Finally, Mycroft had decided to be useful and give his little brother real information.

Sherlock couldn't help the way his lips parted as his eyes landed on the picture in the file he held in his hands.

He looks incredible, even more so than before.

He got promoted to Captain.

He changed his haircut. It suits him.

He looks confident. It suits him.

That uniform suits him. Military life suits him.

Sherlock rose from his chair, tossing the file on a nearby side table. He finished what was left of his tea and reached for his coat, ignoring the butterflies fluttering madly in his stomach as he shrugged the familiar belstaff coat on.

"Mrs. Hudson, don't wait up on dinner," he called from the staircase, pulling the door open and stepping out into the cool London air.

Captain John Watson.

John. Just John.

"Taxi!"

***

"It's not that big of a deal," said John, plucking a stray blade of grass from feeble roots. "No one really needs me round here, anyway."

Sherlock shot him a half-hearted glare from his position, lounging with his back cradled by a freshly mowed lawn.

"Almost no one," he corrected, returning his gaze to a wisp of a cloud, a piece of cotton against a blue canvas like one of John's drawings.

"Yeah," John murmured distractedly, his gaze lingering nowhere in particular.

The silence was peaceful as it slowly enveloped the two friends in a cocoon of solitude, with only the occasional chirp from a sparrow to break it.

"John," said Sherlock, his heart suddenly beating very fast.

"Yeah? What's wrong?" John's eyes grew slightly as he took in Sherlock's expression.

Fear.

"You could die, you know that?" Sherlock's voice was steady.

"I could." John held his gaze, even though it felt like it was burning a hole straight through his skull. It felt like looking straight into the sun.

Sherlock's voice had an immeasurable weight to its tone as he spoke.

"Don't."

***

Sherlock had never had anything against railway stations, but now he felt an uncontainable hatred towards every train that crossed his line of sight. He tried not to glare at everything, but John would notice anyway.

"Thanks, Mum," Sherlock heard John say goodbye to his mother after giving her a hug and telling her not to cry, and that he'd be back before she knew it.

Sherlock's tumultuous train of thought was thrown off track by two orbs that graced his best dreams and haunted him in his worst nightmares. They were alone now, Mrs. Watson and Harriet had already left.

John shouldered his bag uncomfortably, looking into Sherlock's eyes with a hesitant, shaky smile.

Maybe he was looking for reassurance, acceptance, kindness from the boy he'd grown to adore. Maybe he was looking for a reason to roll his bags right back home and relax with Sherlock on the lawn, popsicles in their hands and nothing to worry about.

Instead, in his best friend's eyes, he saw time. Those were the same eyes he'd spilled his heart out to when his father beat his mother, when he left. The same eyes that had crinkled with uncontrollable humour as John's face had been dunked into his birthday cake when he turned fifteen. The eyes that had shed tears only once in John's presence, when Sherlock's dog had passed away. The same eyes that had captured John's heart long before they had begun to be admired by desperate girls from the high school they went to.

John saw his childhood trickle through an aquamarine screen as he kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock's. In that infinitus, Sherlock's facade melted to give way to his real feelings.

He looked so very, very lost.

"Sherlock," John half-whispered. "I'll be fine."

Sherlock refused to let John see him cry. Instead, he stepped forward and engulfed John in the warmest hug he could muster, nestling his head on John's shoulder. John's arms wound themselves tightly around Sherlock's waist, and that was when Sherlock let his tear fall. One tear. For John.

"Promise me," he whispered, holding the other side of John's head with one hand with his lips fiercely pressed against John's ear. "Promise me you won't die."

John sighed against Sherlock. "I...You know I can't promise you that."

"No, I know," Sherlock went on. "If you were anyone else, John, anyone else, I would've accepted it. But this is you, and you can't die on me. Not now, not until I say you can."

John tightened his arms even more around Sherlock, if possible, pressing the side of his cheek to Sherlock's.

John's eyes met Sherlock's pained ones as they broke away from their embrace.

John smiled that smile. And that was the best thing Sherlock could've asked for.

A train horn blared through the station, signalling John's departure. Panicked eyes met in a last ditch effort to fill the time they had with something, anything.

Then, John's palm slid in next to Sherlock's. Their fingers snaked around, interlacing themselves as if they'd never part again. Shocked, speechless, both boys shared a moment of blissful confusion until John got on the train.

***

Sherlock had never prayed before.

Mycroft hadn't expected to have to pick his little brother up from the church around the corner.

***

The sun was high in the sky as the cab pulled up outside the military base camp. Sherlock paid the cabbie, deciding not to pay attention to the tremors running up and down his spine.

He was inside the camp in a matter of seconds, Mycroft had pull anywhere under the damned sun. Sherlock was buzzed in and escorted to a large hangar where recruits were training in organized groups. Voices called out strong, crisp commands as the soldiers obediently followed.

Sherlock spun around. He'd know that voice if it spoke to him in his sleep.

Which it did, but that wasn't important.

His eyes ran through the ranks, snagging on a dirty blonde head, a set jaw and a firm look in his eyes. Sherlock had known John was alive, but that didn't stop the enormous wave of relief that crashed onto him.

His best friend, his only friend.

Who never judged him. Who threw his first punch defending him from jerks who bullied Sherlock. Who held him at the train station before they parted ways. He wasn't dead. He hadn't been blown to bits in....Afghanistan, wasn't it?

No. He was here, in all his sandy-haired glory.

It took all of Sherlock's willpower not to break out into a sprint the second he saw John.

John was giving marching counts to his regiment. He was so focused that he didn't notice Sherlock come and join him in front of the new recruits.

"At ease, soldiers," John announced, rubbing his weathered palms together and inhaling deeply through his nose. The men stopped their exercises and stood with their legs apart, hands behind their backs until John turned to leave.

"Does no one know it's your birthday?"

John's head whipped around, his eyes suddenly alert. "Wha-?"

His hazel-cerulean eyes collided with green and blue and flecks of brown and gold, looking like the entire purpose of existence had been condensed into two perfect irises.

And his heart nearly stopped.

Sherlock?

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