I Never Do

Apart

Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. His body shook with silent sobs.

"So help me John Watson, if you die, I am going to fly out there, find your body, somehow miraculously bring you back, and then kill you myself."

John laughed into Sherlock's neck before placing a soft kiss upon it. "It's a date," he whispered.

It seemed like they'd been hugging for hours before they broke apart.

"Come on, it's been a long day. I'm tired and I'm sure you've just worn yourself out crying; let's go to bed."

Sherlock nodded and followed John into their bedroom. The two of them changed clothes and slid under the duvet before pulling each other close.

"I love you," Sherlock whispered.

John smiled, even though it could not be seen.

"I love you, more," he replied.

Their two weeks were finally up, and Sherlock was not having the best time trying to let John go. He knew that John's mind was set on him leaving, but it didn't take away the pain any less.

While John was gone, he kept up his promise to write Sherlock every day. But after a month of their correspondence, he didn't get a response, which was worrisome.

John wrote to Mycroft, asking if Sherlock was all right, but all was negative.

Sherlock had taken to using drugs in John's absence.

Mycroft told him how Sherlock felt lonely, and to not blame himself for his brother's actions. He told John how Sherlock had been admitted into a rehab center, so he would not get any letters until he came home.

John wrote back saying that he hopes Sherlock will be okay, and to tell him that he's sorry for going away for so long.

John tried so hard to stick to his promise of staying in the tent, but when they got low on doctors, he had to venture out into the field and tend to the wounded. He was working on a man's leg when he was shot in the shoulder.

The bullet knocked him backwards, causing him to fall on his back. One of the other doctors working alongside him came to his aid.

He pulled John back into the tent and began working on getting the bullet out. John was quickly falling under due to the sudden shock of being shot, but the doctor insisted that he stay awake.

John tried so hard, but he was just so tired and sore. Within minutes, he was gone. When he next woke, it was to the sight of a hospital ceiling. He looked around the room and noticed a spare pile of clothing on a chair by his window.

He was just about to fall back asleep when he heard his door click open and saw Mycroft standing there, umbrella in hand as he leans against it.

"Ah, John. So glad you're awake," he said. "How are you feeling?"

John moved to sit up, but realized his mistake a second too late.

"Fuck!" he shouted.

Mycroft winced. "It will take some getting used to, I imagine."

"Yeah," John huffed. "How's Sherlock? Is he okay? Where is he?"

Mycroft walked into the room and over to one of the chairs. He sat down and placed his umbrella in his lap.

"Sherlock is doing better," he said. "He had a bad episode, is all. You cannot blame yourself, John. He doesn't understand some things, and that's not his fault. While he knew what you were doing and why you were doing it, his brain probably said other things."