Disclaimer: I, sadly, do not own BBC Sherlock, or the characters, nor will I ever, because I'm not clever enough to think of a way to steal it from Moffat and Gatiss. I also don't own the original Sherlock Holmes stories or characters, nor will I ever, because Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is dead, and it's just plain rude to steal from a dead guy.

A/N: Normally I put these at the bottom-do I? Maybe both I don't know- but I don't want to interrupt the ending with my obnoxious author's note. Anyway, this story is based very loosely off of the song Soldier by Ingrid Michaelson, but only very loosely. I had a different idea in mind when I first sat down to write it, but I'm sure we all know how it feels when a story just writes itself.

"John, why don't you ever talk about the war?" Sherlock said one night when they were laying in John's bed. It was just after midnight, and the room was black, but Sherlock knew that John was awake. (Breathing patterns and quick pulse, obviously indicating wakefulness.)

"What?" John asked, even though he had heard the question perfectly clear. Sherlock, knowing this, didn't say anything, just waited in silence.

John sighed. "Isn't it a little late for this conversation, Sherlock?"

"It's not like you were sleeping," Sherlock scoffed. He rolled onto his side to study John, who was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Judging by the way John was very pointedly ignoring Sherlock's gaze, and the tension in the muscles in his neck and arms, Sherlock could tell that he was uncomfortable with the conversation.

Sherlock reached out and lightly touched John's bare chest- John flinched, which didn't escape Sherlock's notice, but he chose to ignore it. "You know you can talk to me about anything, John."

John nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"Find anything interesting up there?" Sherlock asked.

A smile flitted across John's face, and he finally turned his head to look at Sherlock. Their eyes met in the darkness, and Sherlock studied John's face again.

John looked away with another sigh. "God, quit doing that, Sherlock."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "Doing what?"

John waved a hand in Sherlock's direction, eyes back on the ceiling. "Deducing me, Sherlock. Quit deducing me. Just be normal for a few seconds."

That stunned Sherlock into silence for a moment or two, and John glanced at him in shock.

"What?" Sherlock huffed after a few seconds.

"When was the last time you were silent, and fully conscious, at the same time?"

At that, Sherlock grinned, earning a grin back from John. They stayed in silence for another moment, until John spoke, avoiding Sherlock's eyes, but at least not looking at the ceiling.

"There was, uh-" he stopped and cleared his throat, then continued. "There was one day that we- a few other army doctors and I- were on the move, heading to where a bunch of our troops had been nearly blown to smithereens in a surprise land mine. There were, of course, a few men we couldn't save-" At this, John paused, taking a deep breath. Sherlock gave a small reassuring smile, and John rolled onto his side and continued. "But we were sent over to help out with whatever we could with the rest of the injured men. We were in one of the Humvees when- when there was an explosion. The first Humvee in the line had been blown up, and then suddenly, the second one went too. I was in the fourth car, and it wasn't until the third one blew up that I realised I needed to get out and run for my life."

John took another deep breath, and paused for longer this time. Sherlock could see in John's eyes that he was reliving that day, and he reached out to take John's hand, giving it a light squeeze to pull him back to reality. John squeezed back and intertwined their fingers, then spoke again, voice quieter than before.

"I pushed myself out of the Humvee and ran, as fast as I could. I left the others behind, and I ran. I know a few of them followed, but they weren't fast enough. The fourth Humvee exploded, and then I blacked out for I don't know how long. When I woke up, there were only a few troops still alive, the ones who, like me, had run fast enough. But I- I lost all- all of my friends that day." His voice broke and he coughed to clear his throat again. Sherlock lightly squeezed his hand again, but John was too far gone in his memory this time. His eyes were distant and pained.

Sherlock pulled John into an embrace, fingers splaying across John's bare back. John melted into Sherlock's arms, burying his head into Sherlock's neck.

They lay like that for a while until Sherlock pulled back to look John in the eyes. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry I made you relive that. I- I didn't realise that it would have been that bad. I'm sorry." He said very seriously.

A small smile played at the corner of John's lips. "That's alright, Sherlock. You were curious. That's ok." And he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, who responded in kind.

John pulled away and rolled over, facing his back to Sherlock, but snuggling in close. Sherlock draped an arm around John's waist, grateful for his body warmth.

"Besides, I can handle looking back on it every now and then," John said,

Sherlock smiled. "That's my soldier."

"I was a doctor, Sherlock."

"I'm sure you had bad days."