The Heroes Return
John Watson had always kept to himself. He had that right to not want to talk about his feelings or emotions. He didn't want to either. He didn't view this as a problem, but the psychiatrist definitely did. Ella's job was all about asking people to talk about their emotions. If she didn't, she'd be out of a job.
John refused. Not that anyone could make him talk about his PTSD or his shoulder he had been shot in and the possible nightmares he might be having about Afghanistan, courtesy to his PTSD.
Ella looked her patient up and down. The short cut dark blond hair, the cold hazel eyes, tanned complexion from the desert sun and, of course, the blank face. It showed nothing and gave nothing away.
"How are you coping with being back in London?" Ella asked this particular question for the umpteenth time in her short career.
"Fine," was the only response Ella ever seemed to receive. Sighing, she looked at her watch, just another fifty minutes to go. It was going to be a long day.
John left Ella's office feeling no different from when he had went in, as to be expected. No way was he going to talk about his feelings with a stranger, especially one as stuck-up as Ella. No way.
John's phone went off. He looked at it. The caller ID was his sisters. Swearing to himself, he answered.
"John," came a slurred voice from the other end. She had been drinking… again. And it was only the afternoon.
"Yes, Harry, it's John. What do you want?" John snapped.
"You wanna drink?"
"No, and you're only asking cause you've ran out of money… again."
This conversation continued until John couldn't take any more of his sisters whining, which was about two minutes.
Did that idiot not realise what she was doing by phoning him, him of all people, and trying to beg free drinks from him? Short answer- no. Harriet had always looked to her 'big' brother for help when he needed it, as if she were God or something and the world revolved around her. John knew there couldn't be a god, not with all suffering and death he had seen first-hand. No such thing and it certainly wouldn't be his sister.
John decided the best course of action was to turn off his phone and let his stupid drunk idiot of a sister leave a message if it was really important. He walked in the direction of his small flat which he could just afford on his army pension, hoping that tonight would be different.
But it wasn't.
John was dreaming. He was in his army uniform with all its bulletproof armour and padding. His weapon was in his hand. Nothing out of the unusual.
He saw a small boy ran past, the human part of him said he shouldn't shoot because it was a kid, after all, while the soldier part told him to be on alert. He watched a little longer before turning to join his comrades and continued the patrol in the hot desert sun.
That's when it hit. A 'bang' was heard and just seconds after, John was on the ground, his left shoulder screamed in agony. He felt as if he couldn't breathe. He tried taking deep breaths but all it seemed to do was cause more pain.
Machine guns started firing. The world went black.
John woke up, breathing heavily, sweat covering his body making his bed clothes cling to his body and a dull throbbing pain from both his right leg and left shoulder to remind him he'd just had that nightmare. Again. Damn his post-traumatic stress!
Doctors had explained it simply to him, as if he wasn't a Doctor as well. The high adrenaline levels stopped a part of his brain, which processed memories, from doing its job. Therefore, meaning he could have flashbacks or nightmares, depending on the time of day. He'd had plenty of nightmares. They were all the same since he had left Afghanistan. Either when he was shot or other deaths he had seen, witnessed or caused.
Who was he kidding? He signed up for the army knowing full well what that would involve. He couldn't change that. He didn't want to be a hero and, to him, he still wasn't a hero.
When he had come back, people had patted him on the back, told him how he was a brave so and so. How he was a hero. At first, he liked it but after being told this by people who had known him all of two seconds… he began to hate it. Really loathe it.
He was no hero. The real heroes were still in Afghanistan or Iraq, fighting every day to keep themselves alive and help keep the peace. They put their lives on the line. They put on an act that all was okay and that human emotions were useless in their situation. The training does that to you. The next day would be the same and the day after and so on. Until, eventually, you had a break down or were injured, or worse, killed in action.
John buried his face in his hands, breathing in deep breathes. He knew he was lucky but he was no hero. Never would and never at any point in his now miserable life. Sometimes he contemplated the gun sitting in the drawer but that was the coward's way out.
He wasn't a hero and he didn't want to be either.
A/N: This was edited from a short story I wrote for an exam last year that I was editing for my folio that's due in February. It had to based on the title and I had just really got into Sherlock at the time and had looked at PTSD in our PSE class, so I used the information in my story and got a fairly decent grade on it as well.
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