So I am kinda obsessed with the Sherlock and John know each other whilst John's still an active soldier fic's. I always love reaction based stories, so I thought i'd have a crack at it.

I originally toyed with this idea around remembrance day, hence the mention of the poppy, all of my respect goes to soldiers past, present and future.

This is John/Sherlock and will probably have elements of Mycroft/Lestrade in later chapters if you don't like that, well honestly i don't really care, it is what it is.

I write erratically so i'll just apologize for not updating now. As always i am English and as such it should be understood i have no idea how to spell, punctuate or use grammar within the English language. Feel free to tell me where i've gone wrong when i inevitably do.

Disclaimer- I own one thing and that's the bottle of Lucozade i drank whilst writing this, and i'm afraid that's almost all gone now :(

Lestrade glanced up as his consulting detective swept onto the scene. Frowning slightly, Lestrade took a closer look after he glimpsed a flash of red against the man's normal black attire. "Sherlock, are you wearing a poppy?" he asked curiously. Several months working with the man and this was the first remotely personal thing he has seen breach the detective's distant character.

Breaking out of his assessment of the scene, the consultant glanced down at the plastic flower. "Yes, what of it?"

"Nothing, I just didn't peg you as the sort to-"

"Oh, come off it," his newest forensics officer sneered. "Of course he isn't the type. I bet his mummy told him he has to wear it, so she looks good in front of the neighbours."

Remaining unusually calm in the face of such insults, too calm Lestrade thought, Sherlock turned to the man. "Not that it is any concern of yours Anderson, but my mother has no control over how I choose to dress. I wear a poppy for the same reason as anyone else; in respect of those who have, and will fight in wars past, present and future, and to support them and their families as they do so."

"Like you care about the men that are getting killed right now, the only bodies that concern you are the 'interesting' ones that turn up murdered in our streets. What respect do you have for some blokes getting themselves blown up in some far off forgotten country?" The man sneered.

Sherlock sucked in a quick breath as his face flashed with a brief expression of pain, and something that looked a lot like fear. Before Lestrade could compute this unprecedented display of emotion, his consultant had already collected himself, turned on his heel and left the scene.

After severely reprimanding Anderson on his behaviour Lestrade mimicked his consultants exit. Feeling guilty for abandoning his duties at the scene, Lestrade headed for Baker Street, trusting his officers to wrap up in his place. Anderson's words had been crushing after all, and judging by Sherlock's abrupt departure they had had some effect on the man.

Climbing the stairs to 221b, Lestrade walked through the door to be confronted by the morose picture that Sherlock Holmes was currently presenting. The man was led on his sofa curled around, and crying into, what appeared to be a beige knitted jumper. Cursing Anderson in his head, Lestrade was suddenly fiercely happy about the glares he had seen directed the other man's way before he had left the scene. Sherlock may not be well liked by the officers of the yard, but some of them had served and most at least knew someone who had, Anderson's attempts to demean Sherlock through the poppy will no doubt have lasting consequences for the man.

Walking into the room, Lestrade came to kneel in front of the couch besides the detectives head. "Sherlock?" he questioned softly, "Something you want to tell me?" he asked, gesturing to the jumper the man was currently clinging too.

Lestrade watched as the detective registered his presence and shot up, wiping away his tears with one hand, keeping the other firmly latched on the jumper in his lap. Moving to sit beside the man, Lestrade inwardly sighed, unconsciously raising his hands to placate the man.

"Sherlock whatever this is, it's okay. I won't hold it against you and I won't tell anyone if you don't want me too. Anderson has been firmly reprimanded; I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Obviously you are not; you don't have to tell me anything but I would like it if you did." Lestrade spoke calmly, in his own gentle but gruff manner.

Remaining still under the detectives gaze, Lestrade waited patiently as Sherlock weighed up the truth of his statement. Eventually, Sherlock sighed and nodded reaching into his shirt to remove the chain he wore there. A chain that the di now realised carried a set of dog tags and a wedding ring.

Looking at his consult in curiosity, he watched as Sherlock reverently ran a finger over the tags before removing them and passing them to the di. Taking the tags, that were worn enough to signify years of daily use, Lestrade read the name upon them. "Lieutenant John Watson," he read curiously.

Gaining eye contact, the inspector questioned the man "who is he?"

At this Sherlock grinned, causing the inspector to blink in surprise. "Captain John Watson-Holmes is my husband. He is currently on his third tour of Afghanistan, attached to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers as a combat surgeon of the ramc."

Quick question should ramc be capitalized or?