Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: Fluff! :D

John was having a nice evening, relaxing in his chair with a cup of tea, when very suddenly Sherlock materialized in front of him and plopped down on his own chair with the sort of chaotic grace only the detective could achieve. He made the little huffing noise that meant 'pay attention to me' so John happily ignored him, mostly to annoy him, partially because he wanted to keep reading his novel for just a few more moments before the inevitable—

"John."

The doctor glanced up. "Why is it unforgivable if I interrupt you doing nothing, but it's perfectly okay for you to barge in and make me stop reading?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Because what I do is important."

John opened his mouth to respond to that, but gave up before he even thought of something to say. A cursory examination told him that Sherlock had on his 'I am going to ask you extremely personal questions' face, so John put a bookmark between his current pages and placed the novel on the arm of his chair. He settled back into his chair. These interrogations were never short and rarely were they comfortable. Last time, Sherlock had demanded a complete physical description of everyone John had ever had sex with, down to the last gory details. Before that, a far-too-in-depth explanation of his bowel movements and the times at which they usually occurred. John just hoped those two lines of questioning were unrelated.

Better to get it over with.

"Well, let's have it, then."

Sherlock leaned forward, fingers going together and onto his chin to form his thinking pose. He regarded John briefly as if wondering how to most politely phrase his question, but John knew him well enough to know that he didn't worry about tact, so that was out. He was probably just making his questions as unambiguous as possible to avoid John giving him dull, superfluous details.

"Two questions," Sherlock announced suddenly, sitting straight up and bringing his bare feet onto the chair with him. "First, what is the worst thing that you saw during your time in Afghanistan?" He nodded a bit, as if agreeing with himself that this was an excellent question. "Second, what is the worst thing you did there?"

John kept his sigh internal. Were it anyone else asking, anyone else in the world, he would have felt betrayed, blindsided. But with Sherlock, there could never be secrets, largely because he would likely find out anyway but also because of the implicit trust between them. Sherlock might test drugs on him, might put him in dangerous situations that may or may not do him permanent psychological damage, but he would always be there to save him, or at least clean up after. (In return, John didn't ask him to change. Little things, maybe, but not the important things. Not the things that gave Sherlock his essential Sherlockness and made their ambiguous relationship work in the first place.) So even though John would rather be taking inventory of his bowel movements, John knew he would tell him. Sherlock probably wouldn't use this information against him in any way, definitely wouldn't tell anyone else. And if he did either of those things, it would be for a damn good reason.

So instead of standing up and calmly walking away, as he would for anyone else, John simply cleared his throat and sat up straighter, partially aware that he was reverting to his military stance but unconcerned about stopping it. He didn't even have to think about his answers. After all, the images were burned into his brain. It didn't take much to bring them up.

"The first question," John said emotionlessly. "Early in my tour, one of my mates spotted a man on the horizon, still quite far away. Even from the distance and even through the heat waves from the sand, we could see he was in bad shape, so we took a couple of guys and ran out to him with a stretcher." John tugged at a loose thread of his chair. It would become a hole if he kept doing it. "He had been lost in the desert for several days, at least, but he wasn't in any condition to tell us how many. When we got him on the stretcher and we made it to our camp, he was barely alive, and we rushed him in to try to fix him up. He was so badly gone that his skin was all in boils and his toes had melted together from being barefoot out there. He couldn't see anymore, he was hallucinating, and he screamed anytime anyone touched him, because he hurt so much." John cleared his throat. "He died the moment we laid him on our table, and the facial expression he went out with was..."

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything, perhaps sensing that John required no prompting.

"To the second," John continued, and his voice became even blanker, matter-of-fact, detached, "there was a house we were ordered to surround. A little one, more like a shack by our standards, falling apart. There was a family living in it, a mother and three children, the youngest being an infant." He glanced at Sherlock briefly before turning his gaze elsewhere, this time to the skull on the mantel. "I was not privy to the reason for the situation, but I followed my orders and allowed no one in or out. After a while, the guard changing around of course, the baby started to cry nonstop, and the mother came out and begged us to let her get some food for her family, but I had orders specifically against this. The worst thing I ever did was follow those orders. That evening, the baby wasn't crying anymore. The mother had killed it, cooked it, and served it in soup to her other children, to keep them alive."

Seeing as how Sherlock was usually not one for reverent silences, John was actually a little stunned when he gave that a moment without comment. When he finally spoke, he asked, thoughtfully, "Why did you follow them?"

John gave him an uncomprehending look. "Because they were orders and that's how it's done. The point of a war is to hurt people and break things until you get what you want," he answered methodically, like he was reciting a script. "You follow orders."

Sherlock processed this, nodding slowly, eyes scanning John from head to foot, seeing everything. "What was the best thing you saw there?"

That one, John had to stop and consider. He thought for a long couple of seconds until one memory drifted to the forefront of his mind. "That's harder. A lot of good things happened, if you're willing to be flexible about what you call good. Small mercies, you know? Like men throwing themselves onto grenades for each other. If I had to pick," he mused, "I would say it's the circumstances under which I got the scar on my shoulder."

"And those are?" Sherlock encouraged, and John realized he had never told him about it. Had he not been able to deduce it on his own?

"I was in the surgery, working on a lad who'd had his arm blown clean off, you know, trying to get his bleeding under control. He couldn't have been more than the minimum age, and at the time I was wondering if he was even that, actually. Well, some civilians rushed our tent with guns and began shooting. I think they wanted the supplies, or just to hurt us. One of the men pointed a gun right at me and fired a few times. Before I could move, the lad I was working on popped right up and purposely took one of the bullets that would have hit me. I still got hit in the shoulder, but he took one in the heart that would have gotten me in the gut. By all means," John continued, staring at the cover of the novel he had been reading, "he should have died from that wound. But somehow he survived. It was a miracle."

Sherlock's gaze, which had gone thoughtful with the unraveling of the story, suddenly got intense. "So you believe in miracles, then?"

John did, but he wasn't sure he wanted to admit it, implicit trust or no. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment, trying to detect judgment or contempt in his eyes or face or tone, but there was none. Only curiosity, and the complete attention he usually reserved for his experiments but sometimes made an exception for with John. Sherlock made a lot of exceptions for John, come to think of it.

Sherlock held that gaze for a moment, then nodded and stood. "Come along," the detective ordered urgently. "I want to show you something. Get your coat."

Bewildered but ever-ready to follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth, John did just that, and as he was hustled into a cab, coat only half-on, he tried to figure out where they were going and what the connection was between his stories and this destination. Was Sherlock taking him to a war museum or something? Or maybe to the lad who had taken the bullet for John. Maybe Sherlock knew him? John had heard the boy, Tod, was living in London now...

The path was familiar almost immediately, though, so when they arrived at the hospital John wasn't surprised, although he was no less confused. He also wasn't surprised when Sherlock grabbed his sleeve and dragged him, because this wasn't unusual. He was led down several flights of stairs to a room John, thankfully, spent very little time in. Sherlock exploded inside and gestured around it with a jerk, not looking at his companion.

"We're at Bart's," the doctor pointed out, scanning it for any obvious signs of intrigue. "In the lab. Why are we in the lab? Do you need body parts? Molly doesn't seem to be here and I'd rather you not steal them while I'm actually with you..."

"No, John, this is where mine happened," Sherlock said crossly as if the man were being deliberately obtuse. He was still looking everywhere but at his only friend.

"Your..."

Sherlock made a pained face, so John didn't ask. Instead, he gave deduction the old college try. He really did. He cast his eyes around again and again, attempting to look at things the way Sherlock did, but his eyes didn't have the same 'zoom' feature so it was hopeless. The increasingly long silence must have revealed his struggles because Sherlock sighed in a rush and said, "Don't make me say it. Mine, like yours. The situation where you got your scar and your patient survived?"

"A mir—"

And then it all came crashing into John's brain. Mike Stamford. The one-in-eight-million chance of bumping into that particular man in populous London. That unlikely meeting that led to an unlikely specific topic of conversation that led to an even more unlikely meeting, right here in this lab, between... between John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

For a moment, the room was (appropriately, considering its purpose), silent as the grave.

"This is where I met you," Sherlock said quietly.

Before John even knew what he was doing, he had rushed towards Sherlock and taken him in his arms and pulled him close and kissed him hard. It was almost immediate that Sherlock melted into the kiss and then reciprocated, clearly inexperienced, fingers going up to John's face and alighting gently there. It was simple and pure and sweet and John took a moment to wonder why they hadn't done this earlier before letting himself get swept up in the gentle caress of lips.

"Yes," John said when they parted, letting out an airy chuckle as they tried to catch their breath, still clutching each other close, eyes nowhere but on each other's.

Sherlock tilted his head, hint of a smile on the lips John had recently vacated. "Yes to what, John?" he asked quietly.

"I do believe in miracles."