A/N: I was asked for the Remembrance Day piece. Probably this wasn't what they had in mind, but it's what came to my mind. -csf


.

'John! Lestrade texted, a perfectly preserved head just got found under the Millennium Bridge!'

Sherlock barged up the stairs and straight into John's bedroom. He never was one to abide by Victorian standards of prudery – Sherlock prides himself of knowing all he possibly can about John anyway; John smirks, crosses his arms in front of him, and assures the detective he doesn't – and as such Sherlock had no qualms about grabbing the door handle and opening the door wide in one swift move.

And damn, he didn't foresee this.

He blames John, for always being disagreeably unexpected, a permanent mystery, a well formed conundrum to be studied through the eras.

A very well formed, sharp looking, conundrum. Elegant and strong in old military fatigues that impossibly still fit him like a glove, as John stands up straight in front of the wardrobe's full length mirror. The former military man looks up, startled from his quiet abstraction, and quietly pockets some object he was holding in contemplation when Sherlock surprised him.

The soft November light angles from the window behind John, and lights up his grey-blonde hair; like the treacherous sun over Afghanistan once did, seeking and finding glory, illuminating the hero.

'Oh you're home', John says, as he blushes for no apparent reason. It's one of John's random, inexplicable reactions that Sherlock has carefully labelled as part of John's mystery.

Sherlock wants to answer, but his flickering brain flat lines at the most inconvenient of times.

John's camouflage print uniform's trousers and shirt hug his form, displaying the man's broad shoulders, and trim waist, neatly circled by a belt with the colour of the Fifth Northumberland's.

Even now as he eagerly studies his uninvited flatmate, the former military man stands at parade's rest, set jaw and determined look on his strong features. John looks young, attractive, defiant, and complete. As if he had been made to that military uniform, and not the other way around.

Sherlock can't quite identify the feeling that thrills through him in response. It's both a call of exhilaration and fear. This is John as the dangerous fighter that always lurked under the placid surface, this is the John that tackles Sherlock to the ground and shields him from a bomb going off at the possible expense of his own life and without a second thought. As if the army veteran could see Sherlock as some hero to protect over his own safety. This is the John that is so hard for the steel armoured consulting detective to keep safe, alive, in such a selfless, heroic mode that defies the very nature of humans, transcending it through bravery and abnegation. This is the visualisation of the John no Holmes can sustain in their system of beliefs, in the neat boxes of rationality in which they categorise all mortals.

Hello, captain Watson.

Of course Sherlock knew this side of John had always been present. After all, he had brilliantly deduced it as soon as he saw John walk into that lab at Bart's, as they first met. Still, seeing is believing, they say. Sherlock never quite understood that expression – much like a lot of social norms and practises – but he suspects he understands it now, at last.

He's seeing John now as he never saw his friend before. Sure there were glimpses, when John's marksmanship skills save the detective's life with a single shot from across the street, or when the placid doctor quietens a crowd with sharp commands just as Sherlock tackles a suspect human trafficker to the pavement. There were obvious deductions when John easily identifies a bullet's calibre and probable maker from a close range gunshot that would have taken the Yard a database deep search, or because John always quietly studies the exits in any room they enter so when a smoke bomb is mistakenly deflagrated in the Yard John's the one immediately directing everyone to the fire door, taking the lead. Sherlock always knew John was a military man down to the fabric of his DNA now, but he never saw it so explicitly exteriorised as he's seeing it now, as he gapes at John Watson, dressed in his old uniform inside a mismatched wallpapers, battered hardwood floor, bedroom in London.

'Hello, Sherlock, are you with me?'

The consulting detective, the man who always has the last word and is never caught short of acerbic running commentary / deduction speeches, snaps out of it. At last. He clears his throat, quickly ponders 16 fibs he could try to pull on John to explain his sudden break of character, and finally says only:

'I was looking for you, John.'

His voice comes out tremulous, wondrous, unsure. It comes out all wrong.

John seems to understand unspoken thoughts that breach the distance between them. He briefly smiles sadly, and comments:

'Doesn't quite fit right anymore.'

He means the old uniform he kept solemnly at the bottom of his wardrobe.

Sherlock could not disagree more. Trust the doctor to be self-deprecating when he looks grand.

'No', detective plays along, as if he wants to haste John out of the uniform. Why, he can't tell you. His urge to return all control over his reactions, most of all, he suspects.

If Sherlock was willing to be more honest with himself, partly because Sherlock Holmes is frightened that John will slip back into his army ambitions one day, as he gets a taster of those thick polyester and cotton layers, harsh on the skin, and a ghastly sight to behold as far as fashion is concerned. Sherlock can't abide by John's return to a distant battlefield to be gunned down all over again. Sherlock knows John would take a fighting chance to save lives where he's needed.

Sherlock will always need John back here in London.

'Just drop it, John', he flicks his hand to the robe John is about to grab, as a determined end to Sherlock's perusal. 'Turn around', the detective requests, looking on critically. He's losing the reign on his thoughts.

John snaps back to his old self at that. 'What? No! Never mind what I'm wearing. If you barge into someone's bedroom you're liable to find them trust in all sorts of ways, naked even!'

Undeniable common sense logic. Sherlock gulps. He wouldn't be too bothered, he tells himself. Not like finding John in his old uniform.

'I don't mind either way', he stresses aloud, all dignified.

John rolls his eyes, but there's an edge of fondness in the shorter man's impatience. The detective insists:

'You know I don't care about societal restrictions, John. Do whatever you like. By the way, the sink is full of dishes to wash, and our clients won't be impressed.'

The flatmate looks confused and releases his expression raising his eyebrows in plaintive innocence. He settles for:

'We are in lockdown, mate, there are no clients coming to the flat.'

'No. You're right. Keep the uniform on then, for the rest of the day. You clearly need to revisit your past and I can tolerate it well.' He waves his fingers as if encompassing all of John's grandiosity in one go.

John chuckles. 'What? No! It's not a fancy dress for a crazy night in, Sherlock. It's... part of me, it's who I am.'

'No, John, you are so much more', Sherlock defends warmly, a proud look permeating his features. 'Keep it on today. It's Remembrance Day after all, and you earned that uniform. And the medal you hastily put in your pocket as I came in. Don't think I didn't see, I see everything.'

The doctor giggles in that infectious, unexpected way of his, and shakes his head quietly. 'Should have guessed I wouldn't fool you... It's alright, Sherlock, I'm alright. I was just revisiting the past. It's still a part of me, it will always be, but I like where I am now. If I hadn't been in Afghanistan I wouldn't be here now, and I like where I am now.'

'Amazing', Sherlock says, admiringly.

'What is?'

'You, John.' He steps forward, towering over the blond man. 'I may not like the hardships you went through before turning up at 2221Bs door, but I'm glad you found your way here.'

John smiles one-sidedly.

'It's just a uniform, Sherlock, don't look so star struck.'

'I'm not looking at the camouflage print, John. I'm looking at how it fits you; the bravery, the selflessness, the sense of mission, the camaraderie, and the discipline. It befits the man I am proud to call my friend.'

John blinks, then looks down and away. He can't quite see himself as the hero.

'I heard some of those words the day I got issued a medal by my hospital's bedside', he notes, then looks up straight at Sherlock, 'but it didn't feel so good as hearing them from you. London is my new battlefield, our battlefield. You're my unit now, Sherlock. My cause, my mate, you have my back. You make me feel whole again. Thank you, Sherlock.'

'No, John, no. Thank you... Now what about that severed head? It's defrosting, you know?' Sherlock's synapses choose an awkward moment to return to full function.

'I can't bloody go in my old uniform, can I?' John protests again, amused. Sherlock thinks he could, but doesn't say it.

'We can take the day off, then. It's easier to analyse a head after thawing anyway. Carry on. I'll be downstairs doing the dishes.'

'You? Doing the dishes?'

'I wouldn't have you do the dishes in your military fatigues, John.'

Sherlock whirls away quickly, smirking as he hears his friend mutter "I need to put on my old uniform more often, if it gets the ruddy dished done..."

The detective wouldn't be too bothered.

.