Set right after John moves in with Sherlock, discussion of some pretty serious stuff about John's state of mind following his return from Afghanistan. Warning for discussion of suicide

It took John surprisingly long to unpack all his things once he moved into the Baker Street flat. He hadn't realized he'd acquired that much stuff since he'd been back, although he suspected part of the problem was that Sherlock's belongings had spread themselves out in every room in a matter of only a couple of days, leaving John nowhere to put his own things.

Now that he'd been in the new flat for almost three months, John supposed it really was time he unpacked the last of the boxes. He was a little embarrassed that it had taken him this long, since he really didn't have that much stuff. He hadn't even looked through most of the boxes since he'd left Afghanistan and probably didn't even need most of it anymore. Soon, multiple piles of stuff he thought of as garbage surrounded him, full of things he knew he'd never use. He dug deeper into the last box, finding the medals he'd received for his military service, thrown at the bottom in hopes of forgetting. He supposed he should keep those, really. Sighing, John moved over to his nightstand and opened the drawer, intending to place them on the bottom and let them be just as forgotten.

The first thing he noticed was that everything was out of order. His papers had been shifted over and his gun was shoved toward the back. That wasn't how John had left the drawer and he knew it. Before, he might have thought someone had broken into his room. Now, however, he lived with Sherlock Holmes. Also known as the nosiest person in the entire United Kingdom and probably the world.

"Sherlock!" John yelled down the stairs. "Could you come up here, now, please?" Patience kept him from truly losing his temper, but he was annoyed and he made sure his flatmate knew it as he came bounding up the stairs. "Have you been going through my drawers?"

"Ahh," Sherlock had the decency to attempt to look embarrassed, although he didn't do it very well. "I needed to test a bullet. You're the only one I know who has a gun."

"You know, your brother's the British government. Can't you just ask him to borrow an armory or something when you're bored?"

"Why would I do that when you have one right here?" Sherlock said, his expression growing confused. John sighed. He knew he'd never get anywhere now, Sherlock truly wouldn't understand why raiding his flatmate's drawers was less acceptable than going somewhere he would actually be allowed to use a gun.

"I suppose the bullet ended up in the wall?"

Sherlock grinned, "The door, actually. I needed to see how far a particular type of bullet would sink into different wood surfaces." He picked up John's medals. "Distinguished Service Order, Military Cross, Conspicuous Gallantry Cross…you have quite the military record."

"I told you I was very good," John said absently, putting his gun on the floor so he could put the medals under it. "Don't touch that," he added to Sherlock. "I don't want bullet holes in my walls."

Sherlock remained silent for a few seconds, then asked, "Why do you have a gun in the first place? They're illegal, completely. No doubt Mycroft thinks that's one of his better ideas."

John shrugged, picking up his old service revolver and putting it back in the drawer, "I guess I got used to having it and sort of didn't give it back. You wouldn't believe how easy it was to slip past them."

"I would, actually, but getting back to my question; why?" Sherlock responded. "Why would you think you needed it? You had no idea you were going to end up chasing criminals through the streets. As far as you were concerned, you were going back to a 9-5 job and a pub on every corner."

John looked up at Sherlock in slight surprise, "Sherlock, I was invalided home; I had no prospects, no money, no friends, a liking for danger and no likelihood of finding any. Can you, of all people, really not guess why I had it?"

Sherlock's expression went from confused to understanding and then, quickly, to something John would have called horror had it not been Sherlock. But, he reflected, maybe he was being too hard on Sherlock. He appeared to be speechless, for the first time in the three months John had known him.

"You," Sherlock swallowed and continued, "You were going to – to-"

He appeared unable to finish the sentence, to say those last two words: kill yourself.

"I surprised you," John said, to break the awkward silence that followed. "That's a first."

"But you were looking for a flatmate, a job," Sherlock said, still apparently unable to comprehend the idea. "You were planning."

John shook his head. "It's not just black and white, you know, Sherlock. I was thinking. About a lot of things, and none of those things seemed good from where I was at the time. I wanted to know I had it. Just in case."

Silence followed. John supposed Sherlock's shocked reaction would be considered tactless by some, but he found he preferred this honesty to all the platitudes about life being worth living and death being so permanent that he would have received from anyone else.

"And…now?" Sherlock asked, timidly, for him, a tinge of fear entering his otherwise cold blue eyes.

John smiled, "Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. This…" he gestured at the boxes on the floor, "is the start of something long-term, something permanent. That's enough for me." He didn't know what exactly it was the start of, him and Sherlock and these cases, but it was worth seeing through. Little by little, he felt like everything was getting better.

Sherlock nodded and turned to go, then stopped, "John? It's good…having you here. On cases, I mean. And here, in the flat. I mean, where else would I find easy access to a gun and a laptop and a flatmate who doesn't mind experiments in the fridge?" He was babbling, a sure sign of emotional discomfort.

John blinked. He guessed that was Sherlock-speak for "I'm glad you didn't kill yourself." Better than nothing. "Just don't go through my drawers again and we'll be even," he said without looking up. He didn't expect that to actually happen. He couldn't keep Sherlock from going through his things any more than he could stop the Earth from turning.

"Oh, and Sherlock? John called, catching up with his flatmate as he headed down the stairs. "Thank you."

Sherlock looked up at him, his brow furrowed in confusion, "For…going through your drawer? For the cases? For the flat?"

"Uh, yeah. The flatshare. Thank you for the flatshare," John said quickly. Sherlock shook his head and continued on his way. John closed his door, figuring that Sherlock probably hadn't picked up on what he was really trying to say, but at least he'd said it.

Turning back to his medals, John thought about something else Sherlock had said. "Quite a military record." Maybe these shouldn't stay forgotten in a drawer after all. It probably wouldn't take much to get them framed and hang them up somewhere.