Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters from that TV series or books mentioned.

Back at 221 B, John slumped into his armchair, having been speechless on the whole cab ride there. His face still echoed the tone of worn parchment. His hand strayed to his shoulder, pushing to stop blood flow on an imaginary wound. "John." Sherlock said softly, placing a cup of tea in front of him. John started, flinching, causing an unfamiliar ache to settle in Sherlock's chest.

Clearing his throat, he gestured for John to speak and leaned back into his chair, sipping gently on his tea as to not burn his tongue. "It was 21 months into my tour of Afghanistan. As you know, I was shot in the shoulder. You deduced that when we first met. It was in the heat of battle, both sides were shooting and men were falling left and right. We went from man to man, checking for the living." John's eyes grew unfocused, as if he was seeing something Sherlock couldn't.

"If they were still alive, then we sent them to the hospital and kept moving. There were doctors at the army hospital and there were doctors in the field. I was doing just that, but I happened upon this one soldier. Could have happened to anyone really. It was an American, just some guy, from New Hampshire, I think. I don't think he knew what he was getting into. He had been shot, bad, in the upper thigh and he was bleeding out. He wouldn't have made it as far as the hospital. I did my best to stop the bleeding. Tore out part of his uniform and tied a tourniquet. Well, I tried to tie it. I was tr- try- trying." John couldn't get the words out; he coughed a few times to cover his voice cracking.

"I was trying. To tie the tourniquet, that is. But I was shot from behind before I could finish it. I was thrown forward and knocked unconscious on a rock on the ground. I don't know if he made it. When I woke up, the field was just… Jesus, Sherlock, it was indescribable. The dust was stained the color of rust and bad red wine. And there were people walking around, stepping on bodies, bodies of people who had died for their country. They were searching for anyone still alive. And they found me. Took me back to their camp, drugging me—" John cut his words off with a choking sound. Sherlock took a calculated risk and leaned forward; touching John's arm to bring him back to the real world.

John's eyes focused back on Sherlock and he gave a small nod; Sherlock removed his hand and leaned back again. "They drugged me with hemlock. It's not all paralysis and suffocation. It started with nausea and then moved on to abdominal pain." John was speaking like a doctor, listing symptoms in a detached way. "When you're paralyzed by hemlock, you still feel everything. Everything."

"They tried to get secrets. They'd beat me all day and then ask me questions in the morning. I don't even remember the questions they asked, it was a haze. All I remember were the whips, the irons, the guns, the swords, anything they could get their hands on, they used." His voice shook. "Here, just look." John stood up and pulled his jumper over his head, tossing it to the side. He began to unbutton his shirt, showing a cheap, cotton, white t-shirt, which he took off as well. As each new bit of skin appeared, Sherlock's mouth dropped ever so slightly.

Scars laced the chest and back of who Sherlock had thought was his doctor, his controlled, simple doctor. He couldn't withhold a small gasp as John's shoulder was revealed, an ugly, pink, twisted scar, about the size of a golf ball. It looked as if a small cannonball had ripped its way through the good doctor's shoulder instead of a bullet. Sherlock rose to his feet, taking two short strides over to John. "John." His fingers lightly traced over the scars that wrapped around his friend's torso like some sort of sick ribbon. John shivered, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

Sherlock took his hand back, still stunned at the reveal. "Would it be worth it?" he asked, meeting John's eyes.

"What?" John pulled his shirt back on, mussing his hair.

"Would it be worth it?" Sherlock sighed at John's confusion and gestured animatedly with his hands. "If he survived. Would it all be worth it if that soldier survived? The American one."

John straightened his posture and clasped his hands behind his back, every bit the soldier Sherlock had first noticed. "Am I selfish if I say no?" He let out a short chuckle, glancing at his feet. "Yes." His face grew more somber. "It would be worth it then."

Sherlock nodded, and then hesitantly pulled John into a stiff and awkward hug, giving two pats on the back. John was surprised, but appreciated the attempt at comforting nonetheless. He cleared his throat, releasing the lanky detective and took a seat in his armchair again. "So that's it, then. That's the whole story."

"How long did they have you? How did you get out? John, I hate to correct you at a time like this, but that is most certainly not the whole story." Sherlock said in his matter-of-fact tone.

"Sherlock..." John said warningly.

"For that matter, who was 'they'? Did you tell them anything? What did it—" Sherlock was cut short by an outburst from John.

"Sherlock, I don't want to talk about it! It was not a good experience and I'd prefer not reliving it just to satisfy your incessant need for answers to every last detail! They had me for 5 months, I was rescued on accident by a platoon who got lost on their way to a different camp, 'they' were members of the Taliban, and no, I did not tell them anything. I already told you I don't remember what they asked, so you can take that question and shove it. Now, SHUT UP!" John rose to his feet around halfway through his little speech, seeming to tower over the much taller man. He was breathing heavily and Sherlock, for a brief moment, wondered about his family's history with heart disease.

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock cast his eyes downward, humbled in the face of a man who was far braver than Sherlock could ever remember being. John looked a little surprised at his usually cocky and stubborn friend apologizing. "I wasn't thinking, I am sorry for causing you undue injury. We can slow the cases down if you'd like."

John hated to admit weakness, but he nodded slowly. "Maybe that'd be best." He thought he saw a flash of disappointment in Sherlock's eyes, but it was gone so quickly he must have imagined it. "I think I'm going to head to bed now." Sherlock didn't acknowledge this, but just returned to his chair, thumping down into it, which earned a quick smile from John before he turned and went into his room.