A/N Here's an extremely short one, and pretty vague, too. I am, once more, trying my best to resume daily updates!
Thanks to johnsarmylady, wrytingtyme, maggiemacjack, MapleleafCameo, 265, ThisDayWillPass
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXIX. Happiness
Happiness is a delicate thing. John has always known that, but he's also constantly had it in his mind that one is fully aware of the sensation when it does come across them. The thought of not being conscious of one's own happiness is practically incomprehensible to him. Because he feels it, every time he smiles, feels the joyous twist in his stomach and has the simple, genuine words cross his mind: I'm happy right now. A childish sentence, but all the more genuine for being such.
It's because he hasn't always had this. His childhood wasn't particularly difficult—rather pleasant, even—but undeniably mundane. He wasn't particularly liked in school, just had his own small, select group of friends, began picking up a girlfriend here and there by the mid teenage years. But the army was always in his future, looming, obscuring, through his young adult existence until he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.
And it was those months in the military, in the hot, grungy hell of Afghanistan, that really put him in his place, taught him to appreciate happiness when it came by him. So he started to, and he does now, he thanks it unreasonably every time it falls across him. It's almost exhausting, though, to be constantly aware of the sensation, because it divorces itself from his normal life that way—on an average day, at any given time, John Watson is not happy. It only shows himself in rare moments, the brightest moments.
That's what he thinks, in any case.
But other people see it. Just glimpses, shining through, gleaming in his eyes, shining in his smiles.
When Sherlock Holmes is around, John forgets that he has to be conscious of his happiness.
It just slinks in.