So this story is dedicated to snarkymuch2 who helped me get back into the swing of writing fanfiction. Thank you snarkymuch2! I don't know how to express my gratitude to you.
Typically, people write disclaimers. I just want to say, that since I am posting this on , clearly I am writing a fan-fiction. :)
Dirt rained from the heavens. He couldn't see. He didn't stop moving. Power through. Just power through. He couldn't hear. He couldn't feel. He couldn't taste. He couldn't smell and he was nearly blind. Keep going! Small plots of land exploded around him. He caught a glimpse at his hands, streaked with blood, mud and grime, knuckles shining white as they clenched tightly onto his firearm. Looking to the left, he saw another man, a good man, sink to his knees and collapse backward, blood seeping from between his eyes. Ralph!
"Ralph!" John woke with a roar.
"No, Sherlock," a voice muttered, "and I am bringing you dinner. I have my patches, but you always think better with food. Now eat." A canvas bag was placed on the coffee table next to John. It smelt strongly of Chinese.
John blinked. Sherlock hadn't moved and was standing directly in front of John, his belt buckle in John's face. "Why are you standing so close?"
"You shouted at me. And it wasn't even my name. Were you dreaming about the war again?" Sherlock queried. He crouched to look John in the eye. "Hm, your eyes are far away. The right half of your body is twitching. Yes, definitely the war...do you need a hug?"
John stared into the eyes of Sherlock. He never let himself cry, but the way Sherlock was staring into his eyes, his dreams were open to his prying and watchful gaze and his emotions were slathered all over those dreams. Sherlock, Sherlock could see them all, as if they were all the distinct colors of a rainbow. He couldn't hide. No shelter.
So he cracked...and that one crack lead to a shatter and it was like the world poured forth.
John's head fell forward onto Sherlock's shoulder. His hands shook as they came up and wrapped around Sherlock and John began sobbing. Sherlock brought his arms up and hugged John in a cautious manner, so as to not frighten him into regression.
John's body shook with the ferocity of his release as he sobbed his way through the memories and pain of his time in Afghanistan. He eventually slipped off of his chair and into the lap of Sherlock Holmes where he was held with the solid mass of the world's only consulting detective's arms.
No one spoke.
A couple hours later, John's eyes opened. Silver light shone through the curtains casting soft shadows around the apartment. A hand was on his bare chest and it was connected to a strong arm which held him flush against another bare chest. A small part of John's mind thought he should be worried about being in a position like this, but he felt an overwhelming sense of protection and care from the hand, arm, and chest.
"How did you sleep?" a deep voice asked from behind John. He recognized it as Sherlock's.
"Didn't realize I fell asleep..." John said.
"Well, you were sobbing and then you passed out on my shoulder."
Well that doesn't explain why we are missing shirts.
"Since my shirt was...wet...I removed it. Your shirt wasn't as soft as mine, so it had to go, too."
And that clears up the matter...
"You still haven't answered my question."
"Well, I slept well," John answered.
The hand on John's chest moved and covered his heart. "It's thumping very fast. Why is that John? It has been like that since you awoke."
John didn't have an answer. He didn't know why his heart was pounding.
"Either way, it doesn't matter as you seem to sleep peacefully when I hold you and I find I can cogitate well with you in my arms. Go back to bed, your wakeful mind makes me restless," Sherlock commanded.
And just like that, John's eyes began to shut.
Why do I always listen to him?