John woke gasping, with tears in his eyes, from one of his war-dreams. His therapist called them nightmares, but John knew that wasn't the right word. They were fantasies. He would never admit that to his therapist, he tried not to admit it to himself. He was ashamed for how he felt; he had seen friends and enemies alike ripped to pieces by shrapnel, he had worked day and night to save his countrymen, even when he knew they were past saving. He had seen people do horrible things to each other, fighting a war that wasn't really theirs, but he had been someone important, someone trusted and needed. He had found his identity in Afghanistan but who was he now? Back in London, he was just another one of the crowd.
He sat up, breathing hard and wondered what his day would hold. He opened his laptop, still showing his empty blog. It had been a while and he still hadn't posted anything; he didn't want to write about what he had eaten for breakfast, or whether or not it had rained. No one cared about that stuff, least of all him. He had been important, he had done something great. But now, he was just…existing. Waiting to die?
John had a sudden urge to get out of his small flat. Maybe just being outside would do him some good. He was skeptical but it seemed a better idea than doing nothing. Plus he wanted to exercise his leg. He wasn't going to let him limp beat him.
He made his way to the park but thoughts still swirled through his head; memories, dreams, fears. The sun couldn't burn those away apparently. His therapist had told him that things would get better, that he would eventually adjust to civilian life. But what if he didn't want to?
"John? John Watson?" A voice behind him called out.
John didn't turn. He had recognized the voice at once: Mike Stamford. An old classmate from St. Bart's. John wouldn't have considered him a good friend, but they had certainly gotten along. John did remember that Stamford was known for being a bit of a busybody. Harmless enough, and never cruel, but John just wasn't in the mood to reminisce upon a time when he wasn't ashamed of his thoughts and wishes and he was innocent and the war was just a distant maybe on the horizon.
He kept on walking, ignoring Stamford who turned away after moment, thinking he must have made a mistake. John didn't even know where he was going, but he felt that as long as he kept walking, something was bound to happen. The tapping of his cane on the ground lulled him into a steady rhythm, but his mind was still disordered, out of control.
He found himself back at his flat, where he collapsed on the bed and dreamed, one again, of his men calling for him. Nurses obeying his every command. No time to think, only do. The shock of bombs and the sounds of bullets whizzing around him. No time to think, only do. Fantasies that taunted him with their impossibility, becoming sweet nightmares. The air thick with the smoke and flies and decaying flesh and the cries of the dying. No time to think, only do.
John strode to his desk and yanked open the top drawer. He didn't know why he had chosen to keep his pistol there. No time to think, only do. He picked it up, knowing it was loaded by the weight. He started to wonder if he should leave a note. Who would read it? No time to think, only do. It was like a mantra, one more thought to add to the hurricane in his head. He laid back down on his bed, put the gun to his temple. It was cold and sent a shiver down his spine. No time to think, only do. John pulled the trigger. No more time for thinking.
Sherlock Holmes heard about the suicide of an army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan on the evening news that was playing in the background as he worked on a new experiment. It meant nothing to him and he promptly forgot about it. There were more important things to be thought about.