"Get down! Everybody get down now!"

John couldn't see him, but he heard his commanding officer bark the orders to take cover. He wasn't sure if everybody else followed the orders, there were some rebellious soldiers in his company who never listened to their commander, not even when their lives depended on it. John immediately released his rifle and laid down flat on his stomach, the coarse soil rubbing against his uniform. It was already hot, reaching ninety-five, and his helmet didn't make it any better.

"I SAID GET DOWN!"

He was yelling at the ones who already experienced fighting and thought that they were invincible because they've shot somebody. John knew that they were going to be the first to go. The brave ones die young, he thought as he heard them fighting with their chief, John had half a mind to get up and stop the shouting that could risk their hiding spots, but he was too late. He heard gunshots in the distance, and what sounded like bodies dropping.

It didn't sound like; he KNEW what bodies dropping sounds like, because he was the bloody doctor, meant in every sense of the term.

The gunfire was rapid, nonstop, didn't give him a chance to stand up and fight back. He heard another bullet get somebody.

"GET DOCTOR WATSON, GET HIM NOW!"

John groaned, the sound of the bullets on both sides were deafening, and he knew that it was a matter of time before he would hear the sounds of grenades blowing everything in its way to smithereens. John hoped that for just one fight, he wouldn't have to treat the bomb victims, too many things to reattach, greater risk of losing them, which happened. Only on what he would consider "bad days" though. He heard his name being called by multiple people, with a deep breath he muttered,

"Please God let me live."

And he shot up and dodged as many bullets as he could, tried to bypass the others as they fell to the hard dirt, with their lifeless eyes staring right back at him, haunting him. He made it to his unfortunate patients, tended to them as quickly and effectively as he could. He helped one of the others who was only grazed by a passing bullet carry a half-dead solider to the nearby tent, but the next then he knew, the man standing in front of him blew up, the stretcher flying out of his hands like something out of a movie. The other side's guns never ceased, and he saw everybody fall like dominoes around him, until he too, fell with the rest. His shoulder in searing pain, burning hot, bleeding out, mere minutes away from dying, he knew it.

It wasn't until he heard a familiar voice, all too familiar, a baritone voice shout, "JOHN!"

"Sherlock?"

John shot out of the bed, covered in cold sweat, panting and frantically searching his room to get a sense of reality and where he was. He felt the tears coming, but no, not this time. He won't let them come through, he was a soldier, and goddamit soldiers don't cry.

But no matter what he told himself, it didn't seem to work, he found himself crying anyway, the dull pain in his leg coming back and those awful memories of the army, and of Sherlock flooding his mind. John was tough, but it seems that he's just becoming softer and softer with each passing day. He wasn't even sure if he was fully awake, sometimes having such vivid nightmares does that to you. He reached out and touched his bed, that was real, and then his dresser, that was real too. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was disheveled, but still real. There was only one more place to go.

He slowly felt himself creeping down the stairs, missing each and every step the creaked and made his way to the living room that was blessedly empty of anybody that lived there at the moment. He was surprised that Mrs. Hudson wasn't hoovering or dusting, or setting the tea on the table next to his armchair. Well, maybe she deserves to sleep in, just this once. That's not what he came down there for. He turned his head to the door that was slightly cracked, and started to tiptoe over there so he wouldn't wake Sherlock.

He opened the door and saw that the detective was still fast asleep, surprisingly cuddling with his blanket and snoring lightly. John wiped away the excess tears and smiled faintly to himself as he watched the younger man sleep, it was rare. He didn't know why but he was slowly reaching his hand out to caress something, anything, to let him know that he didn't make this all up and truly lost his sanity to extreme grief. He rested his hand on the dark curls that covered Sherlock's head and carefully ran his fingers through them, forgetting how soft they were and glad that they weren't six feet under, with maggots and other creatures mussing around in his perfect locks. Then he trailed his way to those chiseled cheekbones that enraptured him so. He's never seen anybody else with that kind of bone structure, but it fit Sherlock so well.

So ensconced was he that he almost didn't hear Mrs. Hudson's familiar knock and warning shout at the door. He had the door wide open, and he wasn't prepared to resuscitate an elderly woman back to life in their flat if she comes down the hall. He quickly ran out of the room and cracked the door on his way out.

'Please don't let Sherlock wake up. Not now.'

John immediately grabbed the remote and then sat down on his chair and flicked the telly on. Mrs. Hudson just entered through the door as he got himself in a comfortable position. She stared at him with the bright smile on her face as she had her duster in her hand.

"Good morning, John!"

With his best attempt at a smile, he replied, "Morning Mrs. H."

He did a double take and saw that she had his tea in one hand and a duster and the newspaper in the other.

"Mrs. Hudson, is that a duster I see?"

Mrs. Hudson looked down and then back at him with a nod.

"I thought it's time for me to go and dust Sherlock's room. If I know him well, he would hate to know that we've let sentiment get in the way of cleanliness."

John felt his heart drop. Out of all things… why today?

She took John's sudden silence as a signal that he didn't want to talk.

"I'm sorry; I shouldn't have brought him up. Still a touchy subject for you I see."

She set his cup of tea down and then started to make her way to the room. John took a quick sip of his tea and then shot out of the chair to beat Mrs. Hudson to the door so she wouldn't open it and see what was hidden inside.

"John, what's gotten into you? And why is the door open?"

John always wished he had Sherlock's talent for lying on the spot.

"Because I…I had to go in there one last time. You see…I miss him so much…."

Mrs. Hudson frowned and placed a hand on her cheek.

"Oh you poor dear."

John had to play along, he hated doing it but he couldn't let her go in there. John thought she was going to leave until he heard what sounded like Sherlock moan.

'Shit.'

"What was that? Did that come from the room?"

She made a move to go around John but he quickly stopped her again.

"I'm sure that was outside."

Mrs. Hudson looked at him like he was crazy but nodded in agreement.

"John I have to dust the room. It's hazardous to your health if you keep going in there."

'Oh Mrs. Hudson…'

"Really, I'll be fine Mrs. Hudson, go and attend to the chores downstairs."

Mrs. Hudson didn't want to fight with John, especially with the rough times he was going through, so she decided to leave it alone and then warned that she was going to come back and eventually dust. He waited until the door closed to let out the breath he wasn't aware that he was holding.

"That was too close."

And he heard Sherlock's footsteps approaching the door.