Former CPT, Dr. John H. Watson

The silence that followed was, in a word, intense. Heavy, long, and awkward. Sherlock’s shoulders relaxed again, letting go of his tenseness. It was edging on four in the morning. He thought, for just a moment, that he should get sleep. It refreshed the mind, and would allow Sherlock the chance to act as if nothing happened, his usual method of coping. His eyes flicked towards his bedroom door.

He turned once he believed the door to be shut and, for a moment, debated whether he should follow the other's example and get some rest now, or try and get some things done beforehand. In the end, a brief yawn chose the verdict for him and, rubbing at the back of his head with a sigh, John left the main room and entered his bedroom. He pushed the door behind him, though didn't bother to see if had shut or not before sitting down on the edge of his bed. Removing each shoe first, he eventually turned over onto his side and shut his eyes.

Sentiment is a chemical compound found on the losing side, he repeated to himself internally. His fingers curled under his hand, making a fist against the desk. He took another controlled breath, collected himself, and stood straight. In all his frustration, all his self-directed anger, he had forgotten to ask.

“Are you alright?”

He had to remind himself to think about it in different terms than he normally approached things. Sherlock was as passionate about his work as John had been as a field medic. Failure wasn't an option. Anything less than a perfect success was unacceptable, so when things went wrong, frustration and anger was only natural, even expected.

Sherlock's question drew John back to the night's previous events, and he unconsciously tapped the side of his leg once with a clenched fist, his arm hanging loosely at his side. After a moment of quiet, he nodded his head once.

He looked at John, then, staring stone-faced at the shorter man as the doctor began his angry tirade of an explanation. And no, Sebastian was certainly not “happy”. 

Upon being ordered to exit the tent, he instead stepped around John, intending to pick up the file from where it had landed on the cot. He’d take the file and ensure that Wood was discharged. It was a wonder a man with a chronic medical condition had been assigned to active duty in the first place. But now that Wood’s condition had fucked things up, compromised a mission and endangered the life of his sniping partner because he couldn’t contain his damned breathing, Sebastian would ensure he was removed. 

Figures, this would be the one time he couldn't listen to his own advice.

Turning to face the colonel, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded the man. "What good do you think reporting me is going to do, colonel? I've been stationed here for a long time, and never once has a complaint ever been raised about me. My record is clean, and I do my job better than anyone. You, on the other hand, had some issues at your old station, right? Suddenly you arrive and there's a complaint about me?" John scoffed. "Who do you think has a better chance of being believed?

More, he did, but it did not strike him as unusual until John spoke. To which, Sherlock waved the hand in front of his face with a quick scrunch of his face and muttered, “Fine, just fine.”

His hand was shaking. Very minutely, but as soon as he moved it, he had noticed. He reasoned out every possible cause, choosing instead to fix it by fumbling into a box of nicotine patches. It had been a full twelve hours at that point, so he convinced himself that must be what his body was begging him for. It went right on the inside of his wrist, and he gripped the edge of the desk, leaning on it for a moment.

For a brief moment John entertained the idea of stopping him, of reminding Sherlock how bad of a habit it was, but ended up not saying anything of it. Everything they'd gone through that night looked to be having more of an effect on the detective than John had previously believed, and he couldn't make himself scold Sherlock for returning to unsavory habits. Everyone had their way of comfort; perhaps this was Sherlock's. John would of course have a word with him about his dependency later, but for now he kept such thoughts to himself.

When his flatmate gripped the edge of the desk, John found himself a little more than concerned. Despite assurances to the contrary, he now most definitely did not believe that Sherlock was alright. Though John, being the 'idiot', as Sherlock called him, couldn't conjure another reason for Sherlock's discomfort other than the detective being disappointed he hadn't caught Moriarty when he'd planned to.

Somehow, Sherlock didn’t expect John to follow the advice. He knew John better than that by now. Leaning an arm on the counter, he scrolled through the different messages, commenting a short, “Boring,” at each one, except for the last, which got, “Obvious.”

Sherlock sighed and sat back, staring at the screen in his frustration for a moment before standing up again. “Call Lestrade in the morning. See what he has,” he said offhandedly, positive John was still there to listen. He paced into the living room, turned, and looked at his flatmate. Not for assurance that his demand had been heard. Not to make a new one. Not even to comment on the way John was dressed. He just stared.

He walked into the living room a moment to pick up Sherlock's dishes before returning to the kitchen to put them in the sink, listening to the detective scroll through the cases while commenting monotonously at them all. But it wasn't until he asked him to call Lestrade that John finally stopped what he was doing to give a short nod, returning to sit at his computer once Sherlock had gotten up.

Yet the work did not end when the mission did—there were prisoners to intake and secure. As Colonel, Sebastian’s role was significant, albeit primarily in directing, organizing, and giving orders, rather than direct involvement with the prisoners.  After several grueling hours, he delivered his report on the day’s proceedings to the Field Marshall, and was finally free.

Exiting the Field Marshall’s tent, he took a moment to take in the camp: night was already well underway; it was quiet, with most of the soldiers likely already in bed, but the embers of their fires still hung in the darkness, little dots of light around the camp. Kabul’s missions, as expected, were nothing like the excitement he’d been expelled from at Mazar-i-Shari. Still, here, in the silence, in the cold November desert wind, surrounded by a hostile, wild environment, Sebastian found a semblance of solace. One more mission, and his penance for excessive force would be complete, and he could return to the heat of battle.

Wood was a problem, however. Watson had insisted that Wood was the best, and the doctor seemed knowledgeable enough about the skill levels of his fellow officers. Sebastian had taken him at his word, with the almost deadly result of Wood endangering the entire mission and everyone involved. If Sebastian was going to let Wood anywhere remotely near him or the final mission, he’d require more information as to what the fuck happened today, and insurance that it wouldn’t happen again

It wasn't long however before John had walked the camp full circle, returning to his own station within the span of maybe half an hour or so. He'd expected an empty tent, a quiet space for the most part. Not Sebastian rooting around his medical files without permission. Frowning, John approached him in a brisk pace and practically ripped the folder from the colonel's grasp.

He didn't need to look at the name on the label to know who's file it was.

All at once, it stopped. Externally as well as internally. Sherlock hopped out of his chair, mind having moved on to the next thing. And it hadn’t even lasted the whole night! He walked over his chair—literally stepping up into it and over the back—to the table John kept a computer at. His hand went for the cover, but with a second thought, he cast a wary glance at John sitting in the kitchen. He then picked up the computer, unplugged it, and brought it over to John, setting it on the counter and opening it for his flatmate.

More irritating than the feeling of uselessness was the realization that John had just allowed himself to wallow in self-pity, however short a period of time that had been. If he was so concerned with being of some use, then he figured it was best he do what Sherlock had asked. Starting up the computer, which took a few minutes, John pulled up the internet and opened up a tab with his blog. He figured at that at least that maybe Sherlock would stop staring over his shoulder and go sit down or pace...or whatever.

First thing that bothered Sherlock, was that he had been willing to kill the three of them together, to stop Moriarty. It had been brief, and Sherlock was certain Moriarty wouldn’t let him do it, but he had been ready to pull the trigger and blow the entire building to bits. Never before, even in his lowest of lows, had Sherlock considered taking his own life. And he would have taken John’s, too.

The second thing to come to Sherlock’s mind was that John had been so willing to give his life. It could have just been the war hero in his flatmate, but Sherlock was vexed at the idea that anyone would willingly give that much for him, or at least for his case. No one ever showed that level of loyalty to Sherlock’s work—other than himself—before tonight.

Lastly, while it came as little surprise, Sherlock still disliked how quickly Moriarty was to leave the scene from a phone call. What could possibly be so important that a master criminal would give up the chance to toy with a master detective, as that seemed to be Moriarty’s entire goal? A better offer, clearly. There was no trail, though. Nothing to follow, nothing to get a step ahead of Moriarty anymore. There was no more case.

No more case meant an oncoming wave of boredom. Sure, Sherlock could exhaust hours devoting himself to looking for nonexistent clues as to Moriarty’s change of heart, but there would be no point. He shouldn’t dwell longer than a night on it, or it would cloud his thoughts. He allowed himself time to stew on it now, but after sunrise, he would be moving on to the next thing that demanded his attention, so as not to waste his potential on nonexistent evidence.

Sherlock had become angry at himself, seeing his errors after the fact, seeing what he should have seen from the very beginning. Anger that he had let John leave the flat at all, knowing Moriarty was likely to do exactly what he had done. So angry, that when John mentioned food, he quipped a short, “Not hungry.”

As he ate, poking absently at the food on his plate, John couldn't help but linger on the intense feelings he'd experienced at the pool side. By nature, John was a fiercely loyal person, something he'd no doubt picked up from his days as an army doctor. And though he hardly knew Sherlock, he still somehow had found it rather easy to put his life in the detective's hands. It had also come as a bit of a shock at how quick he was to toss away his life for what he considered to be the greater good. He'd forgotten those virtues of himself.

Normally John would have insisted on some sort of conversation, but for once he was rather grateful for the lingering silence that remained between himself and Sherlock. With nothing to say, he for once saw no point in what he knew his flatmate would consider idle chatter. And besides, whatever had gone on inside Moriarty and Sherlock's minds was obviously above what John would be able to understand. He'd hardly even begun to understand Sherlock, let alone the madman who seemed so fixated on him.