The Subscription (Johnlock)

November

Standing straight in his olive green dress uniform, John faced the tall cenotaph, trying to keep it together as the bugles played. On the final note of 'The Last Post', a tear escaped his eye and ran down his cheek.

As the ceremony carried on, with royalty, politicians and dignitaries laying wreaths on the base of the cenotaph, it all became a blur. He was jarred out of it when everything was over and the crowd was dispersing.

"We are heading to a pub for a drink. Do you want to come?", another man in uniform asked John. The brotherhood of soldiers.

Shaking his head, John fumbled for an excuse. "No, thanks, I...um..."

Patting his upper arm, the soldier gave him an understanding glance. "We'll be at the Old Shades if you change your mind later."

John walked slowly towards the tube station, finding it hard to focus on anything. His mind was a whirling mess of memories, emotions, and confusion. On autopilot, he somehow got on to the correct train, and found a seat.

At his station, he felt even more exhausted, climbing the stairs. It seemed wrong that it was such a sunny November day when he emerged on to the street. He felt blinded by it for a few moments, and when his vision cleared, Sherlock was standing close. Wearing his familiar long dark coat, a bright red poppy on the lapel.

"You...here...". John couldn't process what this meant, on top of everything else.

Sherlock's arm came around his waist, guiding him forward. "It's OK, John. I got you."

Ten minutes later, John was on his sofa under a blanket, with his boots, tie and jacket off, a couple buttons of his shirt undone. Sherlock made tea and brought over a tray, passing John a cup, and settling beside him with his own.

They sat quietly like that, sipping the tea, and eventually John started to feel the fuzziness easing from his thoughts. He was able to breathe easier.

"Did you go to the ceremony last year?" Sherlock finally asked softly.

John looked down at his cup. "No. I just wasn't...I couldn't..."

Nodding, Sherlock shifted closer, so his leg was against John's. "Why did you go this time?"

"My therapist, the army therapist..." John started, but found it hard to continue.

Putting their cups back down on the tray, Sherlock took John in his arms, not saying a word. Just holding him tight, firmly.

At first John stiffened at the contact, but as the hug went on, he relaxed into it, leaning into Sherlock's warmth. He let out a shuddering breath.

Eventually, they laid down on the sofa, pillows at one end propping them up a little. Sherlock was on his back, and John lying on his side between him and the back of the sofa, the blanket over them. Without more prompting from Sherlock, John just started talking. About the first days of training at Sandhurst, to settling into army life in Kandahar. The work, the friends he made. The first one of his friends wounded in action. The first one killed. The first soldier that died under his care. His injury. The PTSD. Everything, everything, everything.

He spoke until the words were out of his head, until his voice was scratchy. Although he had been going to a therapist over a year, he brought up many things he had never touched on with her. He felt exhausted, wrung out.

Sherlock had been quiet, his eyes showing that he was interested, listening. When there were breaks, he hadn't tried to fill them, letting the silence lie still between them, until more thoughts came to John, and he continued talking.