I was promised to be shown the world, and save lives at the same time. "Just fix up the soldiers. Its good pay" It would make use of my degree in medicine, whilst doing something exciting, dangerous even. A good deal, right?

As soon as I signed up, I was in. I received some training in combat tactics and guns- just in case. The men, boys some of them, had our hair shaved, the women just had to make sure it was out of the way. We were around each other all the time, so we all became friends. There was nothing else to do.

We were told that we would be heroes. We'd have the medals and scars to prove it, to make everyone back home love us. We were patriotic: we were here for our Queen and our country! The two things more important than ourselves.

One day, me and my troops were on a mission. They were one man short, so I volunteered. The commander kicked in the door, and yelled his commands. There were children in the corner, terrified. But we got the man we came for, put a bag over his head, and dragged him from his home.

I was in charge of the prisoner's welfare; feeding him, making sure he was healthy… One day I went into his cell with his dinner. He was naked, covered in urine. My friends emerged from the shadows. "Come on John, it's good for him! He's a terrorist!" They said when I protested. I've never been good with peer pressure. They got their guns and beat him again, and again, and again.

But we were still heroes! We were just punishing him for his crimes! He got what he deserved, everyone agreed with us… The Queen would've been fine with it, that's all that matters.

One day, there was a battle by a school. A primary school. I was there because, of course, they needed everyone they could get. Towards the end, I saw someone walking through the smoke: a little girl. I asked, pleaded her to move, to get out of the way. But she didn't. I was ordered to fire. So I did.

The bullets ripped through the air, time slowed down. I saw blood mixed in with the sand. I run to her, my eyes nearly shut. She had a flag in her hand. I wept: it was white.

I couldn't be a hero; I'd killed an innocent, surrendering child. But no one cared. I have the scars, I received the medals, I am their hero. But now I'm home, and my country doesn't care whether I live or die here.

I can't stand it.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."