John was having an awful day. It started with a case- as it usually does. Sherlock was excited, bouncing about in his usual way when a case comes by. "Murder, John!" he exclaimed. "Oh, yes, this is wonderful!"

John was also happy for the case. Sherlock was no longer sulking about! That was always something to be happy about. Before Lestrade sent him a text, Sherlock had been sulking about for days. Murders usually mean excitement and danger, which was good for both men, anyhow. May not be decent, but it was fun.

But when they got to the murder site, John was no longer happy about the case. It was someone like him who had been murdered. Someone who had been through war. The room around had clues of his ex-military status- the cleanliness, the way the clothes were folded, the medals. Then there was the man himself. His was big. His hair was in a military cut. Small things like that. John could always recognize a fellow soldier.

"Looks like a gun wound," Lestrade had said.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "It does look like that. John?"

John walked stiffly over to the body. It was an awful sight. It reminded him of things he had seen in Afghanistan. Of course, he had seen worse, but this was disgustingly similar. A military man, shot. Something about the blood, though, made this different. "He was shot after he was dead?" he guessed.

"Yes, very good. It appears that the murderer had suffocated the victim. It was someone he knew then." Sherlock was quiet, thinking. Then, as usual, he solved the murder with a series of deductions and they found the killer hiding in the backyard tool shed.

When they got home, John when straight for the couch, not even making a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock.

The bullet hole and the ex-soldier. It was stuck in John's brain. He couldn't shake the gut-wrenching feeling he was having.

He felt shaken.

He felt alone.

And then, suddenly, Sherlock sat next to him on the couch. "May I?" he asked.

John just stared at him. "May you what?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he held out his arms, and waited. Without thinking, John leaned into him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor. "It's late, John. Sleep."

John closed his eyes. Everything was fine. He was fine.

He fell asleep in Sherlock's arms for the first time that night.