So many people expect the doctor vent off his anger to Sherlock with a few punches. Would the detective be the only one that the doctor threw his punches?

A short drabble (my first-ever drabble) on the reunion. Comments are very welcome. Thank you for reading.

John started to run. He could hear someone calling his name but didn't care. His breathing got heavier quickly, the result of neglecting to exercise in the past few years. Since the fall, the doctor had no need to run around the complex of alleys lacing London anymore. Sweat beaded on his face. His eyes burned. He ignored the cramps in his stomach. The bitter taste of disloyalty lingering in his mouth was all that occupied him at that moment.

Three years… He'd been left completely in the dark, trying to keep himself from breaking down while he thought he was dead.

The worst day was when his detective friend jumped, right in front of his eyes. He had witnessed many brutal deaths in Afghanistan, but never a suicide in his unit. Heading back to Bart's, John desperately sought God, an activity he had stopped doing entirely since his best friend in the army died in a roadside bombing. Trying to ignore the tight knot in his stomach, he swore he would do anything if Sherlock was okay. His mobile rang when he got out of the cab. That last phone call could've undone the doctor even if he hadn't seen the bloody lifeless body of his friend on the pavement seconds later. Everything had felt so unreal. He remembered nothing of the funeral. The only recollection was Sherlock's broken mobile found on the rooftop. Lestrade showed Sherlock's cracked iPhone as evidence to him and Mycroft days after the funeral. The screen seemed to represent John's world: shattered into pieces.

The second-worst day in his life was when he got a rejection letter from the army a year later. He was rendered useless again. His only family, Harry, relapsed and stayed distant. His best friend died in a disgraceful suicide. The army didn't want him anymore. Mycroft was unbearable. The other "friends" invoked too many painful memories. John Watson was a broken man before Mike Stamford referred him to a small practice in his neighborhood. The practice and the weekly visit to the grave of his friend... These were the only interactions with the world for the doctor in seclusion. It was only a year ago that he started to answer the calls or send texts back to Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, or Greg Lestrade.

Panting, John opened the door, ignored screams of people, and finally found him. The man stood up, almost petrified at the roiling emotions emanating from John. The doctor could hear a scurry of footsteps behind him. They were too late. John's hands balled into fists and then…a straight punch on the man's face, and then another... The man staggered down on the floor. Soon drops of blood fell on his face, clothes, and the floor. A rusty smell filled the air. The man's eyes met the doctor's. One set of eyes held betrayal, rage, and distrust while the other set showed nothing but a mixture of amusement and resignation. The man took out his handkerchief, but it was soaked through seconds later. A woman ran into the room and helped the man sit down. Then she whisked herself out to get some ice.

Someone stopped right behind the doctor. That man's lips were already bruised and swollen; a couple of red marks on his face would turn black and blue the next day. John could hear a mumble that sounded like his name from the man standing behind him. The doctor's shoulders flinched when he registered the baritone voice.

In silence John turned around, took a deep breath, and headed out without a glance at the room. Someone in uniform tried to stop him, but the man on the chair gestured to let the doctor go. The woman scurried back with a tray of ice cubes and gauzes. She asked cautiously,

"Do you need to see a doctor, sir?"

"No, I don't think so. Thanks for the ice, Anthea."

The man answered and gestured the other man to sit down. The other man slumped on the next chair. Their eyes met. Instantly the two bruised men burst into low chuckles. The brothers applied ice packs to their swollen faces.

"It could've been worse, Sherlock."

Mycroft said.

"That's John Watson."

His brother agreed.