Disclaimer: I do not own nothing.
A.N: Un betad, any mistake is mine and I apologise beforehand for them.
If you ask him, he will say he did expect it. He had it coming and no matter how hard he tried to not think about it, eventually that day came.
And John Watson became the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers of the Royal Army.
He tried to look proud, satisfied, like a Soldier should look when he's being promoted,when his work is being recognised and valorated.
But he wasn't. He knew that medal hanging in his left part of his chest meant many lives he had taken with his hands that carried guns. Hands that supposed to fix people, not kill them.
And once he was in charge of the the Fusiliers and a considerable number of young and hopeful men, the day of the big fight came.
It was inevitable.
Maybe if you ask him now, he will say he met hell and all its demons.
His dark and curl hair was falling over his forehead when he snapped his little magnifier. Under his eyes was a dead body, woman, clear signs of struggle and several bruises on her throat. Her wedding ring had been removed and taken. His veredict: a jealous lover. But the new DI of the Scotland Yard thought all the opposite.
Sherlock Holmes didn't need to be clever to know the new man in charge of the Criminal Division have been promoted not only because of his talent to see, but not observe, and because he was a very promising man. He could smell Mycroft's fingers behind that promotion and the fact that he was being contacted by him frecuently only confirmed his suspicions.
He tried. He tried with all his strenght if he still had some. But the White Lady was still there, in the deepest of the pocket of his coat claiming to be used, and trying to seduce him with her charms.
The cocaine charms consisted in short or some time long journeys to a world in which everything was possible and in which he was invincible. Nothing could cause him any harm or pain. Sherlock could fly and even observe things he wasn't able to when he wasn't high.
John was something he forgot everytime he injected himself. There were days in which he couldn't remember nothing about his brother. He couldn't even remember his face, but when the cocaine was off his system, that ghost was there to torment him and cause the pain he forgot he could feel.
Sherlock stop writing long ago when he knew he didn't have any words, or any more things to tell John.
And after their father's death, Mycroft stopped talking about John. Sherlock didn't want lies or false promises.
He knew there will be lives taken by both parties. It was risky, but he promised to himself he wasn't going to lose any more. All his troops, all his men were going to be back at the camp, and mostly important, back home, all together in one piece.
The warm Afghan weather was causing them pain, and their uniforms felt heavy over their bodies. His helmet had a red cross and somehow, his soldiers respected him more than any other soldier would respect at his Captain in charge.
John felt shy sometimes. They were good men, very young, full of hope and proud. They respected him in a way that some had promised him they were willing to give their own lives forhim and he wanted to cry. Because he was alone. He was the good Doctor, the one that saved more than one hundred lifes and the one that always tried to save their arm, legs and bodies from being amputated.
The only letters he had were from Harry. He found after years and years, with Sherlock's help. John told him about her and when they were old enough to travel alone on busy London, they arrived at an old building and knocked the door.
He could remember he was nervous and his hand was glued to the taller teenager. Sherlock assured him everything was going to be OK, that they were at the right place and he wasn't going to tell anything to their parents. A blonde woman opened the door and her eyes widened when she saw him. They didn't need words. A big hug joined two siblings, a brother and a sister. Together.
And both boys visited her every week when Clara, the young maid that used to spoil them as kids needed to do the shopping for the estate. And before Harriet could tell him, Sherlock knew they were attracted. But it wasn't strange for John when after a few months when his sister told him about her sexuality, she also told him about her relationship with Clara.
"You knew it."
"John, you see but you don't observe."
The young Captain smiled with grief at that old memory when he felt the pain in his left shoulder and collapsed on the floor.
His PA opened the door without knocking, an unusual manner of her. And he knew something was wrong. Sherlock had been found almost dead, in a street alley.
According to Anthea, DI Lestrade found him lying almost dead, breathless, overdosed. When the older Holmes arrived at the scene while his brother was being taken care of and being shipped in an ambulance to the nearest hospital, he could see what Sherlock have been doing when he fooled his security guards.
A homeless man told them that Sherlock have been living in that alley for days, not eating or drinking anything, but injecting himself everytime he could. He also told them about a fight he had with a drug dealer and how he used two injections of cocaine before falling over the wet floor hitting his head and having convulsions.
Once again, he managed to keep the press away from them. The son of the ex PM being found overdosed was a good headline for any paper.
But Mycroft Holmes wasn't prepared for what was coming next.
Every breath hurt him like hell. His lungs were going to collapse soon and the tast of blood and dust in his mouth was burning him. John couldn't see too much. He could only recognise a yung soldier, Smith maybe, turning his body and screaming for help.
The dark haired soldier removed his helmet and moved it over his face, trying to give him some air. The hot weather wasn't helping and behind John's eyes, full of tears, he saw Sherlock.
He was wearing a grey jumper and the blue scarf their mother knitted before she died. The tall man kneeled beside him and took his left hand, stroking every callus from carrying and using different gun machines.
"I'm sorry-"
"Hush, you are going to be OK, John."
"But- Sher- Sherlock-"
"Everything is going to be fine."
John closed his eyes.
Sherlock had two heart attacks in his way to the hospital.
The Doctor warned Mycroft. The cocaine had been the detonating element that almost took Sherlock's life. He didn't turned around and said all he needed to say, and al the older Holmes needed to know.
Or he was going to get himself clean, or he was going to die after the next injection of cocaine.
With the same mask he used to cover his face from his feelings in his work, Mycroft nodded and turned round. He collapsed inside his black car and allowed himself to cry.
The Soldier managed to work out a stretcher using their uniforms and carried his body to the medical camp. Most of the Doctors and nurses couldn't believe what they were seeing and witnessing. The soldiers, strong men they were, cried in silence.
John Watson wasn't going to die, the other doctors promised, but it was hard to believe promises when all they could see was a trail painted with red blood over the dusty Afghan floor.
Two days after, he opened his grey eyes. And he was greeted by the inquisitive look of his brother's green eyes. His black umbrella was tapping the white and cold floor of the hospital. He turned around and frowned at the sight of the machine monitoring his heart.
He was informed that Sherlock needed to be calm and the Doctor also warned him about his condition. He had a concussion and it was possible that he could have some damage. But to know that they needed him to be awake.
"What do you want, Mycroft?."
"Talk. Why, Sherlock?."
He didn't answer. But his gaze was still over his brother.
"Is it because of John?-"
"John? Who's John?."
When he opened his blue eyes he met the grey and and cold ceiling over him. He tried to move but soon enough his hand was being stroked by one of the Doctors of the camp.
John frowned when he saw a huge bandage covering his left shoulder. He couldn't move, and he couldn't feel it.
"What happened?."
"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson-"
"Tell me."
"You have been shot in action. The soldiers carried you here. You... You lost too much blood and the bullet was deep buried in your muscles. We could save the scapula, though. I'm sorry."