Somewhere in the French countryside, two men were huddled together, each clutching the other’s hand to the point of pain, but neither willing to relinquish their hold on the other.
Ordinarily this would have been cause for strange looks, reprimands, and possibly even dismissal from their posts, but as water poured down from the heavens, erasing any semblance of dryness or not muddiness from the company's minds, and the shells rained down around them, each man was far more concerned with saving himself.
As the First World war raged around them, John and Sherlock held each other, needing the continued reassurance that the other was still there.
Before long the captain of their battalion was passing through, preparing the troupes for the German attack that would surely follow soon. Even as they stood to attention, rifles at the ready, their shoulders were pressed together.
The hail of enemy fire calmed, and as the soldiers of their regiment readied themselves to go over the top, the two men shared one final look, never able to share what could always be their final kiss.