There are some things that John can't - won't - forget. The sound of his friends dying, wailing in agony while he tries to decide who to save and who to leave for dead. His friends, begging for their lives while he plays God and dictates who lives and dies, because it's the desert and it's hot and they're alone, even when they're surrounded, oh god they're so alone. John can't forget the sound, not ever, not really. He can push it from his mind, occupy himself with running through London, with dead bodies and people that don't stare at him pleadingly and ask why? John why did you leave me?

When he closes his eyes, John can remember everything about Afghanistan; the smell, the consistency of sand under his booted feet, the feel of the sand scorching his skin, the feel of the medic kit in his hand. He can remember the laugh, the voice of every comrade he'd ever had, of every soldier he'd ever befriended. He's not sure if this is a good thing. Most of all though, he can remember getting shot.

He's on his knees, and Ben is dying. There's nothing he can do - he knows that, knows that as sure as he knows that if he doesn't move and leave, he'll die too. But he can't do it - can't bring himself to leave. Because Ben is so young and his big green eyes are wide and scared and he's whimpering because it hurts. John knows it must.

His legs, Ben's legs, long and gangly. They'd teased him about his ridiculous height in the barracks, made a joke of his coltish clumsiness. It doesn't matter now, because Ben is dying and his long, long legs are blown off at the knees and he's bleeding to death and there's nothing John can do.

Ben knows it too. He's clutching at John's hand and trying to reassure him, which seems so backwards to John that he almost laughs. Almost, but not really. "John! John! John, it's okay, I'm alright, it's fine. It's all fine, I promise -" He wants to punch Ben, for being so understanding and knowing, for just knowing that John can't help him, no matter how much he wants to. So John just stares down at the kid, says nothing, but holds his hand and listens to him try to soothe him - he's not dying, it should be the other way around - and tries not to cry.

When the light in Ben's impossibly bright green eyes sputters out, and the grip on his hand goes lax, John allows himself a moment. Just one moment, hunched over the body in the middle of the Afghanistan desert. A moment to close his eyes and let one, two, three, tears leak from behind his lids. But just a moment; a couple of seconds. So when it passes, he closes Ben's eyes, and is about to stand -

Boom.

It hurts, it's agony, and John reels back, words his mother would never want him to say on the tip of his tongue. His shoulder is on fire, white hot pain, pain hotter than the desert sun, is eating at him, and he screams. He screams long, and loud, and someone helps him. Someone stops the bleeding and carries him back to the base and he'll live. He'll live, but Ben won't. It doesn't seem fair.

John loves London, loves the feel and the taste and the sound of it, loves it like he loves his mother. London is in his bones, it's in his head, it's all he thought about when he laid in his cot at night in Afghanistan, trying to sleep and failing.

He loves the cool weather, the Thames, loves the buildings - old new pretty ugly decrepit - and the people.

When they sent him home from Afghanistan with nothing but a duffel bag full of clothes, a couple of badges and the Browning pistol he nicked, he goes to London. Even though he can't afford London on his army pension and he knows he can't, knows he'll be bankrupt within the month, probably living in a half-way house for military veterans until he dies, he goes. Because John loves London. Too much. Far too much.

He doesn't expect to meet Mike Stamford, not really. He had never even considered getting a flat share, because who would want him for a flat mate? John Watson, crippled war vet with enough skeletons in his closet to film a horror movie with and a god complex for miles. But there's someone worse than he is, someone who likes skeletons and doesn't care about John's limp (your therapist thinks it's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid) and only cares about how useful he is, how interesting he may be.

John latches on to Sherlock Holmes because there's no one, nothing, else for him. Because he doesn't care, just wants to stay in London. For that, he'd go through more than just a ridiculously eccentric flat mate who guesses about his sister's drinking habits from the state of his mobile.

It's hot, it's so hot, it's never this hot in London. He can almost hear Sherlock in his head; 'That means you're not in London, John.'

John can hear the gunshots, whizzing by his head. But he can't see. He can hear and feel and touch, but his eyes won't open. Then the bullets start hitting him, one right after another, and he screams -

John wakes up screaming. He bolts upright in bed, hands twisting anxiously in his blanket. It takes him a moment to realize he's not alone, that Sherlock is standing in the door, outlined by a light from the sitting room, eyes impossibly wide with something that John can't even begin to place, can't get his brain to focus on.

Sherlock is talking. "It's alright, John. It was just a dream, just a dream." Sherlock continued staring at him, and John allowed himself a minute to think through the haze of sleep. He was alone. He knew that, accepted it. He had friends, yes, and he had family, and he had Sherlock. And they all loved him, he knew, loved him fiercely. But John knew he was not loved in that way, was not desired so desperately, he couldn't even keep a girlfriend -

stopstopstop

- he knew, and he accepted this. All John wanted, in that moment, sitting in bed at god-knows-what-time was to feel like he mattered. To feel loved, cherished - he wanted it, so badly he could feel the want for it dripping from his skin. That's what prompted his next words, what forced his hand, so to speak.

He knew he must look childish, with his arms wrapped around his knees, eyes wide, body shaking. Slowly, he disentangled his limbs, and tried to calm his shakes. Then, he looked up at Sherlock, still staring at him intently, and opened his mouth.

"Sherlock," the man's gaze flitted to his face, "I -" he stopped. His request would be denied, he knew. Sherlock would dismiss him, leave, and he would lay in bed alone for the rest of the night, wouldn't be able to stop the shakes. The thought made him shudder, and he turned his gaze back to the lanky man in the door. "Sherlock, I want to have sex."

Bright eyes turned confused - for just a second - then his expression smoothed over, became unreadable. Maybe, John thought, maybe this wouldn't be such a strange request if he was in any type of non-platonic relationship with Sherlock, if the consulting detective wasn't just his best friend.

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment, eyes flickering over John's face, reading - well, he's not sure what. But he must have found something there, because he nodded, once, and murmured quietly, "As you wish," before coming into the room, unbuttoning his silk shirt as he went. He shucked off his pants too, before crawling into the bed and beginning to undress John - his hands seemed to flutter around doing nothing, but in their wake they left buttons unsnapped and John's torso bare, his pajama pants pulled down his thighs and done away with. And Sherlock never looked at him, just focused on his task with precise movements.

This isn't right. John knew it wasn't, knew he should stop Sherlock. The hands tracing shapes into his chest, pinching at his nipples felt wonderful, fantastic, mechanical. John knew, has enough experience to understand, that this isn't right. But he was alone, so so alone, so scared. So he simply lay still while Sherlock worked on him, played his body like it was his violin.

One finger, two, three. John was a mess, he knew he was, because Sherlock was good and it felt just right -

And then the fingers were gone, and John watched as Sherlock stroked himself, once, twice, three, four times, and that's when it set in. He wanted to open his mouth, to tell Sherlock all bets were off, he'd changed his mind, but before he could, there was the pressure, and the feeling of Sherlock sinking into him, and it was too late. John could feel the tears prickling at the backs of his eyes while Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, tethered him, and thrusting evenly, perfectly timed.

No, John thought, and his eyes burned so he clenched them shut, this isn't how it's supposed to be, it's not how it's supposed to go. Because it felt wonderful, because he could feel pleasure thrumming through his body, even as his mind shut down, but it was missing something. It shouldn't be like this, not for us, because I lo-

And then Sherlock was speeding up, and groaned just once, and John could feel the heat pooling in his belly, and he clenched his eyes shut tighter, kept his lips sealed when he came, when Sherlock came, and was pulling out.

"Go to sleep," John stared at the younger man, gathered his legs close to himself, watched as Sherlock climbed out of the bed and began dressing. His mind was comfortably numb, buzzing with the feeling of sex.

No, don't go.

Please stay.

Then Sherlock was gone, closing the door behind himself without another word, and John let himself cry.

A/N: Hey guys, here's some angst for you. Because it's almost 8 AM and I feel like torturing our boys for a while. This won't be too terribly long, and I plan on finishing it. Please review, favorite, etc etc etc. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and I don't make any money from this. It's written with an appreciation for the original work in mind.