Yes, I know Watson did not actually own a bull pup. But I think that given his frame of mind after Afghanistan, he deserved a little companion. This is the story of how they meet.

I stood staring passively at the road in front of me. Cabs and private carriages all rolled past without a care in the world to the rugged looking fellow on the pavement. One ill planned step and I could be conveniently erased from the world and no one would notice. Being trampled to death by horses was not a heroic death; nor was it very creative and I quickly dismissed the idea from my mind. I had not struggled to live only to give up in a cowardly show of suicide.

Sighing heavily, I turned myself away from the curb and limped down the street. I had no where important to be; no appointments, or relatives to hurry me along. It was nothing but the sheer loathing of my solitary hotel room that kept me walking. During the day, I could occupy myself with random bits of entertainment. A walk in the park if my leg did not pain me terribly, or perhaps a game or two of poker at a cheap gentlemen's club was effective enough to pass the time. I smiled ruefully. My miserable gambling habit would be indulged no longer. I was a penniless man.

I was not yet brave enough to seek employment. While capable enough in my field, I did not want to deal with human interaction. I craved for companionship, but shuddered at the idea of large crowds. What an ironic state of being I had thrust myself into. And even if I managed to adapt once again to social life, my sleepless nights and constant fits were in no way acceptable in the working force.

Again, the thought of my hotel room came to mind. The dark nights with nothing but my horrifying nightmares of Afghanistan to keep me company filled my brain. The sun was beginning to set and the idea of being alone another evening sent me into panic. I began to feel another wave of hellish terror enter my mind.

Not here, I begged silently. Oh, please don't let it be now. But it was too late; altering course, I took a side street and wandered down a quiet lane in hopes of remaining unseen as another fit took hold.

The doctor called them panic attacks. A neurological problem of the brain due to the stress and traumatic encounters I had experienced while in the military. While his clinical and nonchalant diagnosis may have been seen as nothing to him; it was a living nightmare to me. Anxiety was normal. Fear was rational. Unsettled emotions were to be expected. Pure madness and flashbacks so vivid I could paint them were not.

My hands were shaking uncontrollably and I steadied myself against the wall; dropping my cane to the ground with a clatter. My breath came raggedly as I struggled to keep at bay the demons that haunted my existence. A gunshot so real I swear I could hear it echo down the alley shattered through my brain and I flinched as the images began to play.

A man; old enough to have seen the horrors of war but young enough to show the terror any person feels in a battle for survival. Running. He wasn't going to make it. I call to him; he doesn't hear and in one second, lays motionless on the hot desert sand.

Three men this time; hiding. The looks of shock as they are discovered. Gone.

A medical tent; hot. Blindingly white fabric against the browns and grays of the landscape. Cries, screams, prayers, curses, all being uttered as the stretchers come in one after another. How many will live? How many will die? How many have family at home? Mothers, father, wives, children?

I felt my legs go weak as the last image approached. Of all the things I had seen, of all the screams I had heard, this memory, this scar branded in my mind, was the worse.

It was a boy. Barely seventeen. He had forged his papers and run away from home to be a war hero. I watched with an almost otherworldly dread as my mind's eye wheeled in the gurney and I catch a glimpse of a face that I will never forget. It was his eyes that held me most: filled with fear and pain and a distrust of the world that hadn't been there before. I did my best to save him. I was holding his hand when he died.

I forced myself to breathe. Deep, shaky breaths that struggle through my chest and escape in smothered sobs. I felt my resolve fading and sink slowly to the ground in a pathetic heap. I was selfish in my misery. Why should I complain of life when those souls had unfairly lost their own?

It was dark before I could gather myself together. I searched for my cane and pulled myself slowly to me feet. The chill of the evening hurt my leg and it was several breathless seconds before I could balance precariously on my one good leg. Despite the cold, I did not want to return to my hotel room. At least out in the open I had a sense of escape.

I took a few stumbling steps as I tried to find a way around the bins and boxes stacked haphazardly in the alley. My foot connected to a hard surface and I cursed at the pain. Something cried out in surprise and I jumped nearly a foot in the air, despite my injured leg.

When nothing threatening appeared, I grew curious and peered cautiously around the crate. It was hard to make out in the dim light, but the sound was unmistakable. I felt both foolish for my fear and pleased at my discovery. It was a dog. Merely a pup really. Young and scrawny and completely filthy from its life on the streets.

I felt the first genuine smile since returning home spread across my face. The pup barked a warning at me and bared his fangs as I laughed.

"Tough fellow are you?"

I got another bark in response. It was the first conversation I'd had in weeks.

I was struck suddenly with a most absurd and foolish notion. But given my current circumstance, I cared little for rational thinking. Eager to learn more about this new acquaintance before I changed my mind, I spoke rapidly. "I don't suppose you'd like to come and dine with me this evening, would you? It will be a small affair. Bread and marmite and whatever else we can acquire. Simple really."

The pup looked surprised at my tone and he twitched his tail hesitantly.

"Splendid. I knew you wouldn't turn down such an invitation. Shall we go to my place?"

I was beginning to feel foolish for talking to an animal, but the idea of having at least someone to talk to was comforting, be them human or not.

Determining that returning to my hotel was the better option, I then begin to proceed on how to get the dog home. He stiffened when I moved to pick him up, and there was no way I would be able to balance a squirming pup and my injured frame at once. I didn't trust the dog to follow me. At least, not yet.

I was nearly ready to give up, new acquaintance or not, when I was struck with inspiration. I tied a piece of string I had found in the alley earlier to be used as a sort of leash around the dog's neck and tied that end to one of the large crates.

"There," I said proudly. "Now you can't get away. I'll be but ten minutes and then we can go to the hotel."

The dog yawned in a bored fashion and circled as if to lie down to sleep.

Paying his lack of excitement no heed, I hurried as fast as my limp would allow back to my hotel room and rummaged quickly through my dresser drawers. Crying out in triumph as I found what I was looking for, I again made the walk down to the alleyway.

The dog was sleeping when I arrived, but raised his head as I tugged at the leash.

"C'mon, boy." I entreated gently as I scoped him up. He was lighter than I had expected and docile as I helped him gently into my medical bag. It was a Gladstone medical bag, one that a friend had given me before I left for the military as a sort of going away present. I hadn't used it during my service, being provided with a military ordered kit, but the bag came into use now.

I tested my weight carefully as I rose with my delicate load. The dog seemed to like the confined space and stuck his head out the top with a panting smile. We must have looked an odd pair, the dog and I. Thankfully, it was full dark and no one paid us much attention as we walked along.

It appeared that my world was not to be lonely much longer.