door and down the street before he thought about where he was going. Pub.

He turned into a pub, found it was closed (it was only 7:15 AM), thought fuck and kept walking.

He reached the Thames, somehow, and walked along the riverfront until the sun went behind a cloud, except the cloud was a building and the sun was going down; it had been hours, the sun was setting and John didn't care. He needed a drink. Pubs were open now; he steered himself thoughtlessly into the nearest one. He had no idea where he was.

"Pint," he growled at the barkeep, settling himself on a stool. The place was well-lit but mostly empty. A few guys in the back at billiards, and one tall, lanky guy in a suit on a stool down the bar. They eyed each other a bit before deciding to ignore each other. When John got his pint, he lifted the glass toward the man and then drank, long and deep. When the glass was empty, he ordered another, and when that was empty, he ordered another, put his head down on his arms on the table and tried to fight back tears.

"Who'd you lose?" asked a quiet, curious voice to his left. The other patron at the bar, nursing what looked to be a whiskey, had decided to talk to him. Many responses came to John's mind: Piss off, Mind your own damn business, You can't possibly understand.

"My family," he said finally, and washed down the grief with the next half-pint.

The other man nodded. Something about him made John look again. It wasn't the fact that he wore Converse with his brown suit. It wasn't the fact that his hair stood straight up in the front, or the fact that he had sideburns that belonged in the fifties. It was the eyes. They seemed to understand so much; Sherlock could look like that sometimes, when he was frustrated, when Moriarty killed the old woman, when he knew something and couldn't do anything about it. And with a flash of unexpected insight, John knew: this man understood his despair, had felt the same terrible loss, and survived. This man had known this pain, and he knew also that he would know it again.

"What about you?" John asked him.

The eyes flicked to him, and a sad half-smile quirked onto the face. "The same. Long time ago, though. More recently..." He trailed off, looked into his glass. "A very good friend of mine. Many good friends of mine, in fact."

"The war?"

Startled, the man gave him a funny look. "...Yes," he said slowly. "How did you know?"

Oh hell, thought John. No way. I don't even know this guy. He couldn't possibly have been... but maybe he was.

"Was it," the words stuck in John's throat, "last night?"

They locked gazes for a long time.

The other man gave the tiniest of nods.

John nodded in agreement. Me, too.

They went back to their drinks.

"Robert." The man was talking to his glass. "His name was Robert. Her Majesty's 43rd. He was shot last month, and had been taken to the hospital. He was on the mend."

John was nodding. Of course. Hospitals were the worst for that very reason. Hope is given; hope is cruelly taken away. Probably why the damn terrorists burned it.

"Sam. And the rest of the boys." John smirked bitterly at the man's questioning glance and pointedly rolled his shoulder. "I was their doctor, up until last summer. Bastards got me in the shoulder. Honorable discharge from service."

"I'm so sorry."

John shrugged. "I've got nothing now. I always thought... you know. Meet up after the war, swap stories, laugh at whoever gets fat, whoever gets kids, whoever settles down. Always figure there'll be at least one or two. It's too much to hope for everyone making it out, of course, but..." He choked again, and the man let him find his voice. It was nice, this talking, no pressure. He didn't even know where he was. "Well. Now there's... just..." Voice blocked again, and he blinked scoldingly at his empty pint. "Me."

There was silence again.

Other people slowly filtered into the pub. Three women dressed for a night out entered and took the seats between John and Robert's friend. John didn't think about him again as the sky darkened and the city lights came on. The pub became crowded, loud. John shook his head at an offer of food and downed the last of his fourth (maybe fifth) pint. He glanced at his watch: 22:30. He should probably find a cab. He needed to sleep. He'd had nothing to eat today, either.

He got up and spotted the other man, still sitting with his whiskey glass. He didn't know why he did it, but he walked over and grasped the man's shoulder. "Good luck to you, mate," he said calmly.

The other man looked away from him and tried to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes with a long-fingered hand. Then he turned to John and smiled in a depressed way. "Hey. You too. Find somebody to be with tonight, alright?"

John laughed. "Sex is not going to make me feel better."

"No, that's not what I - I meant - a mate. A friend. Just don't be alone."

The embarrassment was fleeting. "Oh. Yeah. You too." They nodded to each other, and then John stumbled in the direction of the door. He was wondering drunkenly if maybe going by Sarah's wasn't such a bad idea after all. It wasn't as though he had anyone else he could talk to about this sort of thing. Sherlock was a sociopath, or even if he wasn't, he certainly worked hard to maintain the appearance. They'd been living together for three months, but he felt, as he often did, that his own problems were rather below Sherlock, who was putting his mind to puzzles that saved people's lives. There was no reason to bother him with something like this. His words came back to haunt him: Will caring about them help save them? Then I continue not to make that mistake. Maybe he could talk to him; maybe, though, Sherlock wouldn't care.

Do I want anyone to care? he wondered briefly. I don't want pity. Sarah would give him sympathy and pity. He stopped digging in his pocket for his phone. He wouldn't call her. He would return to Baker Street, and everything would sort itself out, with time.

Now, if only he could figure out where he was - oh.

He stumbled again and was surprised to find the bartender and Robert's friend both supporting him. "I said, d'yer have any keys on yer, mate? I can't let yer drive home in this state. Lemme call yer a cab," said the bartender pragmatically. The other man said nothing but just looked at him with that terrible understanding.

"N-no, no keys. No car. I do ... I need a cab, I guess. Can you tell me... uh, where am I?"

The bartender fussed and settled him in a chair behind the bar. The drink had taken over John's mouth, and he rambled a bit about the war and how bloody stupid it was and how bloody stupid his flatmate was and how bloody stupid his drunkard of a sister was and how the world was just generally stupid. And then he said, "Oh god, I'm turning into him," and shut up.

Robert's friend was standing there, looking down on him with concern. "Do you have a friend we can call? To come pick you up?"

John laughed. It was very silly. "I have no friends," he declared. He should eat something, said the voice in his head that he used on patients. Otherwise, he might... yeah. That.

When he had his breath back, he said, "I'm so sorry, I -shit, let me help, please," but the bartender was kind enough to tell him to stay in the chair, don't need vomit all over the floor, eat some peanuts.

"Anybody," Robert's friend was saying. "Anyone at all. Your flatmate? Uh, your sister-"

"God, no, don't call them." John sipped the water, swishing it around to clean his palate. He picked up a single peanut and tentatively chewed. "I just need a cab to Baker Street. I-"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine. Shorter chap, wearing a leather-patched jacket, in business slacks but tennis shoes, sort of ... weary expression, like he's constantly - John."

It was Sherlock. Hands in pockets, standing at the bar. Coat, scarf and all. Just suddenly and impossibly there. John blinked at him and frowned. "What are you doing here?" he asked bluntly, thinking, It's got to be a case.

"I..." Sherlock looked around the pub. He seemed uncomfortable. "I was looking for you."

"What for?"

Sherlock hesitated. "You left at the wrong time this morning, I thought something might be." He hesitated again, looking off into the distance, but his gaze flicked back to John intermittently. "Well. Wrong."

John stared at him.

"It took me a while to find you."

"I did pretty much walk the entire length of London."

"You walked here?" John loved surprising him. It was such a rare occasion.

"Yeah, I think so."

Sherlock nodded as if his lack of certainty on the subject made complete sense. And then he thought, it probably does. Surely he saw the paper, pieced it together. But that train of thought hurt, and he stopped thinking. When his ears were working again, Robert's friend was addressing Sherlock.

"So you're a friend of his, then?"

"Yes." (Hesitation was gone, John noticed. Odd. Or ... maybe not. He grinned a little bit.) "We share a flat."

"Oh..." Robert's friend's eyebrows lifted slightly, and those haunted eyes sought John's again.

"I'll be going back with him," John told him in a strong voice. He knew (more or less) what he'd said about Sherlock while he was drunk and in pain. He knew Robert's friend had heard most of it, hence the unspoken question. "He's..." he said, lowering his voice and directing it solely at the man in Converse trainers, "He's a friend. And a good man." Robert's friend must have heard what he wanted to hear, because he nodded sagely and smiled a little.

"Good."

Sherlock was glancing between them, clearly bewildered by their exchange. He stared hard at John for a bit before stiffly stating, "I have a cab waiting outside."

John put his hands on his knees. "Thanks," he told both the bartender and Robert's friend as he stood. He shook their hands.

Robert's friend smiled broadly at him. " 'Atta boy," he said, and John grinned back, amused. "Humans. Such hardy creatures. Can't keep 'em down." Ah, well. John wasn't the only one drunk, it seemed.

"John Watson," John told him. "I'm glad I met you."

"Doctor Watson," said the stranger, pumping his hand again. "Pleasure. I'm a doctor myself."

"It's a good business."

"The best."

They released their hands, and John turned again toward the door. He stumbled again - he hadn't gotten all the alcohol out of his system, it seemed - and this time there was only one pair of hands catching him.

Sherlock lifted him back to a balanced position and let go. John met his eyes. "Shall we?"

The detective nodded briskly. "Sarah called while you were out. And," a look of disgust crossed his features, "Mycroft. You left your phone."

So that was why he hadn't been able to find it. He hummed in an understanding way and they got into the cab. The silence, after the noise of the pub, was nice.

"Are you all right?"

"What?" John had nearly been asleep against the window, and he only now realized how tense Sherlock was. "Me? Yes, of course I'm all right -"

"I saw. The papers. Your platoon."

John worked his jaw. "My friends," he said quietly.

Sherlock was staring out the window. One hand was clenching something in a pocket of his huge coat. He seemed to be having a hard time finding the right words. "Being all right is not normal for people who have recently lost people close to them," he said finally, quickly and crisply.

John looked at him for a moment, thinking. It's really none of his business. "I'm fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in a worrying way. John braced himself for an onslaught of evidence proving that he was not fine. "You're lying to me; why?" Sherlock asked surprisingly softly, as though to himself.

John chuckled, but the sound was not kind. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"No," said Sherlock absently. He was raking his gaze over John's figure, desperately searching for clues that explained his flatmate's behavior.

"Stop it," John said irritably. "I said I'm fine."

"But you're clearly not. Your left hand-"

"I don't want to talk to you about it!"

Sherlock looked quickly away, as though he'd been slapped. He kept his gaze carefully on anything other than John. He opened his mouth once to speak, but closed it again without saying a word.

John rolled his bad shoulder and rested his forehead against the cab window. Sherlock's hand twitched in his pocket again. John huffed. "What've you got there, then?"

Sherlock flinched. "It's nothing important."

"Is it part of the case?"

"The case?"

"The one about, uh... the thumbs."

"No, it… no. It's not for a case."

John realized they were going to Baker Street and that he really was going to have to sleep at some point. It was going to be a bad night. He barely noticed when the cab stopped and Sherlock hopped out, waited by the cab door and offered him a hand. He stared at it.

Sherlock dropped it after a moment. "Sorry."

"What? You didn't -"

"John…" the detective said, practically glaring at John's face, "is there somewhere else you want to be tonight? Sarah's, perhaps, or even Harry's?"

"No, God, no, Sherlock, what the hell makes you think - just no. Here," he grasped the doorframe and levered himself out of the cab. Sherlock grabbed his elbow so he didn't fall when he stumbled on the sidewalk. "The fare -"

"Taken care of."

The door to 221B opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson. "Boys," she said sadly, opening her arms as they got close and pulling John into a hug. "Oh, love, when I heard…" she sniffed. Then sniffed again. "Good gracious, is that you?"

He smiled gratefully at her teasing. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll just head up and have a shower, shall I?"

She giggled a little, leaning away and patting his shoulder. "Best if you do, I think."

John showered and climbed into bed, hoping against hope that the booze would keep the nightmares at bay, and that Sherlock would keep to his experiments downstairs and resist disturbing him for a case.

Slightly after midnight, he crashed awake from his bed to the floor with a yell and his face wet. It had been weeks since he'd last cried out in his sleep. He could not hear anything from downstairs but a dim yellow light leaked beneath his door. He struggled into his robe and ran a hand through his hair, and then decided that he really needed tea.

Sherlock was standing by the window, violin in hand, when John staggered into the light of the living room. "Oh, go ahead," he mumbled. "I'm not going to sleep tonight." He collapsed in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. Sherlock, the bastard, did not acknowledge his presence.

As John scanned the case papers decorating the room, his eyes fell on a tray of already-made and still-steaming tea. "Oh," he said, surprised.

"Courtesy of our landlady," said Sherlock from the window without turning. John smiled a little.

"Bless her. I should…" He glanced at the clock and sighed. "Maybe tomorrow."

The violin began to sing. The piece was slow and stately, reviving. John leaned back in his chair and sipped the tea.

"That was lovely, Sherlock," whispered Mrs. Hudson thirty minutes later as she cleared the tray. "I don't think I've heard you play it before."

"No," he agreed, whispering as well. "You wouldn't have. To my knowledge it did not exist before today."

"One of your compositions, then. Just for this?"

Sherlock did not answer, and instead slid an arm beneath John's sleeping shoulders. The military man did not stir at the invasion of personal space. There was a quick furrow of the detective's brows before he said, "Mrs. Hudson! Did you sedate him?"

"It's herbal, dear, don't shout so. He'll need a good night's rest after today's excitement, especially if he's to be any use to you tomorrow on that thumb case."

Sherlock groaned a little as he dragged his flatmate over to the sofa. "I'm certainly not getting him up the stairs like this."

Mrs. Hudson returned with an unsightly afghan which matched quite a number of John's jumpers simultaneously. As she tucked the grown man in on the sofa, Sherlock hid his grin, lifted the instrument again to his chin and continued to play.

Beside the fresh sheet of music resting on the stand by the window was a crinkled newspaper clipping with music notes handwritten in blue ink over the type. The lines were jerky, though in a practiced hand, as though the author had been trying to write them on an unsteady surface, such as, perhaps, a book on a lap in a cab driving over London cobbles. On the opposite side of the clipping, beneath the square photos of dead men, were multiple short phrases with multiple blue scratch-throughs.

At the bottom of the list as well as the top of the clean sheet music was clearly penned "Thank You For Him."