The burst of an AK47. The sun's rays on his skin. The burning air coming and circling in his lungs. His comrades in arms. Pain. Shoutings. Pain. Sand. Pain.

"WATSON"

John Watson jerked upright, panting, completely awake. The war. He had to— He had to help… A few blinks chased the white fog that was clouding his vision. The outlines of a room started to appear at the corner of his eyes. A room… His room, in London. His breath still ragged, John fell back on his pillow, an arm over his forehead, a hand on his belly. He could't stop the exasperated sight that escaped him as he did so.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Like he had learned to do. The air was noisily entering and exiting between his lips. Keep your thoughts away. Don't let them take you into the abyss. His jaw clenched. His breath was still ragged. The memories wouldn't leave him alone. Despite his efforts to calm down, a sob escaped. Will he ever be free? Will his torments, his demons, ever give him peace? His stomach clutched. His throat tightened. The face of all the people he had met, whether they had been fellow soldiers, civilians or even enemies flashed before his eyes. He had been home for quite a long time now, and it looked like nothing was going better. He exhaled noisily again, despaired. The small voice in his head wondered if he'll ever be all right again.

He wasn't going to sleep again this night. That was for sure. Shaking, John stood up and made his bed, military way. The usual movements made him calm down as always. It was his ritual. His way to come back to the real world after a nightmare.

Once his task down, he sat, his back straight and his hands between his knees to keep them warm — and to keep them from shaking. There was nothing else to do than wait. The night was still darkening the sky behind the pale curtains. John looked outside, longing for the days when he was still able to sleep more then three or four hours per night.

Despite the calming exercices, and even though they were less vivid then minutes before, the memories were still on the corner of his thoughts. Breath. That was the only thing that mattered. Breath until the next day comes, and repeat the same routine over and over again. Always.

The sun finally came out, and with him, the same old routine. First of all, breakfast. Nothing special. An apple and a cup of coffee or tea would usually do the trick. That's what John was having on the morning our story truly begins.

The room didn't have anything special either. It was monotonous, badly lit and poorly furnished, with only the bare minimum. A one-person bed near a small heater — probably to give an impression of companionship and to chase loneliness — a lamp, a night-table, a few books and a desk.

Nothing unordinary. Just like John, a short man in his forties no one would look at twice. Even his clothes were impersonal. A whitish sweater and black pants.

A medical walking stick in one hand, John put the apple and the medical mug with the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps he was holding on the desk. Once comfortably seated in his chair and the stick placed aside, he opened the first drawer and took out his red laptop. He didn't spare a glance at the hidden gun beneath it.

As the website charged, John clasped his hands under his chin and tried to think. When "The Personal Blog of John Watson" finally opened, he still had no idea as to what he could write.

"How's your blog going?" John's therapist asked. Ella Thompson was a nice looking black woman, all dressed in pink and happy colours to make you feel good. Her office was confortable as well. Wide, luminous, colourful. John gulped and fidgeted with his hands, the memory of this morning's unsuccessful writing session fresh in his mind.

"Yeah, good," he answered nonetheless. He cleared his throat. "Very good," he even added with a deep breath.

"You haven't wrote a word, have you?" She wasn't oblivious, of course. John pinched his lips and looked down at her notebook to avoid answering. Though, if he was honest with himself, he was also slightly worried as to what she could be writing on it.

"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'," he noticed.

"And you read my writing upside-down," she confirmed, pointing at him with her pen. "You see what I mean." John's mouth twitched. He couldn't help but play nervously with his hands as she kept taking. "John, you're a soldier. It's gonna take you a while to adjust to a civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John believed her. Good lord, he did. But there was one tiny problem Ella wasn't seeing and yet, was at the center of everything. One problem that John had turned over and over in his during restless nights until he eventually accept it. It was just the way things was.

"Nothing happens to me," he stated.