Fic: Uniform (Sherlock/John, G, 3000 words)
Title: Uniform
Rating: G
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John (but you can read it as friendship)
Warnings: None (Inaccurate descriptions of war and armed forces...)
Wordcount: 3000
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me; this is fanwork only.
Summary: The third time he sees John in uniform... is different. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is wordless.
Author's Notes: I really like this one - I'm rapidly falling in love with present tense. Let me say I know nothing about the UK's (or country's) armed forces or the RAMC - the information in this fic all comes from wikipedia (don't judge me!). The title is supposed to be a play on the different meanings of the word 'uniform'...
Uniform
1.
The first time Sherlock sees John in his army uniform they are, unsurprisingly, on a case - the suspect has family in the military, and trusts authority. John’s silver regimental badge shows the Rod of Asclepius with the familiar motto In Arduis Fidelis - ‘Faithful in Adversity’. It gleams brightly in the dim lighting of 221B - impossibly so, Sherlock thinks.
His ensuing rant about the uselessness of wars, armies, and governments at large lasts just under an hour, even without the aside on the false glamour of uniform.
They do catch the killer, though.
2.
The second time John suits up it’s for the Scotland Yard Christmas fancy dress party. He drags Sherlock along with him, promising he’ll allow his flatmate free reign on the fridge for a month if he’ll go (and behave himself). John stubbornly ignores said flatmate’s argument that wearing a uniform he’s entitled to does not count as fancy dress.
The smartness of John’s uniform and the shine of his polished shoes, together with the dark blue of his army beret, give him the appearance of being two feet taller than he is (which is half the reason why he chose to wear it). The effect is not lost on the alternately drab or gaudy Scotland Yard-ers, and John can’t help but enjoy the admiring glances cast in his direction.
Sherlock spends the night (in his normal attire) on his phone, tapping out an essay decrying the hypocrisies of authority and the pointlessness of social interaction.
3.
The third time... the third time is different.
Sherlock’s mouth is dry. He can’t swallow. His palms are sweaty and his brilliant, never-quiet mind can’t seem to push past an endless loop of John’s leaving. John’s leaving. John’s leaving.
(And he might never come b--)
John clears his throat awkwardly. He starts speaking at the same time as Sherlock.
"Sherlock..."
"John..."
John lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and Sherlock savours it like he savours the notes of Corelli on his violin on early Sunday mornings.
"...Take care, Sherlock," John says finally.
His voice is rough and pitched lower than his normal register. His posture is guarded and there are fine lines around his mouth - he’s upset but trying hard not to show it.
"Try not to run into any more mad geniuses, yeah? ...And if you could clean out that mould in the fridge and not blow up the flat while I’m gone, I’d be much obliged."
The joke falls flat.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is wordless.
It’s different to mere speechlessness - he’s experienced that before (once or twice), when his brain is processing too fast for words and human reaction to follow. This time, though, his mind is almost at a standstill. He’s feeling, not thinking, and the words to describe his emotions simply don’t exist in the entire world’s linguistic arsenal - because he doesn’t know what they are.
He doesn’t know what to say.
"Be careful" and "Stay safe" are obviously redundant. John’s going to war, after all - to gunfire and human misery and the pointless spilling of blood - despite all of Sherlock’s protests and threats. ("I’ll have Mycroft withdraw your commission!" "Sherlock! If you respect our friendship at all, you’ll leave it." Sherlock had taken one look at the steely expression on John’s face and had, reluctantly, let that argument go.) He wants to say "Don’t go" and "Come back soon" but the words cancel each other out like acid and base, forming a lump in his throat that won’t move.
In the end he simply tugs John’s jacket so it sits straight and symmetrical on his shoulders, fingers smoothing over the material as if he can store up enough of the sensation of John being there to last the next few years. Then he steps back, eyes unreadable.
"Goodbye, John. Don’t... get shot."
Dr. John Watson, Medical Officer, pushes his shoulders back, lifts his chin and re-settles his duffel bag on his shoulder. He turns smartly on his heel... and leaves.
Sherlock stares down the road long after John’s taxi has turned the corner.
They still have contact, of course. Sherlock keeps his mobile on him all the time, now, ready and charged for those infrequent occasions where John has the time and coverage to phone home. They even webcam once or twice, before John’s company moves out of reliable internet range. So it’s letters, mainly - page upon page of ranting about Scotland Yard, jumbled in with questions about the rates of decomposition of tissues in arid environments, arguments concerning the asexuality (or not, as the case may be) of the mould in the fridge, and requests for fresh body parts.
John, for his part, is thriving in his new capacity. He rediscovers that old sense of fulfillment, worthiness and pride buried under layers of regret and self-recrimination, always just out of reach when he’s in London. It energizes him. He thinks he will never tire of a desert sunset, when the sky is cherry red before dimming to a dark blue over the golden sand.
And yet.
Sometimes he catches himself turning to point out something to a companion who’s not there. He stops short when he finds himself in his tent with a thermos of tea in each hand. He wakes up at an ungodly hour every Sunday morning for no reason at all.
He misses Sherlock, he realizes one day. Misses the man’s acid humour and stinging sarcasm; his burning intellect, and all the other quirks and vices that make him as brilliant as any desert sun.
John’s comrades learn to steer clear of him for a few hours after each return to base. He makes a beeline for the mail tent, all but barreling over any poor sod who happens to be in his path in his haste to get there; grudging every side-step that he’s forced to take around equipment, vehicles and tents. He knows his mates are all as desperate and eager as he is for word from their loved ones - and isn’t it strange that it’s Sherlock who writes him, and who’d fussed with his uniform as he stood in the doorway that dawn? What does that imply? - but he doesn’t give a damn.
At night, he writes until his hand cramps. Then he switches to the other hand.
He tells Sherlock what he can about his days’ activities, in as much detail as possible, as though by doing so he can transpose Sherlock across Europe and the Mediterranean and into John’s life.
But he’s no magician.
Anyway, these days most of his work is either classified or so gory that he thinks the ink of his pen will come out blood red if he commits any of it to paper. Instead, he answers every one of Sherlock’s random questions (to the best of his ability), writes fresh warnings about not setting the flat on fire, asks him to throw the mould out before it goes mutant, and points out that body parts would undoubtedly raise eyebrows at customs.
It continues. One year. One and a half.
When Sherlock gets home on a gusty autumn evening, he turns on the telly. He doesn’t watch it (John does) - it’s just one of the many stupid, irrational habits he seems to have accumulated. He flings his coat and scarf onto the armchair and disappointedly notes the lack of paper on the space in front of the door. Then, as has become his habit, he opens the fridge door and, upon revealing the mould within (it’s an unhealthy shade of blue-black; he thinks it will die soon), closes it again. The dance is done; the sofa huffs as Sherlock sags onto it.
John’s next letter still hasn’t come. It’s already 2.53 days later than the average waiting period but it’s not yet outside the maximum, so Sherlock’s not particularly worried about the absence of communication yet. He re-reads the previous letter instead, letting the words whirl off the page and into the ever-busy machine that is his mind. There, he can see each scene with perfect clarity; each seemingly insignificant detail that John describes allowing him to flesh the dream out and give it life...
John wakes up at four o’clock in the morning, when the dawn light is just beginning to seep in under the flaps of his canvas tent. His fingers almost brush the ceiling as he stretches (Sherlock would have to bend, were he there), and the air has a crisp, refreshing feel to it. The desert is like that, John tells him, the air there (here) is purifying. Each day is new.
He puts on his uniform. Trousers first (it’s still nippy at this time of the morning, though it will warm up fast); then tan fatigues over his cotton singlet. His belt next, the buckle pleasantly chill against his fingers, and then a thick layer of sunscreen (he will reapply it in just a couple of hours, if he remembers). He puts his boots on last, because he likes to feel the give of the sand beneath his toes.
John shuffles outside, the day’s supplies in hand, and makes his way over to the medical tent for his morning ablutions. (The trip is roughly 15 minutes, so John’s tent is closer to the outer edge of camp. That is good - the exercise will help keep him in shape.) This is one of the few perks to being a senior MO - he can skip the long lines for the common washrooms. He grabs a breakfast of porridge (it’s Tuesday, then - every other day it’s some combination of bread and fruit, except on Sunday when it’s eggs and bacon, local trade permitting) and snags a thermos on his way. He eats his breakfast. He slurps his tea. He brushes his teeth, his hair, and then starts his morning rounds...
And so it goes. Two years. Two and a half.
And then it changes.
The gusty autumn nights have turned gustier as winter begins its assault in earnest. Sherlock’s phone wakes him at half-nothing in the morning. At first he thinks it’s the wind screaming through John’s window as it does some nights, because 221B is old and drafty. But it’s not the wind. Sherlock fumbles for the phone, groggy still (he’s just off a case), and glances at it briefly before pressing it to his ear.
"Mycroft."
"Sherlock."
And there. There’s something... a tension, to Mycroft’s voice that has Sherlock sitting upright and wide awake in an instant, heart beating a little too fast for comfort in his chest.
"It’s-"
"-John," Sherlock finishes.
"Doctor Watson’s regiment was dispatched on the morning of October 25th to observe a band of guerrilla fighters," Mycroft’s voice is crisp, clinical. "Late in the afternoon they came under heavy fire; a radio transmission for reinforcements was received by the army proper at four o’clock local time... They made it, Sherlock-"
Sherlock’s heart stops its downwards plummet.
"-but the Doctor... John is in a bad way."
Sherlock starts a little at that - possibly the first time Mycroft’s referred to the doctor by his Christian name. But his brother is still talking.
"By all accounts Doctor Watson was doing a remarkable job of tending the wounded by himself-" as a simple patrol/recon unit, they wouldn’t have been assigned any additional medical officers, Sherlock realises "- but... tired officers make mistakes."
Sherlock’s eyes widen. His mind is interpreting the facts in a whole new light and god, of course John - good, kind, caring John, who was only human and therefore couldn’t save everyone - would be in a bad way.
Self-loathing. Loss of confidence. Depression. Mental-
"John was shot."
Sherlock almost sighs with relief before he catches himself. John had been shot. He’d been shot. But Mycroft wouldn’t be calling him only now, 6 days and 13 hours after the fact, if it had been anything particularly life-threatening. Which means there’s more to it...
Sherlock says grimly, "Infection."
John’s dreams are filled with noise. Gunshots. Shouting. Screaming. He knows he’s dreaming. Or at least, some part of his mind knows - but it’s a small, rational part that can’t seem to wrestle control from the John that thrives on danger and takes adrenaline for its sustenance.
He can’t wake up.
Ten hours he’d fought to keep the men of his unit alive, under heavy fire and in enemy territory, after their CO had bled out under his hands. Those ten hours have a price.
There’s a pain in his chest, near his ribcage. It hurts like hell.
And it’s so hot. His body is burning, like all the heat of the desert has transmuted itself into the very epicenter of his being. It seeps from his wounds, along his spine, down his arms and legs and into his fingers and toes. He clenches them tightly, trying to convince himself they’re still there.
There’s a voice speaking to him but it’s distant, muffled, blending with the hoarse shouts of his messmate as John extracts a bullet from his thigh. But his messmate is safe now. They all are - John can hear jeeps roaring across the sand, carrying precious reinforcements. They’re safe, he thinks. I can let go. Stop pretending to be a leader. Stop pretending that I’m not scared to hell.
He can let go. Let go...
Somewhere in his hallucinations, a voice is calling him.
John! John, listen to me! Don’t you dare die on me, John Watson!
But it’s all in his head, right? He’s no magician.
"Don’t you dare die, John Watson! Don’t you dare! "
Sherlock’s shouting down the phone, re-wired to a radio that’s being held to John’s ear by a nameless (confused) medic. Stupid, stupid John Watson, whose body was burning him alive because he’d served his country for ten hours with a bullet between his ribs... and Sherlock’s hands are helplessly entangled around the cord of a phone twenty thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred million miles away.
Sherlock. That’s Sherlock’s voice. He shouldn’t be here... isn’t safe... isn’t...
John Watson’s eyes crack open.
The nameless medico holds the radio closer.
"Sh...erlock?"
John’s voice reaches Sherlock’s ears, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. More beautiful than Correli on a Sunday morning.
"John. John."
Two weeks later, John Watson boards a home-bound plane.
He’s spent his convalescence in a larger medical facility that actually had - wonder of wonders - a stable phone line. Some poor accountant probably weeps over the bill, but John’s a hero now, apparently - there’s talk of a VC - so he gets liberties.
He doesn’t feel like a hero.
He feels... exhausted, and yet he doesn’t want to rest. More than anything, he just wants to run back to Baker Street; back to the comfort of the 221B living room with its soft armchair, its bullet-ridden walls and Sherlock, who won’t, unlike everyone else in this damn hospital, keep telling him - keep reminding him - that he’s ‘the lucky one’.
God, it’s been so long since John’s seen him.
But for now, hearing his voice is enough. The phone is his lifeline. He talks with Sherlock for long, pleasant hours every day until the day he leaves, and as John bundles his bags into the taxi he realises that now he’s had it, the absence of that interaction is profoundly unsettling.
John knows Sherlock’s voice better than his own, now. He knows the gruffness and veiled concern when Sherlock inquires after his health as well as he knows the amused drawl and impassioned diatribes that invariably follow.
That voice is what brought him back, John reflects as the airplane’s wheels lift from the Basra tarmac. He’d almost forgotten what it had sounded like but now, he knows, he will never forget. It’s a piece of him.
He will not be lost again.
At the exact same moment that John Watson’s plane heads into the red-blue-gold sunset, bound for England, Sherlock Holmes opens the fridge at 221B, Baker Street. His lips curve into a smile.
The mould is still alive.
4.
This is the fourth time Sherlock sees John in uniform.
It’s a cold, bright winter morning when he opens the door. For long minutes the two of them stand there, each drinking in the sight of the other the way the desert sands drink in the rain.
John is home.
For the second time in his life, Sherlock is wordless.
You came back. You’re here. You made it. I missed you. All are too obvious, too trite, too ambiguous, to describe (to even come close to describing) the tumultuous mixture of feelings in his stomach. Later, he will berate John for being so stupid and reckless, Victoria Cross be damned. John’s reply will involve the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’; then he’ll give that low, warm chuckle that he does and say ‘Missed you too, Sherlock’, because John’s less idiotic than he appears. But talking is for the past and for the future - now is not a time for words.
Sherlock notices that John is also silent.
Slowly, he raises his arm. Reaching forward, he takes the battered duffel bag from John’s shoulder; places it carefully on the floor by their feet. With the long, pale fingers of his other hand he takes off the blue army beret, revealing sun-bleached hair several shades paler than it had been almost three years ago.
It still feels the same, though.
His fingertips brush John’s cheek as they travel lower and John leans, almost imperceptibly, into the touch, sighing a little. The heat of his body seeps into Sherlock’s palms, up his arms, and restores a part of him that had withered and died, almost, in John’s absence.
He’s human again.
Sherlock strokes John’s jacket lightly, unbuttons it and, slowly, slides it from his shoulders.
The door to 221B closes.
0.
It’s a cool spring morning; the first of the season. John opens the fridge, grimaces, and closes it again. But the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Sherlock! I don’t care if it’s asexual, sexual or bloody both - it’s got to go!"
The mould is still there.
Rating: G
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John (but you can read it as friendship)
Warnings: None (Inaccurate descriptions of war and armed forces...)
Wordcount: 3000
Disclaimer: Sherlock does not belong to me; this is fanwork only.
Summary: The third time he sees John in uniform... is different. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is wordless.
Author's Notes: I really like this one - I'm rapidly falling in love with present tense. Let me say I know nothing about the UK's (or country's) armed forces or the RAMC - the information in this fic all comes from wikipedia (don't judge me!). The title is supposed to be a play on the different meanings of the word 'uniform'...
Uniform
1.
The first time Sherlock sees John in his army uniform they are, unsurprisingly, on a case - the suspect has family in the military, and trusts authority. John’s silver regimental badge shows the Rod of Asclepius with the familiar motto In Arduis Fidelis - ‘Faithful in Adversity’. It gleams brightly in the dim lighting of 221B - impossibly so, Sherlock thinks.
His ensuing rant about the uselessness of wars, armies, and governments at large lasts just under an hour, even without the aside on the false glamour of uniform.
They do catch the killer, though.
2.
The second time John suits up it’s for the Scotland Yard Christmas fancy dress party. He drags Sherlock along with him, promising he’ll allow his flatmate free reign on the fridge for a month if he’ll go (and behave himself). John stubbornly ignores said flatmate’s argument that wearing a uniform he’s entitled to does not count as fancy dress.
The smartness of John’s uniform and the shine of his polished shoes, together with the dark blue of his army beret, give him the appearance of being two feet taller than he is (which is half the reason why he chose to wear it). The effect is not lost on the alternately drab or gaudy Scotland Yard-ers, and John can’t help but enjoy the admiring glances cast in his direction.
Sherlock spends the night (in his normal attire) on his phone, tapping out an essay decrying the hypocrisies of authority and the pointlessness of social interaction.
3.
The third time... the third time is different.
Sherlock’s mouth is dry. He can’t swallow. His palms are sweaty and his brilliant, never-quiet mind can’t seem to push past an endless loop of John’s leaving. John’s leaving. John’s leaving.
(And he might never come b--)
John clears his throat awkwardly. He starts speaking at the same time as Sherlock.
"Sherlock..."
"John..."
John lets out a quiet huff of laughter, and Sherlock savours it like he savours the notes of Corelli on his violin on early Sunday mornings.
"...Take care, Sherlock," John says finally.
His voice is rough and pitched lower than his normal register. His posture is guarded and there are fine lines around his mouth - he’s upset but trying hard not to show it.
"Try not to run into any more mad geniuses, yeah? ...And if you could clean out that mould in the fridge and not blow up the flat while I’m gone, I’d be much obliged."
The joke falls flat.
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes is wordless.
It’s different to mere speechlessness - he’s experienced that before (once or twice), when his brain is processing too fast for words and human reaction to follow. This time, though, his mind is almost at a standstill. He’s feeling, not thinking, and the words to describe his emotions simply don’t exist in the entire world’s linguistic arsenal - because he doesn’t know what they are.
He doesn’t know what to say.
"Be careful" and "Stay safe" are obviously redundant. John’s going to war, after all - to gunfire and human misery and the pointless spilling of blood - despite all of Sherlock’s protests and threats. ("I’ll have Mycroft withdraw your commission!" "Sherlock! If you respect our friendship at all, you’ll leave it." Sherlock had taken one look at the steely expression on John’s face and had, reluctantly, let that argument go.) He wants to say "Don’t go" and "Come back soon" but the words cancel each other out like acid and base, forming a lump in his throat that won’t move.
In the end he simply tugs John’s jacket so it sits straight and symmetrical on his shoulders, fingers smoothing over the material as if he can store up enough of the sensation of John being there to last the next few years. Then he steps back, eyes unreadable.
"Goodbye, John. Don’t... get shot."
Dr. John Watson, Medical Officer, pushes his shoulders back, lifts his chin and re-settles his duffel bag on his shoulder. He turns smartly on his heel... and leaves.
Sherlock stares down the road long after John’s taxi has turned the corner.
They still have contact, of course. Sherlock keeps his mobile on him all the time, now, ready and charged for those infrequent occasions where John has the time and coverage to phone home. They even webcam once or twice, before John’s company moves out of reliable internet range. So it’s letters, mainly - page upon page of ranting about Scotland Yard, jumbled in with questions about the rates of decomposition of tissues in arid environments, arguments concerning the asexuality (or not, as the case may be) of the mould in the fridge, and requests for fresh body parts.
John, for his part, is thriving in his new capacity. He rediscovers that old sense of fulfillment, worthiness and pride buried under layers of regret and self-recrimination, always just out of reach when he’s in London. It energizes him. He thinks he will never tire of a desert sunset, when the sky is cherry red before dimming to a dark blue over the golden sand.
And yet.
Sometimes he catches himself turning to point out something to a companion who’s not there. He stops short when he finds himself in his tent with a thermos of tea in each hand. He wakes up at an ungodly hour every Sunday morning for no reason at all.
He misses Sherlock, he realizes one day. Misses the man’s acid humour and stinging sarcasm; his burning intellect, and all the other quirks and vices that make him as brilliant as any desert sun.
John’s comrades learn to steer clear of him for a few hours after each return to base. He makes a beeline for the mail tent, all but barreling over any poor sod who happens to be in his path in his haste to get there; grudging every side-step that he’s forced to take around equipment, vehicles and tents. He knows his mates are all as desperate and eager as he is for word from their loved ones - and isn’t it strange that it’s Sherlock who writes him, and who’d fussed with his uniform as he stood in the doorway that dawn? What does that imply? - but he doesn’t give a damn.
At night, he writes until his hand cramps. Then he switches to the other hand.
He tells Sherlock what he can about his days’ activities, in as much detail as possible, as though by doing so he can transpose Sherlock across Europe and the Mediterranean and into John’s life.
But he’s no magician.
Anyway, these days most of his work is either classified or so gory that he thinks the ink of his pen will come out blood red if he commits any of it to paper. Instead, he answers every one of Sherlock’s random questions (to the best of his ability), writes fresh warnings about not setting the flat on fire, asks him to throw the mould out before it goes mutant, and points out that body parts would undoubtedly raise eyebrows at customs.
It continues. One year. One and a half.
When Sherlock gets home on a gusty autumn evening, he turns on the telly. He doesn’t watch it (John does) - it’s just one of the many stupid, irrational habits he seems to have accumulated. He flings his coat and scarf onto the armchair and disappointedly notes the lack of paper on the space in front of the door. Then, as has become his habit, he opens the fridge door and, upon revealing the mould within (it’s an unhealthy shade of blue-black; he thinks it will die soon), closes it again. The dance is done; the sofa huffs as Sherlock sags onto it.
John’s next letter still hasn’t come. It’s already 2.53 days later than the average waiting period but it’s not yet outside the maximum, so Sherlock’s not particularly worried about the absence of communication yet. He re-reads the previous letter instead, letting the words whirl off the page and into the ever-busy machine that is his mind. There, he can see each scene with perfect clarity; each seemingly insignificant detail that John describes allowing him to flesh the dream out and give it life...
John wakes up at four o’clock in the morning, when the dawn light is just beginning to seep in under the flaps of his canvas tent. His fingers almost brush the ceiling as he stretches (Sherlock would have to bend, were he there), and the air has a crisp, refreshing feel to it. The desert is like that, John tells him, the air there (here) is purifying. Each day is new.
He puts on his uniform. Trousers first (it’s still nippy at this time of the morning, though it will warm up fast); then tan fatigues over his cotton singlet. His belt next, the buckle pleasantly chill against his fingers, and then a thick layer of sunscreen (he will reapply it in just a couple of hours, if he remembers). He puts his boots on last, because he likes to feel the give of the sand beneath his toes.
John shuffles outside, the day’s supplies in hand, and makes his way over to the medical tent for his morning ablutions. (The trip is roughly 15 minutes, so John’s tent is closer to the outer edge of camp. That is good - the exercise will help keep him in shape.) This is one of the few perks to being a senior MO - he can skip the long lines for the common washrooms. He grabs a breakfast of porridge (it’s Tuesday, then - every other day it’s some combination of bread and fruit, except on Sunday when it’s eggs and bacon, local trade permitting) and snags a thermos on his way. He eats his breakfast. He slurps his tea. He brushes his teeth, his hair, and then starts his morning rounds...
And so it goes. Two years. Two and a half.
And then it changes.
The gusty autumn nights have turned gustier as winter begins its assault in earnest. Sherlock’s phone wakes him at half-nothing in the morning. At first he thinks it’s the wind screaming through John’s window as it does some nights, because 221B is old and drafty. But it’s not the wind. Sherlock fumbles for the phone, groggy still (he’s just off a case), and glances at it briefly before pressing it to his ear.
"Mycroft."
"Sherlock."
And there. There’s something... a tension, to Mycroft’s voice that has Sherlock sitting upright and wide awake in an instant, heart beating a little too fast for comfort in his chest.
"It’s-"
"-John," Sherlock finishes.
"Doctor Watson’s regiment was dispatched on the morning of October 25th to observe a band of guerrilla fighters," Mycroft’s voice is crisp, clinical. "Late in the afternoon they came under heavy fire; a radio transmission for reinforcements was received by the army proper at four o’clock local time... They made it, Sherlock-"
Sherlock’s heart stops its downwards plummet.
"-but the Doctor... John is in a bad way."
Sherlock starts a little at that - possibly the first time Mycroft’s referred to the doctor by his Christian name. But his brother is still talking.
"By all accounts Doctor Watson was doing a remarkable job of tending the wounded by himself-" as a simple patrol/recon unit, they wouldn’t have been assigned any additional medical officers, Sherlock realises "- but... tired officers make mistakes."
Sherlock’s eyes widen. His mind is interpreting the facts in a whole new light and god, of course John - good, kind, caring John, who was only human and therefore couldn’t save everyone - would be in a bad way.
Self-loathing. Loss of confidence. Depression. Mental-
"John was shot."
Sherlock almost sighs with relief before he catches himself. John had been shot. He’d been shot. But Mycroft wouldn’t be calling him only now, 6 days and 13 hours after the fact, if it had been anything particularly life-threatening. Which means there’s more to it...
Sherlock says grimly, "Infection."
John’s dreams are filled with noise. Gunshots. Shouting. Screaming. He knows he’s dreaming. Or at least, some part of his mind knows - but it’s a small, rational part that can’t seem to wrestle control from the John that thrives on danger and takes adrenaline for its sustenance.
He can’t wake up.
Ten hours he’d fought to keep the men of his unit alive, under heavy fire and in enemy territory, after their CO had bled out under his hands. Those ten hours have a price.
There’s a pain in his chest, near his ribcage. It hurts like hell.
And it’s so hot. His body is burning, like all the heat of the desert has transmuted itself into the very epicenter of his being. It seeps from his wounds, along his spine, down his arms and legs and into his fingers and toes. He clenches them tightly, trying to convince himself they’re still there.
There’s a voice speaking to him but it’s distant, muffled, blending with the hoarse shouts of his messmate as John extracts a bullet from his thigh. But his messmate is safe now. They all are - John can hear jeeps roaring across the sand, carrying precious reinforcements. They’re safe, he thinks. I can let go. Stop pretending to be a leader. Stop pretending that I’m not scared to hell.
He can let go. Let go...
Somewhere in his hallucinations, a voice is calling him.
John! John, listen to me! Don’t you dare die on me, John Watson!
But it’s all in his head, right? He’s no magician.
"Don’t you dare die, John Watson! Don’t you dare! "
Sherlock’s shouting down the phone, re-wired to a radio that’s being held to John’s ear by a nameless (confused) medic. Stupid, stupid John Watson, whose body was burning him alive because he’d served his country for ten hours with a bullet between his ribs... and Sherlock’s hands are helplessly entangled around the cord of a phone twenty thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred million miles away.
Sherlock. That’s Sherlock’s voice. He shouldn’t be here... isn’t safe... isn’t...
John Watson’s eyes crack open.
The nameless medico holds the radio closer.
"Sh...erlock?"
John’s voice reaches Sherlock’s ears, and it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. More beautiful than Correli on a Sunday morning.
"John. John."
Two weeks later, John Watson boards a home-bound plane.
He’s spent his convalescence in a larger medical facility that actually had - wonder of wonders - a stable phone line. Some poor accountant probably weeps over the bill, but John’s a hero now, apparently - there’s talk of a VC - so he gets liberties.
He doesn’t feel like a hero.
He feels... exhausted, and yet he doesn’t want to rest. More than anything, he just wants to run back to Baker Street; back to the comfort of the 221B living room with its soft armchair, its bullet-ridden walls and Sherlock, who won’t, unlike everyone else in this damn hospital, keep telling him - keep reminding him - that he’s ‘the lucky one’.
God, it’s been so long since John’s seen him.
But for now, hearing his voice is enough. The phone is his lifeline. He talks with Sherlock for long, pleasant hours every day until the day he leaves, and as John bundles his bags into the taxi he realises that now he’s had it, the absence of that interaction is profoundly unsettling.
John knows Sherlock’s voice better than his own, now. He knows the gruffness and veiled concern when Sherlock inquires after his health as well as he knows the amused drawl and impassioned diatribes that invariably follow.
That voice is what brought him back, John reflects as the airplane’s wheels lift from the Basra tarmac. He’d almost forgotten what it had sounded like but now, he knows, he will never forget. It’s a piece of him.
He will not be lost again.
At the exact same moment that John Watson’s plane heads into the red-blue-gold sunset, bound for England, Sherlock Holmes opens the fridge at 221B, Baker Street. His lips curve into a smile.
The mould is still alive.
4.
This is the fourth time Sherlock sees John in uniform.
It’s a cold, bright winter morning when he opens the door. For long minutes the two of them stand there, each drinking in the sight of the other the way the desert sands drink in the rain.
John is home.
For the second time in his life, Sherlock is wordless.
You came back. You’re here. You made it. I missed you. All are too obvious, too trite, too ambiguous, to describe (to even come close to describing) the tumultuous mixture of feelings in his stomach. Later, he will berate John for being so stupid and reckless, Victoria Cross be damned. John’s reply will involve the words ‘pot’ and ‘kettle’; then he’ll give that low, warm chuckle that he does and say ‘Missed you too, Sherlock’, because John’s less idiotic than he appears. But talking is for the past and for the future - now is not a time for words.
Sherlock notices that John is also silent.
Slowly, he raises his arm. Reaching forward, he takes the battered duffel bag from John’s shoulder; places it carefully on the floor by their feet. With the long, pale fingers of his other hand he takes off the blue army beret, revealing sun-bleached hair several shades paler than it had been almost three years ago.
It still feels the same, though.
His fingertips brush John’s cheek as they travel lower and John leans, almost imperceptibly, into the touch, sighing a little. The heat of his body seeps into Sherlock’s palms, up his arms, and restores a part of him that had withered and died, almost, in John’s absence.
He’s human again.
Sherlock strokes John’s jacket lightly, unbuttons it and, slowly, slides it from his shoulders.
The door to 221B closes.
0.
It’s a cool spring morning; the first of the season. John opens the fridge, grimaces, and closes it again. But the corners of his mouth twitch.
"Sherlock! I don’t care if it’s asexual, sexual or bloody both - it’s got to go!"
The mould is still there.