Johnlock Oneshots

Memories (John)

     "Hey Sherlock, can you help me?" I reach for a heavy box. I cannot manage the weight.
     "Of course." Sherlock comes out to the moving truck and helps balance the weight out. As we walk up the stairs, I notice Sherlock staring at my flexed arms carrying the box. I wear a t-shirt so it's no use to cover up. I let out a forced scoff.
     "Sherlock..." I snap him back into himself. He has trouble, but ends up peeling his gaze from my arms to my face.
I decided it was easier just to move into Sherlock's flat at this point. We spend so much time together it was already like living under one roof.
     "There's only two boxes left, would you like to grab one for me?" Sherlock nods and we both race down the stairs to get the remaining boxes. Of course I choose the heavier of the two and my arms flex back into their masculine form. I never quite lost my upper body strength after being in the army. I allow Sherlock to go first so he isn't distracted by my surprising sight of muscle.
     "Look at that John, light as a feather." Sherlock has no trouble with the box and walks easily up the stairs.
     "Yeah..." I grunt out of my teeth. What is in this box? Sherlock comes to help me.
     "I'm fine. Why don't you start unpacking some things for me, okay?" I reach the top of the stairs. Sherlock does as I told him to and begins to cut a small package laying on the couch.
     "Oh John..." Sherlock laughs. I turn around to see Sherlock holding up a pair of my underpants. My face heats up and I sweat. Sherlock doesn't continue to make a fuss about the underpants, instead he throws them back into the box and moves on to the one he most recently moved.
     "John, you have a scrapbook? What would you possibly use it for?" Sherlock questions.
     "Open it if you like." I try to hide the terror in my voice and in my body. I do not want to be reminded of the days in warfare, not now, not with Sherlock. From behind me I can hear the flips of the dusty old pages that I tucked away centuries ago, purposely forgotten and to never be reminded of for a long time.
     "You must have been brave." He whispers. Brave, yes, very brave.
     "Who is this man?" He walks and crouches down next to me and points. My face goes numb and I sweat at the sight of the memory. I walk away and shake, being reminded of him digs a bigger hole in my heart.
     "John?" Sherlock impatiently huffs.
     "He was my..." I choke up and find that I cannot finish one simple sentence.
     "...friend." I finish.
"He died in my arms. I tried, but..." it's pointless at this point to have Sherlock try to listen to my mumbled woods.
"I'm sorry John, I didn't know any better. Is there anything I can do?" Sherlock holds John's face in his hands. John pulls away and walks into the kitchen. Soon after, his baby duck followed. Sherlock sees the wounded soldier leaning over the kitchen counter with a cup in his hands.
"Hey, come here." Sherlock embraces John with a hug. John holds on tight and refuses to let go.
"Sorry." John whispers.
"It's quite alright." They continued to hold each other for a long time, and when the time came to break, Sherlock knew his first intention. He races to the living room and grabs the scrapbook, then shoves it away deep into the closet.
My soldier can no longer be wounded. Sherlock thought.