Hi there! I have no idea what I'm doing with my DenSu-fic, so it's on pause. I'll be writing other things meanwhile. Here is my first attempt of some Johnlock.

Disclaimer: I don't own the character or show "Sherlock Holmes", nor do I own any of the characters in the show. I don't make any money of this, it's solely for my own purpose. And in this case, a friend.

It was a long time since they had seen each other. John had been away for military training, multiple times assuring Sherlock that it was not his favourite thing to do right now. He liked to blow up tanks, yes, and he got a real kick out of solving tactically complicated situations, indeed, but he had come to like the quiet life he had with Sherlock. Or, well, 'quiet' was maybe a wrong word; they hadn't exactly been solving normal crime cases. But all in all, he had liked that just as much as being in the military.

Now, though, his mind was weary from the training. It had been just as exhausting as a real mission since they had to act like it was and therefore couldn't relax or take it easy. They had been pushed to their limits, as always. He tried to focus his mind on the present – he was back, away from the training camps and away from other men who seemed way younger than he, way more prepared for what they had already done so many times.

Had he become old? Was he growing too old for this soldier-thing? He didn't want to believe that. He wasn't old, anyway. But the others had still looked so much younger, so much readier to do what they had to do. Was he, John Watson, a great soldier, or well, doctor, getting so much out of shape, out of mind, that he couldn't go back? That couldn't be true… could it?

John was deep in thought and didn't notice the crowd of people around him, just as he didn't really notice a tall man in a long, black coat with collars that were characteristically turned up. His clear eyes scanned the crowd, and pierced John's forehead when he was sighted.

But Sherlock didn't step forward to meet John with a hug. It wasn't like him to do that. He stood still and waited for the other to come to him. At this rate, though, it was dubious if the man would even see him. John was clearly thinking hardly about something – without doubt the things he had been through during training – and Sherlock was not one to dig into that. Fascinating as his "flatmate's" way and process of thinking might be, this was something rather personal.

Unlike Sherlock to care about someone's privacy, you say? Well, maybe, but Sherlock had spent enough time with John to know that some things he just wouldn't tell. And these things were, much to his frustration, often something that bothered John a whole lot, and things that Sherlock wished to gain knowledge of. It was one of his great interests to study how certain events affected 'ordinary' humans' minds.

"John."

He had called out a bit too soon. John was still not close enough to hug him, as Sherlock knew he would. The smaller man looked up and feigned a smile – too much force around the lips, corners of the eyes not wrinkling – thanking Sherlock for showing up. Then the hug followed, and Sherlock returned it, probably a bit too tight for his usual stiffness and awkwardness around other people.

"Sherlock."

They stood like that for a while, and Sherlock knew that John knew that he could let go anytime. He normally let go rather quickly, knowing that Sherlock wasn't really the social type of person and this time was no different. Iy was a surprise but the reason wasn't hard to figure out.

John was a proud man, even if he sometimes made a fool of himself in public. Sherlock didn't take any credit for that, or the reasons behind.

"We should go for a cab, shouldn't we?"

"It would certainly be a good idea, seeing as I didn't bring one with me."

They walked towards the exit together, in a way that didn't get them much attention. They kept a fitting distance between them and might as well be two good friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. Sherlock wasn't good at small-talk but he made a few feeble attempts, all of them met by John who pretended nothing was wrong. However, there were times where John didn't answer. It was always when Sherlock hinted at something even remotely related to soldiers and war.

It didn't take long to get a cab, not at this time of the day where they seemed to infest the entire city. The ride home wasn't long, either, but it was in silence; something that was rather unusual when the two were together. John came with his own attempts of small-talk but unlike himself, Sherlock didn't react to them very well. A defect that came with shutting people out before they got close.

The cab stopped outside the familiar door that opened to reveal the staircase to their shared flat. They still lived here, it was the most convenient for everyone. Besides, Mrs. Hudson would never let them leave, that dear woman.

And as expected, she greeted them with warmth and joy, although she kept it down a little out of consideration for John. It seemed he appreciated it, for this time, his smile was more real, although it was overall still fake.

"I'm bringing up some tea in a few minutes, boys, so please do settle down while I prepare it," she chirped and Sherlock had to admire her, even for just a second, for being so energetic. She wasn't young anymore but she had more energy than he sensed was the case for other women her age.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock took one of John's bags and carried it upstairs for him, not without slight protests from the latter. But the man in front simply ignored them, opened the door to their flat and put down the bag on the couch, in a way so it wouldn't bother John when he would sit down in a few seconds.

Right now, actually.

John uttered a slight groan and closed his eyes. The bag he had been carrying was unceremoniously dropped onto the floor. Sherlock looked over at him for a few seconds before nudging it under the nearby desk with his foot. It would remain there for a little longer, until John had to unpack. That would probably take a while, though, if Sherlock knew John well enough (which he prided himself of).

He didn't do much to contact John at first. He let the man do what he wanted – which showed to spend extraordinarily long time on the computer – and only consulted him to suggest a cup of tea (Mrs. Hudson hadn't showed up yet) or a plate of biscuits. A few times, he even offered to play something on his violin, and while John accepted it with mock joy, he only listened for a few minutes.

Finally, Sherlock sat down in front of John, on the floor, and placed a hand on his knee.

"John, can you please tell me what happened at the training camp?"

John's eyes did a minimal twitch, and his finger slipped half a centimetre to the right. Not big signs but enough to tell Sherlock that he was not happy to talk about it.

"It's nothing important," he said, brushing Sherlock off with his usually calm voice, "nothing that you need to know of."

"But it's bothering you."

"No, it isn't."

"John, you've been staring at the computer screen for five minutes straight without writing, clicking or doing anything. What are you thinking about? Which of the events that are bound to have happened is haunting your mind?"

"Sherlock, please," he looked up from the computer, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes, and his gaze was almost judicially, "I don't wish to talk about it. Can't you just leave it at that?"

Just then, the door was opened, and Mrs. Hudson entered. In her hands she carried a tray with two cups, a pot, and a plate of biscuits. Vapour rose from the cups and a delicious scent spread in the room.

"I'm sorry, boys, but one of my old friends called, and I just forgot the time!"

She had been about to say something more but stopped when she saw Sherlock's frown and his kneeling position in front of John. It might be that she didn't know about what had happened to John during his training but it couldn't possibly be more obvious that it had been awful, if not horrible.

"I made your favourite biscuits, John, dear, the ones with blueberry. Hopefully the tea is to your liking as well, I tried some new leaves I got the other day."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John said and smiled in a way that Sherlock knew was false but she did not. She just smiled in return and placed the tray in the kitchen – a little shriek escaped her when she saw a cage of dead mice and a bunch of ripped-off human fingers – before coming back to the living room.

"Sherlock, what in the world-"

"It's for a case in the eastern part of London. Quite entertaining, really, but I must ask you to leave us, Mrs. Hudson. John is having an indisposition."

She nodded to them and quickly escorted herself out, closing the door with a soft 'click'. John looked back at Sherlock, frowning ever so lightly.

"Why did you lie to her?"

"I didn't. You are not feeling well, it's obvious. Your hand is quivering, and you blink excessively, just as you think I cannot see your twitching lips."

Not pleased with the easiness that Sherlock saw through his shield, John went back to his computer, possibly updating his blog about his return.

"Mrs. Hudson worries for you, too, John."

"Too? What do you mean 'too', I don't worry for me."

Sherlock sighed and got up from the floor, stretching to his full height, which was rather impressive. His gaze was unexplainable.

"How many people do you know that might worry for you, Doctor John Watson?"

This seemed to catch the soldier's attention. People only very rarely called him by his title and name. He looked up and met the other's eyes, finding them oddly firm and serious, seeing as this was not concerning a case.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Molly, Lestrade, perhaps, but I'm not really-"

"So you think that Lestrade worries for you, but you don't even consider me?"

John's small frown got bigger, and he squinted a bit. Then he laughed, but it was an odd laugh; restrained, as if caught in his lungs and unable to get free.

"You? But why would you worry about me, Sherlock? You only care about cases and getting back at Moriarty for the trick he played us a few months ago. I didn't think you even could find sympathy for other humans."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a small round in the living room before he settled in front of John again, face firm and lines sharp, the prominent cheekbones looking even more prominent than normally. His eyes were alive with the flame of worry.

"John, I've known you for God knows how long now. You're not just anybody, not just any 'human'. I thought you knew that by now."

They looked at each other, John with small and suspicious eyes, Sherlock with determined and serious ones. Sherlock waited for John's response. They had been going out for about half a year – not officially, though, of course – and still it seemed John couldn't trust him with emotions. Had he not shown himself worthy of his devotion? Had he not proved that he was capable of showing love, even though it might have taken longer than it would for any other? That had happened, so what was the big deal? Wasn't that what people associated with the emotion 'love', the physical love?

For half a year, Sherlock had slowly learnt what it would say to love another human. He had been working closely with John for many years, but only lately did he realize that his feelings were beginning to change. Unsure what to do about this unexpected change, he consulted Mrs. Hudson who he trusted could keep quiet with this. She had been completely taken aback but as soon as the shock had faded, she wasn't late in giving advice.

After all his attempts of being a devoted and loving partner, John still couldn't trust him to be worried about him when he was away for a longer period of time?

Did that mean he wasn't good? This was not something he would usually bother his mind with but he couldn't help it. Due to John and those pesky emotions sneaking in everywhere, he was beginning to doubt if he was good enough for John.

But none of this, none of the thoughts or emotions, showed in his face. He was calm, composed, still quiet, when John finally sighed heavily and pushed the laptop away.

"But why? It's not like I haven't been on this kind of thing before."

"You haven't been called in for military service for over half a year. Before that, you were never this upset when getting home. The reason is obviously me, so I believe you have some form of duty of telling me what happened."

John looked dumbfounded. Sherlock assumed it was how he figured out that John worried for what would happen in he died in war and left Sherlock alone – like so many others had done before him – but John didn't confirm or deny it. He simply sighed again and leant forward, slowly connecting his palms and head.

And he began talking. He explained why this had been especially terrible, and he told Sherlock exactly what made him so upset and nervous. Just why this time had been so much worse than usually. While he talked, Sherlock gradually moved from the floor to the couch, sitting next to the whispering soldier. Despite having been together for so long by now, Sherlock was still a little clueless as to how to react – everyone seemed to react differently, how was he supposed to know what to do? – but he went for the only one he knew safe – stroking John's back and keeping silent.

He let John talk his voice hoarse, let him ease his worries until his eyes were red from tears and his cheeks from their trail. For once, Sherlock didn't interrupt him and didn't do anything to stop him from talking. His knowledge of human psychology was extensive, and he knew it was important to talk about things like this.

However, this was the first time he had ever shown any interest, be it real or not. And this time, it was all real.

John told him of the way they 'refreshed' their discipline, and though it had been horrible methods, there were some that caught Sherlock's attention. Not just once, but several times had he been forced to control himself and not ask questions concerning those methods further.

The more John talked, the closer Sherlock got. Sometime during the long stream of words, he had taken his arms around the smaller man and held him close against his chest. That was as far as his consoling knowledge went, however. He didn't do much beside that, maybe uttering a small "It's okay" or "Don't worry, I'm right here".

In the end, when John was done crying, he took some deep breaths and his shivering, yet tight grip on Sherlock's shirt slacked a bit. With swollen eyes he looked up and met his, and Sherlock was surprised to see glimpses of worry.

For a moment longer, they sat in silence while John got back up. Sherlock patiently waited, although his patience was being tested, much more than Lestrade or Anderson or any of the others had ever done.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired." It was little more than a whisper but it was accompanied by a smile that Sherlock deemed real, and John slumped against him. "I'm very tired, but also very happy."

Obviously. He had been crying for an hour or so, and he had been allowed to whine like a child. Without his 'flatmate' leaving him, mind you. Sherlock was still here, and he did not love John any bit less after hearing this. If anything, it had made him like him even more.

Being trusted with this, even if he had been the one asking, he saw as an honour. People never trusted him with these kinds of things because they never thought him appropriate or worthy.

"Next time, John," Sherlock began with a small smile playing over his pale face, "you tell me things like this on your own accord, okay?"

A part snort, part laugh escaped John's mouth but this didn't work out in his favour.

"John, I'm serious."

"Are you ever anything but serious, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't get to answer before John had taken a firm grip of the back of his head and pulled him down and forward enough to kiss. At first, Sherlock froze, not yet used to improvised kisses, but he relaxed slowly after and returned it.

It wasn't exactly the answer he had been looking for, but he trusted that John got his point.

I don't think I have much more to say than "sorry" for this first attempt of writing Johnlock.