After uni, Sherlock went on to be the best scientist in London, while John went on to be the best doctor. They moved in together at 221B Baker Street after Sherlock mentioned the lovely landlady, Mrs. Hudson. He told John all about what she got up to in her younger years and how her husband ran a cartel. He also told John that she used to be his babysitter at one point.
While at work, a few of John's colleagues got to talking about shipping out to Afghanistan to help the wounded. They asked if John wanted to go with them, to which he immediately said yes to.
Later, John remembered that he'd have to tell Sherlock about it, and he was not going to be happy. Not one bit.
John sighed as his taxi pulled up in front of their flat. He was not looking forward to this conversation. He got out, unlocked the door, then stepped inside.
"Sherlock, I'm home!"
John waited a moment for a sign that Sherlock was also home. When he heard a faint thud he shook his head.
"Whatever you're up to, it better be cleaned up after you're done!"
He walked up the steps and into their living room. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, frowning.
"What's wrong?" John asked.
Sherlock huffed. "I can't find my other sock."
John laughed and went to sit down on the sofa.
He turned serious now. "Sherlock, I need to tell you something."
Sherlock looked over at John and frowned. "What?"
"Some of my colleagues at work have asked me if I wanted to join them in tending to the wounded in . . . in Afghanistan."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, absolutely not."
"Sherlock -"
"No. I cannot lose you, John. That's a war zone right now."
"I know -"
"John please -"
"I already said yes."
Sherlock's eyes widened and his eyes watered.
"Y-you what?"
"I said yes. I have to go, Sherlock. I have to. I'm a doctor, it's in my blood to help people. I just - I have to."
"But what about me, us? What if you -" he stopped.
John stood and walked over to Sherlock. He placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, his thumbs caressing the soft, pale skin.
"I will be extra careful. I will be fine. I will be out of the danger zone at all times. They will be bringing the people to me, love. I won't even leave the tent."
"N-no . . . please don't go. Please. I need you here," Sherlock sobbed. He'd never lost himself like this before. Ever.
"I know, love. I know. But I have to. You probably don't understand -"
"I never do -"
"But you will. One day, you will. But for now, I leave in two weeks. We have two weeks together until I fly out there for a few months."
"Months?!"
"Just three. Only three, I promise."
Sherlock's entire body shook.
"I've never been without you for less than two weeks, how am I going to do three months?"
"You will. You can," John said. "The moment I'm finished, I'm coming home. The very moment, do you hear me? But this is important to me, my love. I'll write to you every day, I promise. Please don't be upset," he kissed Sherlock's cheek and held him close.
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."
John nodded in understanding. "I just can't believe that he would ever go to that," he frowned.
"Oh, he could have gone to much worse stuff, believe me. He is a chemist, after all. But again, his mind is not like ours. He probably thinks that what he did was okay and justified for himself. We'll just have to teach him that it's not. He's never messed with anything like this before, so I must admit that I was quite worried, and a bit shocked." Mycroft shook his head.
John's frown deepened. "When can I go to him?"
"After they release you," Mycroft responded.
"Which is when?"
"In about ten minutes."
John sighed, relieved.
The moment he was released, Mycroft took John to 221B Baker Street in his private car.
"John, do try to not get too mad with him. As much as I believe you'd like to, he is rather fragile at the moment."
John nodded and walked into the building.
Upon hearing a door shut, Sherlock jumped up from his spot on the floor and ran down the stairs, nearly tripping himself in the process.
"John!" Sherlock moved to run towards him, but then he noticed the look on John's face. "J-John . . ."
John held a hand out to stop him.
"I'm not angry; I'm upset. But that doesn't matter right now - you do. Now, go back upstairs, have a wash, and then we will talk."
Sherlock fought within himself to follow John's order, but he so badly wanted to hug him. He'd hold out until he finished doing what John asked him to do.
Sherlock emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, dry and clean. He saw John sat on the sofa and contemplated whether or not to join him, or sit in his chair. In the end his emotions won out and he ended up sitting by John.
"I know my leaving upset you," John began, "and I'm sorry for that. I know how much it must have hurt. But there are other ways you could have dealt with it."
Sherlock pulled in on himself, suddenly very self conscious. He averted his eyes to the floor, too ashamed to even look at John.
"I want to understand why you did it, and why you think that drugs were the best resort to sorting yourself out."
Sherlock began to shake.
"I just - I wanted - I couldn't -"
"Shh, I know. It's okay. Keep going, love."
"I just w-wanted you back, and I c-couldn't have you, because you were h-helping people, and I didn't want to sound s-selfish by complaining, because I know this was important to y-you." Sherlock wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his robe.
John tsked and pulled Sherlock into a hug.
"I know," he said. "I know. You worried me, you know, when you didn't respond. I had to write your brother, and he explained what had happened. Imagine my reaction when he told me you were suddenly taking drugs. I was shocked - angry, of course - and a little bit disappointed."
At that last word, Sherlock broke.
"I'm so s-sorry, John! I hate myself, I do, I do. I hate that I'm like this. I hate that you're mad, and upset, and d-disappointed. I'm nothing but a failure and a disappointment. I couldn't even hold myself together for two lousy weeks!"
John continued to hold him and began to run his hands up and down his back in a soothing manner.
"You're not a disappointment; what you did was disappointing, yes. But you are not your actions. Are you a drug addict?"
"N-no . . ."
"Then there you have it. What you did was a stupid mistake, one that was easily fixed. You should probably thank your brother, by the way. He did look out for you, after all."
Sherlock nodded. "I'm so sorry, John."
John sighed softly. "All is forgiven. Just promise me that you won't ever do it again, alright?"
Sherlock nodded very fast this time. "I promise," he hiccuped.
John held him for a few more moments before pulling away. "I'm going to make us some tea, and you're going to eat something. Yeah?"
"Okay," Sherlock murmured.
"Then, after you've been fed and watered," John said, which made Sherlock snicker, "we're going to go have a proper lie down. You look like you haven't slept in ages."
Sherlock followed every order without complaint. When the time came to go lie down, within seconds of hitting his pillow, Sherlock was out.
John lay down beside him, an arm draped over Sherlock's chest.
"No matter what," John whispered to himself, "I will always be there for you. Always."
John figured that he would tell Sherlock about his wound when he wasn't feeling rather vulnerable. He had ignored the pain for Sherlock's sake, and he will continue to do so so that he can help make him feel better.