I wrote this on the “Fourth of July”, (although I know it will come out much later, because I've prewritten almost a dozen one shots that will come before this.)
I'm not American so I don't celebrate it.
But I do live in America. My friend invited me to their house for dinner and fireworks. As I was watching the fireworks, I thought about something I saw online, and it got me thinking about our war veteran, John. So here you go.
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“PleaSEeeeeEee Daaaddddy?” Rosamund whined, hugging her dad's leg.
“Rosamund, no. Go play with your dolls or something. I'm not in the mood for this conversation.” John frowned, shaking her. She, as the stubborn little almost-four-year-old she was, sat on John's foot and hugged his calves.
John sighed loudly. “Rosamund!”
“I want fireworks!” The toddler yelled. John heard a crash in the kitchen.
“Look, you made Sherlock drop his… whatever he's doing.”
“Fire-works! FIIIeherrrworks! Fireworks!”
John pinched the bridge of his nose. Before he could say anything, Rosamund started crying.
How could John say no any longer? Anything to stop that horrible crying.
So there they were, the next day, sitting in a park with Rosamund and some family and friends, waiting for the fireworks display after having a birthday party for the WatsonHolmes girl.
Sherlock settled down on the grass with John. “Are you sure you're alright with this?” Sherlock whispered. Rosamund was bouncing, sitting with her friends some feet away.
“Yeah, I'm--” The first firework went off, and the boom sent John practically into Sherlock's lap. The man hugged Sherlock tightly. More fireworks went off, and John started looking like he was about to have a panic attack.
One of Rosamund's friends nudged her arm. “Rosie,” she said. “Your dad's scared of fireworks.”
“No he isn't. My dad is the strongest. He's not scared of anything.” Rosamund turned and looked at John, who was trembling. She gasped and looked back to her friend. “He is!”
She stood up and waddled over to John. “Daddy, are you scared of fireworks?” She asked. Maybe that was the reason he didn't want them.
John didn't respond. Sherlock stood up, pulling his husband up, too. “He isn't,” Sherlock assured her. “The sounds fireworks make are just connected to very bad memories.”
He walked away with John. They needed to get somewhere the fireworks were more quiet.
He sat John down and got him a juice pouch, handing it to him.
John drank it, his face as pale as ever.
“We didn't have to do fireworks,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in and kissing the man's forehead.
“I wish we didn't do them…” John put the plastic straw in his mouth and drank quietly.
Sherlock nodded. John had always been sensitive to fireworks. He may have gotten over his nightmares and depression, but the continuous sound of gun-shot like fireworks sent him right back to the war, and that wasn't nice.
Sherlock comforted him, kissing his cheeks and running a hand through his hair. When the fireworks were over, they got back up and went back to the crowd, John a little dazed and trembling.