Chapter Text
When Watson returns to London, every friend he ever made is dead.
John feels lost, like some part of him never left Afghanistan, like some part of him has died there, too.
Watson is not accustomed to civil life. It takes more than sharing a drink to make friends here.
John meets Sherlock.
The man is fascinating. A strange combination of chaos, social incompetence, energy and intelligence.
Not able to live a normal life; just like John.
It is not easy to be Sherlock´s friend.
To get beneath his icy facade, to put up with his habit of treating everyone, including John, like idiots.
It is not easy to stand those blue eyes piercing through him, reading every move, every thought.
Sherlock uses his eyes with merciless precision, like he uses the scalpel when examining a dead body, cutting through the layers to the very core of the problem. Though he is dissecting John with his eyes on a daily basis, he never finds something that makes him reject the doctor.
Sometimes, John sees emotions flicker across Sherlock´s pale features. Something like concern, like fondness; the faint trace of a genuine smile.
John values those rare displays of emotion.
His therapist wouldn´t approve, but John feels oddly comfortable with this friendship they have formed over a dead body.
Sherlock is not good at deducing feelings, but he soon connects the grim expression on John´s face with Afghanistan.
It always shows at uncomfortably hot summer days, and Sherlock is careful not to leave John alone when he looks like this. The rising possibility of self-harm, even suicide during episodes of depression is stored clearly in Sherlock´s mind.
Though he is usually able to deduce everything relevant by looking at a person for five minutes, he is still not sure about John´s state of mind after five months of living with him.
So Sherlock ends up standing on top of a flat concrete building, watching John dropping the bottle of vodka he has emptied alone because the man he used to share one with has been dead for years.
Sherlock doesn´t understand why this still affects John after such a long time.
He understands even less why John watches the stars with unfocused eyes, trying to repeat the words of a dead man for Sherlock with an unsteady voice.
Sherlock doesn´t understand, but he cares.
That´s why he pretends to listen, though he knows he will delete it as irrelevant later.
But he never deletes the single tear running down John´s cheek or the feeling of John leaning into him while Sherlock awkwardly pats his back.
John stands beside the pool, repeating the words Moriarty dictates into his earpiece.
He sees surprise, hurt, betrayal run over Sherlock´s features before the consulting detective forces his face back to neutral.
He sees relief when Sherlock finally comprehends what is going on.
He grabs Moriarty, telling Sherlock to run.
But Sherlock decides to use this critical moment to contradict his usual pattern of cold and rational behavior, to value friendship over logic, to stay. When Moriarty retreats, Sherlock doesn´t follow him, rushing into John´s direction instead.
Sherlock´s hands shake when he kneels down in front of him, untying the Semtex vest and throwing it as far away as possible. John´s knees give away. He is breathing rapidly, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock, who has become his lifeline. The lifeline Moriarty wants to cut when he returns.
Strangely, even with the scent of chlorine and the reflection of the water tinging the place pale blue, it is Afghanistan that John remembers. Afghanistan, where all his friends have died. John´s eyes meet Sherlock's, and he nods slightly when Sherlock raises the gun.
This time John doesn´t want to be the one who´s left, the survivor living a borrowed life.
He leaps, tackling Sherlock into the pool, shielding his friend from the impact when the bullet hits the bomb.