When the call for the draft came, he begged me not to go; He told me I had served my time in Hell already, that there were pleanty of other young men to go out and fight for our country.
But, what Sherlock didn't understand, was that the pain of war was just as much a part of me as it was our world.
I'm standing in the train station in my full uniform. I know I won't take it off until I get home; Green pants tucked into brown boots, camo shirt with the white band around the sleeve, red cross emblazoned upon it. Doctor, it screams, doctor.
How long will it take before I see him?
The station is so crowded, I can barely hear myself think. People boarding the train think nothing of the soldiers who file out, run ot their loves, their lovers, their family, tears streaming down their sun-worn faces. They think nothing of me, scanning the crowd for that tall, handsome head of curled dark chocolate locks.
It's been a year.
A year far too long for me to be away from him.
I set my bag on the concrete below me, looking (almost desperately now) around the crowd.
Where is he?
Where is he?
Sherlock. My sherlock. My 'I've-waited-one-year-far-too-long-to-love-you' Sherlock.
My heart is starting to fall. He didn't make it. There's been a crash and he didn't make it. He burnt the flat down trying to cook for himself and he didn't make it. He forgot and he didn't make it.
The last one makes my heart ache, and I can almost feel them filling up with tears, before my eyes connect with seafoam pools of deep emotion. And he's here.
I hear heavy bootfalls. I feel myself running, but the world is in slow motion. I can't be in his arms fast enough. And just when I fear I will never make it, that the world is far more cruel than I give it credit for, I am in his arms. His strength surprises me. He's spinning me, far above the ground. He's kissing me, clumsily. I'm crying. He's crying. Our faces are just one big mess.
I hear him muttering as he puts me down, holding my face in his hands. His forehead is on mine, and he is kissing every single inch of my face he can get his lips on.
John. John. John.
We kiss again, and embrace once more, so tightly I fear I will not be able to breathe, fear I will never take in the scent of his sweet cologne again, but I know better. I hear him whisper to me, and my heart is so warm, so high, I know it will never come down off my love for the man in my arms.
Welcome home, John.
A/N - Just a very very short oneshot, inspired by a picture of army!John and Sherlock hugging it out. I have no note for this - it was quick, cute, and concise.