Hey people! I've become OBSESSED with Johnlock in Afghanistan, so I decided to try my hand at writing one of my own. Enjoy, and, as always, leave a review when you're done! Reviews are Cookies!

Disclaimer: Moffat and Gatiss own Sherlock- not me.

Just give me a reason

Just a little bit's enough

Just a second we're not broken just bent

And we can learn to love again

It's in the stars

It's been written in the scars on our hearts

We're not broken just bent

And we can learn to love again

Lestrade looked at his consultant anxiously. "Well?"

Sherlock, who had been kneeling over their latest case, stood and looked at the DI.

"It's obvious, George-"

"Greg." Lestrade muttered under his breath, but continued listening.

"His brother killed him, to get revenge for taking the woman he loved. Poisoned him, a fairly easy poison to come by, its just a mixture of arsenic and-"

Sherlock stopped, momentarily taken aback, as his cell began to ring. He glanced at the caller ID, and his face crinkled with distaste.

"Mycroft. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He asked, stepping away from the group. His brothers next words made Sherlock's blood run cold.

"John's been shot."

The desert was hot, and the war was going badly. Doctor John H. Watson's regiment was trying their hardest, but there wasn't much he could do, what with the bullets raining down over them and the sweat poring into their eyes.

"You Okay, Captain?" Someone- Officer Sitwell, judging from the voice- yelled at him from his right. John nodded and gave him a thumbs-up, just as a bomb exploded. Right next to Sitwell. John stood up hurriedly, dodging bullets and flying shrapnel, his Doctor Instincts kicking in. He had to get to Sitwell!

He barely got there before one of the snipers got lucky. They were bound to, once in a while, and John clutched at the crimson flower on his sleeve. When he pulled his hand away, it was sticky. He foraged on. John was not about to let someone on his team die- he would never forgive himself.

"Hang in there, Fred."

He dragged his friend to the edge of the trench, then closed his eyes briefly. He would not succumb to the darkness- he couldn't! Not when he had a friend depending on him!

He shouldn't have closed his eyes.

John's last thought was of the consulting detective who was waiting for him back home.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock...

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