A gunshot rang out through the sticky silence, echoing off the low wall John had been crouching behind. For a moment, he felt nothing until he looked at his shoulder. Red was leaking out through the hole in his flesh, staining his khaki uniform a deep mix between brown and scarlet. He let out a small cry and fell to his knees, one hand pressed against the wound. "I've been hit" he managed to grunt into his radio through the haze of pain; the blood flowing so thick and fast it was starting to make his head spin. "I repeat I've been hit!" He bit his lip to suppress a scream of terror and agony. He lay there for what felt like an age as all around him his comrades fired; the heady boom of distant artillery fire suddenly sounding so much louder. Snatches of shouted orders reached his ears through the dulling roar of the blood pounding in his head. Orders he should be shouting; someone had taken over for him he realised.
After what seemed like years, he felt hands on his arm pulling him to his feet, his legs being half dragged along the dirt ground as he tried feebly to run; the pain blinding him to all but the crimson pooling out between his fingers.
"Watson! Stay with us; you're going to be just fine" A voice he could hardly recognise called into his ear, shouting over the familiar chopping, rapid thud-thud-thud of turning rotors and the whining of engines that made up the sound of a helicopter coming down to pick them up. He felt himself being pulled up into the open belly of the chopper and let out a feeble moan, eyes pressed tightly closed to avoid the grit getting in. Someone jumped up next to him and gave a shout of confirmation. He felt the jolt as the helicopter lifted again and rose up into the deep, empty blue sky.
"Hush, you're going to be okay, Watson. You're a fighter. You're our captain." The voce sounded familiar now. John opened his eyes a crack to see the familiar ice blue eyes set in a tanned face and almost white-blonde, sunbleached hair that belonged to Moran.
"Morphine…in my bag…please." he half gasped between fluttering pants and a sharp sting in his arm signalled the arrival of the drugs. He let his body relax and unconsciousness overtook him, sucking him down into darkness.
London. John limped along as a slow, clinging drizzle trickled from the sky, a dull ache settling itself in his shoulder; it did that in the damp sometimes. A grey overcast sky hung over rain glossed streets and even greyer high rise buildings, the distant rumbling roar of traffic a constant background noise. Somewhere lost in the clouds a passenger jet flew, the engines just a far-off, echoing whine lost in the sea of grey below which it sailed. Somewhere closer a siren sounded, more joining in as some sort of drama unfolded half a mile away. These were the sounds of the city; a track played on endless repeat day after day. London was never silent and John hated it. He yearned for the cloying desert heat of an Afghan summer, the sticky feel of rough material stuck to him by perspiration; the sure and steady feel of gritty dirt under his sturdy desert boots and the reassuring feel of an assault rifle slung across his back. He missed the dry banter between his comrades and the quiet nights with nothing but the stars above and the tedium of yet another patrol in the morning singing him to sleep.
"John!" A voice broke his daze, snapping him back to reality; back to the hard concrete beneath his feet and the thin parka, plaid shirt and old knitted jumper that had replaced his soldier's garb, the slow limping step and hunched back that had taken the place of his surefooted military march and strong, proud posture. "John? John Watson? Is that really you?" Mike Stamford came into view, a smile on his wide, friendly face. They had studied together at St Bart's. Mike was taller now, and fatter. He still spoke with the same slight accent and the smile was the same.
"Mike, hi" John forced a smile back and straightened himself a little.
"I didn't recognise you at first! I thought you were in a desert somewhere getting shot at, what happened?"
"I got shot." John shrugged, wincing.
Mike invited John for a pint and he agreed, and together they found themselves seated in the Criterion. They chatted amiably over their drinks, exchanging stories. Mike was now teaching at St Bart's, and had gotten married.
"Always the family man, eh?" John smiled, "there's me running around Afghanistan shooting people and charging headlong into danger, and you're getting yourself a family!"
Mike laughed and set his glass back on the table. "Oh I missed you, John. Where are you living?"
"In a flat not far from here. It's a bit of a shithole but I can't really do much better." He sighed. "Didn't think I'd miss sandbags and canvas tents but at least it was warm at night!"
Mike nodded emphatically "I think I could help, if you wouldn't mind having a flatmate."
John snorted wrinkled his nose. "Who would want me for a flatmate?"
"You're the second person to say that today!" Mike patted John on the back, smiling. "Don't you worry; I'll get everything sorted." They exchanged numbers and left The Criterion. Mike strode off back in the direction of St Bart's and John limped back to the place he called home.
His life was so normal now, so boring. Something out of the ordinary just had to come along to ruin it. John sat leaning on the rickety desk in his bedroom, knees under his chin and heels resting on the edge of the chair. His face was illuminated by the soft blue-white glow of his laptop. A half-cold mug of tea sat by the laptop, resting atop a book and a sheaf of papers. He stared at the empty blog page Ella had told him to make. 'Document your life' she had said, 'write about what you do, what you see.' He shook his head and slowly typed the words 'Nothing ever happens to me' he sighed and rolled his shoulders with a wince, staring at the flashing carat at the end of the sentence he had just typed. "Nothing ever happens to me" he read aloud, swallowing the painkillers he was still so dependent upon with another sigh. He could never have been more wrong.