A/N : So my friend Emily and I are writing this together. I am the voice of Sherlock and she is John, I hope you enjoy!

"Hurry John, he's been shot!" a voice yelled at John as body was pressed into his vicinity, red contrasting sharply with the man's pale skin. As the face came into view John looked upon one Corporal Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes," John whispered as he began peeling away the soldier's clothing to get to the wounds from the gunshot the man had received. John pressed the wound, keeping it from bleeding and Holmes' eyes fluttered open, the blue eyes striking as they met John's. "Stay with me Holmes," John whispered as they transferred him to a makeshift surgery table. John pulled back the man's sleeve and was happy to see that the bullet had nicked the soldier, a small gash cut cleanly on his arm.

He had one of his nurses clean the wound while he clasped onto Holmes' hand as the sanitizer stung. The man flinched but never cried out, squeezing John's hand only once during the process. John bandaged the wound, taking care to not put too much pressure on the spot. "You're going to be just fine Holmes, just fine."

John always took time to talk to Sherlock, checking on him every hour. He had seen many men come through the medic tent but none with haunting blue eyes like Sherlock's. He found the man to be an amazing conversationalist, when he actually spoke. Sherlock was brilliant, observing more about the people around him than John thought possible.

John would share stories with Sherlock, tales of bachelorhood from before the war and Sherlock would astound John with stories of solving crimes before the police. These times were John's favorite, when he was allowed to see just a small glimpse of humanity once again. Sherlock grounded him, and John liked to believe he did the same to the strange man. "How was it you ended up here instead of somewhere else with your genius and all that?" John asked one day.

Sherlock gave John this strange, sad smile and pulled a picture out of his pocket. John took it and saw an impeccably dressed man holding a large black umbrella. "My brother, he's high up in the British government. I'm pretty sure he did this to stop me-" Sherlock trailed off, closing his eyes.

"To stop you what Sherlock?" John asked, intrigued to know that one person could actually force another to join the Army.

"To stop me from using cocaine," he said quietly, resting his head back on the pillow. "At first I thought it was another of his bloody pranks, but no, Mycroft meant this, said it was for the best and that I couldn't back out now."

"That's bloody awful, to force someone into the service. Not to say I don't think your brother had good intentions, I just don't know if that was the smartest decision y'know?" John was shocked to learn that the man in front of him used to use drugs. He never would have known and he was a doctor. Whether it had been morally sound or not, Sherlock's brother had really helped Sherlock.

"Yeah, well Mycroft hasn't been the best at making sound decisions when it comes to me. He can make any head of government come at his call, but I never would listen to him."

John shook his head. "You two sound like quite the pair. I couldn't imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Of mummy always made Mycroft and I behave. You wouldn't dare act out in front of her."

"Ah, I see. Christmas dinners at the Watson household were always fun because of the extended family. We had cousins come that I didn't even know I had. It was utter chaos. But, if you want my personal opinion, I'm glad you're off the drugs Sherlock, you're healthy and you have an amazing mind."

Sherlock nodded curtly, not understanding why this man would care about him so much. "Well, I'll take your word for it since you're a doctor and all."

"Good. Now get some rest, you need to heal." John checked all of Sherlock's vital signs once more before leaving the man to rest.

"Doctor Watson?" Sherlock called before the man had shut the door.

"John," John answered, turning back around, "please call me John. Now, what do you need?"

"John then, I just wanted to say thank you."

"You're quite welcome Sherlock, you know, I think with your mind, when you get out of the service you'll do great things."

Sherlock watched as John left the room and tried to understand this man. As a military doctor he was sure to have seen horrible things, yet he was one of the most optimistic men Sherlock had ever met. John was also one of the few people Sherlock had met that actually cared about people.

Soon, almost too soon John thought, Sherlock was healed enough to leave the medic tent and return to his spot on the front.

John disliked the quiet of the medic tent without Sherlock. The other men under his care either slept or swore all day and John wished for the quiet sincerity of Sherlock once more. The two men had formed a strange sort of friendship over the weeks that led to John staying closer to Sherlock's bedside than anyone else. One of John's nurses had asked about it, why he spent so much time with the corporal and it had taken John a while to answer. He had told them he just appreciated the corporal's wit and sarcasm more than the blunt obscenities of the other men they were taking care of, but that hadn't been the only reason he sat next to the bed every day. He had sat there, losing himself in conversation with Sherlock each night because Sherlock helped him escape. When they conversed, John was transported to someplace far away from the battlefield and the gruesome images he was faced with from day to day. He found himself in his imaginary flat where he and Sherlock were good mates, sitting around having a cuppa and carrying on about the mundane duties of a civilian life.

Sherlock fought on the frontlines, bullets flying past him and men falling occasionally. He beared the heat, swallowing small gulps of water from his canteen when he could find the time. It wasn't pretty and it sure as bloody hell wasn't fun, but he kept on going, serving Queen and Country with all he had.

Sherlock craved the quiet evenings. Quiet only in the sense that the grenades weren't blasting and machine guns weren't rapidly firing. The men in his bunker were boisterous, always singing some drinking song and starting friendly rows. Sherlock found himself missing the peaceful quietness of the hospital tent. In there it seemed that even the sounds of the war were muted somehow as if they were two completely different worlds. He lay in his cot, the men in his unit singing drunkenly and playing poker, they long since stopped allowing Sherlock to play, he won every time and they lost all types of rations. It wasn't his fault they were awful at hiding what their hands held, Sherlock simply read what to do in their faces.

Even now, Sherlock sat there, paper and pen next to him as he thought about penning a letter to Mycroft or mummy, to let them know he was still alive. He occasionally thought about heading off to the medic tent to visit with Doctor Watson, but he knew there were men in the tent that needed Watson's attention more than he.

That's when Sherlock had what he believed to be one of his most brilliant ideas ever. He would write to John, allowing the letters to get to the man through other officers he knew that would pass through the tent to visit buddies healing. It was a good plan; Sherlock never regretted it, even to this day. Smiling to himself, he picked up his pen and paper and began to write, his pen flowing fluidly over the paper with his neat cursive gracing the pages.

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