There are many reasons why he loved working with Sherlock, many reasons why he had nothing to say when Mycroft had stated that he wasn't broken by the war, that he missed it; most thought that it was for the adventure, that he was incapable of living a sedentary life after the tumult of war...
Well, those people would have been half right, at least.
While he is both doctor and soldier, friend and one of the people that Sherlock left behind, John is still not sure what emotion he should give in to... After all, they’ve had three years to grow in magnitude, hiding under the flimsy veneer of recovery and instead festering into a hidden wound that Sherlock's return had violently jarred open; it leaves him scrambling to try and salvage himself against the rot that is slowly creeping over him, overtaking all the healing he thought he had done in a desperate attempt to move past Sherlock's 'death'.
Shaking his head at the insanity of his life, John is just about to give into the wave of exhaustion that hits him and follow Sherlock into the blessed thoughtlessness of sleep when there is a knock at their flat door.
John immediately shifts himself to a sitting position, one hand on Sherlock's back to check that his breathing is regular and steady as he curses himself for not grabbing his gun earlier; he needs it now, needs it to keep Sherlock safe, and the other to brace himself on the sofa as he tries to figure out who it could be and how much of a threat they might pose.
Mycroft is his first thought, hopeful and a little defensive, but then the reality of Sherlock's wounds intrudes and the knowledge that the person that gave them to him might have followed him to Baker Street hits, giving him a decent amount of panic before the rational, Sherlock-sounding part of his brain interrupts with the logic that if someone was trying to finish his flatmate off, they wouldn't knock on the door.
It threw in a bored sounding “Obviously.” as well, because even when his thoughts decide to take on Sherlock's temperament and reasoning skills, they're judgmental arses...
A second round of knocking draws John out of his mental recollection, making him wonder just who it could be that they bothered to knock a second time; now that he had time to think about it, Mycroft didn't really seem a possibly for the simple reason that the berk would just wait until John left the room to pop in, probably remarking on the fact that John had picked up a new 'addition' for his sofa with that damn knowing smirk of his. Mrs. Hudson had her own key and rarely came round anyway, while John's list of friends that even know where he lives are few and far between, so who could-?
Well, I Came Home Part 3b/?
Well, those people would have been half right, at least.
While he is both doctor and soldier, friend and one of the people that Sherlock left behind, John is still not sure what emotion he should give in to... After all, they’ve had three years to grow in magnitude, hiding under the flimsy veneer of recovery and instead festering into a hidden wound that Sherlock's return had violently jarred open; it leaves him scrambling to try and salvage himself against the rot that is slowly creeping over him, overtaking all the healing he thought he had done in a desperate attempt to move past Sherlock's 'death'.
Shaking his head at the insanity of his life, John is just about to give into the wave of exhaustion that hits him and follow Sherlock into the blessed thoughtlessness of sleep when there is a knock at their flat door.
John immediately shifts himself to a sitting position, one hand on Sherlock's back to check that his breathing is regular and steady as he curses himself for not grabbing his gun earlier; he needs it now, needs it to keep Sherlock safe, and the other to brace himself on the sofa as he tries to figure out who it could be and how much of a threat they might pose.
Mycroft is his first thought, hopeful and a little defensive, but then the reality of Sherlock's wounds intrudes and the knowledge that the person that gave them to him might have followed him to Baker Street hits, giving him a decent amount of panic before the rational, Sherlock-sounding part of his brain interrupts with the logic that if someone was trying to finish his flatmate off, they wouldn't knock on the door.
It threw in a bored sounding “Obviously.” as well, because even when his thoughts decide to take on Sherlock's temperament and reasoning skills, they're judgmental arses...
A second round of knocking draws John out of his mental recollection, making him wonder just who it could be that they bothered to knock a second time; now that he had time to think about it, Mycroft didn't really seem a possibly for the simple reason that the berk would just wait until John left the room to pop in, probably remarking on the fact that John had picked up a new 'addition' for his sofa with that damn knowing smirk of his. Mrs. Hudson had her own key and rarely came round anyway, while John's list of friends that even know where he lives are few and far between, so who could-?