In honour of everyone we are remembering today, on November 11. I hope nobody finds this trite or disrespectful, that was not my intention.
John was standing at attention in the sitting room, eyes fixed on the telly where a man was playing Last Post on the bugle. There was a red paper poppy pinned to the left side of his familiar oatmeal jumper. He saw Sherlock move out of the corner of his eye and braced his shoulders, prepared for the moment of silence to be interrupted by a stream of running commentary about trite sentimentalism, the pointlessness of being patriotic, and who knew what else.
What he was not expecting, however, was for the tall, dark-haired man to simply walk up and stand next to him, head bowed and hands clasped. Their eyes met in a sideways glance, before the short ode on the bugle finished, and the look he gave the army doctor said it all. You need this. This is important to you. Therefore, it is important to me.
They stood in complete, pure silence while John took a moment to remember his fallen comrades, to reflect on how absurdly lucky he'd been, and how unfair and unnecessary the whole thing was. If Sherlock saw the tears on his cheeks, he never mentioned it.
John felt Sherlock's fingers entwine with his, surprisingly solid and warm. One corner of his mouth curled up gratefully as he drew in one long, shuddering breath.