John Watson was a doctor. He was an army doctor to be more specific. However, he had bad days. This was one of them.

He always knew that he wanted to be with the other soldiers on the front lines where he could take care of his armed family immediately rather than wait for them back at the medical tent where help may or may not be too late.

Tonight, John was assigned to a night raid in Afghanistan. It was supposed to be simple. Run in, shoot the enemy, secure the area. However, things didn't go as planned.

John could feel the sweat rolling down his face, but he ignored it. He focused on where his comrades were and kept an eye out for the enemy. He signaled for his team to stay where they were while he crept ahead.

A shadow moved on the opposite wall. There!

He leveled his gun at the shadow and was about to shoot when a man stepped out of the shadow dressed similarly to himself.

John lowered his gun in confusion as a second person stepped out and spoke in a quick whisper, "Aces! I thought we were the only ones assigned here, what's going on?"

The first man, who John figured must be Aces, replied in an agitated tone, "Obviously there's been a mix up, we'll continue as pla—" the sound of gunshots cut him off as second man fell.

"Aw shit!" John started firing towards where the first shot came from while all hell broke loose around him.

"Stay with me man!" Aces shouted. "Come on! You're gonna make it home! Leslie's waiting for you! Speak to me!"

John managed to turn around and signal to one of his men to follow him so he could move forward quickly while his man covered him. He was trying to get to the man on the ground but before he made it the man named Aces got shot in the shoulder and fell to the ground limp.

"Dammit!" he finally got to the two men and leaned over them. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…" It was like a mantra John chanted while he checked Ace's pulse. Nothing. He checked the second man's pulse. Nothing. He was too late. He took only the briefest moment to calm his breathing before he stood up and rejoined his and Ace's men in the fighting.

It ended rather quickly. They had the clear advantage as two teams unexpectedly faced off against the enemy. After seeing how outnumbered they were, a majority of them panicked and ended up throwing themselves into plain sight where they were sitting ducks.

When it was all done, the morning light was streaming across the sand. John's team followed Ace's team to their tent to give their condolences, as the only casualties were the two John had witnessed, and also to officially let them know his team was stationed there as well.

His team ended up staying there for a while and they ate what was actually a fairly good breakfast by military standard.

John was about to take a bit of his apple when a glint in the sand caught his eye.

"Hey, be right back," John said to the bunch, not sure if they heard him anyways as they laughed over a joke one of them had said.

Walking over to the glint, he realized that the glint was actually a picture. He bent over, picked up the picture, and spit on it to clear the sand. Upon cleaning it, he found it was a picture of a rather handsome man. The man had brilliant black curls framing his face perfectly and showing off his high cheekbones. He wore a long black coat and a blue scarf. He almost had to laugh because the man's posture said 'this picture is so dumb' while his slight smile gave away the fact that the man was actually happy to be in the picture.

'I bet this man really loves whoever this picture belongs to,' John thought and flipped it over to look for a name. There wasn't any, but he could ask around to see who it belonged to.

He turned to walk back to the rest of the men, and that's when it happened. An explosion. It hit the camp in front of John so hard that it sent him flying back and knocked him unconscious.

..::..::..::..::..::..

John next awoke in a medical tent. He tried to open his eyes, but it hurt so he kept them shut.

"Doctor, I think Watson's waking up."

"Watson? Captain Watson?"

"Yes, sir. His eyes opened briefly."

John could hear the voices getting louder as the people who owned them got closer and all he wanted to do was tell them to shut the hell up because his ears were ringing and their talking was making it worse. He didn't of course, but the thought was there.

He once again tried to open his eyes and managed to keep them open this time.

"Watson, can you hear me?" He made an affirmative sound. "Good, can you feel this?" Another affirmative sound. The doctor continued with little tests as John got his wits about him.

When the tests were done the doctor began to tell him what had happened.

Bomb.

Camp destroyed.

Only survivor.

At the last one John put up his hand and opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Only… only survivor?"

"Yes, I'm sorry Captain."

John let it sink in and then remembered the picture. He pulled it out and stared at it.

"Who's that?" The doctor asked, probably more out of courtesy than actually wanting to know.

"Not sure, this… this picture…" John paused, "I picked this picture up off the ground," another pause. "It's why I was off camp."

The doctor smiled, "It seems you have yourself a guardian angel!"

John looked at the picture and thought again about how the man in the photo must really love the original owner. He furrowed his eyebrows and mumbled, "But he's not mine."

..::..::..::..::..::..

Just under a year passed since then and life went on. John got a new team and had survived many things he probably shouldn't have survived. Now he was driving through the desert, leading a line of vehicles to their next mission.

"Watson, I've just got one thing to say to you." Stamford, his new right hand man, said with a laugh.

"Yeah, what's that?"

"I'm only alive 'cause I followed your crazy arse!"

John laughed and even though he was currently driving, pulled out the picture he found, "It's because of this guy right here, Stamford!" He held up the picture, kissed it, then put it back in his pocket.

"I'm telling you, Watson, you need to find him when you get out!"

John had thought about this himself quite a bit lately. At first, he tried very hard to find the owner of the picture, but no one seemed to know. He had to be logical, the owner most likely died in the explosion. With that in mind he at least thought he should return the picture to the one who was in it.

"Yeah, you think so?" He smiled a bit to himself, wondering what the man would be like if they met. Would he be playful? Smart? Mean? Nice? The possibilities were truly endless. Going by how he tried to hide his smile from the photographer, he was probably stubborn, but not too stubborn to actually reject the photo, so that was something. But beyond that there was nothing. John really wanted to meet him and find out who he was.

"Yeah I think so! I might even come with you and give him a kiss for keeping me alive by extension!" Stamford laughed. John liked his laugh because it was one of those big, hearty laughs that made you feel that it really was all happy-go-lucky and took you away from the war for a moment.

John couldn't help but laugh, too, "I bet that would give him a shock!"

"Who knows, maybe he swings that way!" Stamford gave another laugh as he pulled on his goggles and jumped up through the sunroof to sit on the roof and set up his gun to keep on look out for any enemies.

They rode in silence for a bit until they saw a dilapidated building coming up on their right, "You got eyes on that, Stamford?" John called.

A beat passed and John knew something was wrong. "Stamford?" John called again. He hit a bump in the road and there was a loud thunk as Stamford fell back into the vehicle, lifeless.

"Shit!" John jerked the wheel and the vehicle slid in the sand, fishtailing a bit before John got it under control.

John took another look at Stamford. There was a very clear hole in his temple that blood was dripping out of.

'Sniper!' John thought frantically and started to do an evasive maneuver, which caused Stamford to fall onto his lap, his head hitting his right leg, at the same time as a bullet hit him.

He couldn't tell where the pain was coming from. He could tell there was pressure on his leg but there was a burning pain shooting through his arm and chest. His entire body jerked and his vehicle spun out.

Someone in one of the cars behind them must've taken out the sniper because he could hear his team yelling things like "Area secure!" and "Threat terminated!" With that thought he blacked out for the second time in his military career.

..::..::..::..::..::..

John was now in the London airport.

He had been informed that his injury left him unfit for service and that he had a tremor in his left hand that meant he could no longer be used as a doctor as they were often required to do surgery.

In a matter of seconds he had lost his best friend and his meaning for living.

On top of that he had a limp that left him unable to drive, even though the bullet had been to his left shoulder.

And now his sister was late to pick him up.

Perfect.

He thumbed at the corner of the picture in his pocket.

This was all he had left, an anonymous man in a photo. If nothing else he was going to find this man. He might even kiss him in honor of Stamford.

"Johnny!" he recognized the voice of his sister and stood up from the bench he'd been sitting on.

"Harry!" John responded and staggered a bit on his cane as his sister hugged him.

"Oh, Johnny, it's so good to see ya! Dad's really missed you and Mom's about talked my ear off with how much she's been worrying. And oh my god that cane looks horrendous! I thought you were shot in the shoulder? You need to get yourself a better-looking cane! Do you still have bandages around your chest? OH! You should spray paint it like a glittery silver and strut around like you're hot stuff. Does your shoulder still hur—"

"Harry! Yes, yes, I'm fine. I've still got bandages and I'm not painting my cane. It's good to see you."

"Oh, I've still got the cab running! Let's catch it!" Harry exclaimed and ran off leaving John behind.

John shook his head and laughed a bit. 'Good ole Harry' he thought and picked up his suitcase to follow. He was really just happy she hadn't shown up to the airport drunk. According to his mother, Clara and her had just broken up and he all but expected her to try and drink away her troubles.

When John got in the cab, a phone was pushed in his face. John blinked at it, and then when Harry didn't take it away, he grabbed it. "Harry, you really didn't need to get me a phone."

"I didn't get you a phone, I'm giving you my old one because that one's trash."

John looked at it in confusion. It wasn't trashed at all; it was just a couple months old and didn't even have a cracked screen. He pressed the button and it still turned on so he didn't see what the problem was.

"Oh it's not actually trash, I mean that the engraving on the back makes it trash and therefore I don't want it."

He flipped the phone over and saw the engraving Harry Watson, From Clara, XXX. "Harry, are you ok?"

"Of course I'm ok! Don't worry about me baby brother everything's just fine. She wasn't good for me anyway!" Harry assured him.

This, of course, John knew was a lie because Clara had been with Harry for two years and in that time managed to get Harry clean from drugs and out of her alcohol addiction. He wasn't about to voice this, though, and he definitely wasn't about to ask why they broke up but he figured it was probably his sister's fault.

The rest of the cab ride, Harry was content to talk and catch John up on what was happening in the real world while John basically zoned out.

John was staying at Harry's flat, a nice place in a small town a couple hours away from London, while he looked for a proper flatmate.

It didn't work out very well.

The first night John was there, Harry was playing some video game while he was making dinner. The game apparently required shooting and it made him momentarily forget where he was as the pot of spaghetti crashed to the floor. The sound of the pot must've made Harry realize something was wrong because the game turned off and she went to the kitchen to find him on the floor hyperventilating.

The next morning Harry had fixed him breakfast and she was so excited she decided to jump on his bed to wake him up. John thought he was under attack and managed to pin Harry to his bed with his hand around her neck before he fully woke up and realized what he was doing.

Harry was trying to help, she really was. She even tried researching ways to cope with PTSD. She got really enthusiastic about one coping method that said writing about that happens to you helps so she set up a blog for him, to which John politely but adamantly declined.

One afternoon, while Harry was out shopping, John just sat and stared at the picture he found. He rubbed his thumb over it as he had done so many times before. This time, however, he looked at it and he realized something. He had seen the building the man was standing in front of.

He had actually seen this building on the drive from the airport to Harry's flat!

He thought about it really hard. There had been something that had caught his eye about the building, a reason why he had registered it in his memory.

Police cars!

This was New Scotland Yard!

Yes, this was it! He knew how to find this man!

He packed his suitcase up. He didn't have much in the first place so he just repacked it all and headed for the door. Then he stopped short, remembering that he couldn't just ditch Harry.

He quickly grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. He didn't want to be specific, if Harry knew he had gone to London she would chase after him and yell at him for going to London without her. If he were too vague, though, she would be worried. He thought about it for a second longer and finally ended up writing:

There was someone who saved my life in the war.

I've gone to thank them. Text later. JW

With that he went outside, grabbed a cab, and was en route to Scotland Yard.

..::..::..::..::..::..

The cab pulled up to the curb, John paid him, then stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He realized that his mystery man standing in front of Scotland Yard might not be the best thing. He could be a convict for example. John shook his head. The man wouldn't be a convict, as he wasn't wearing handcuffs.

With that little panic over, John pulled out the picture, ran his thumb over it once more, and then stepped forward and into the building.

Upon entering, John scanned the room for someone who looked free. Most people were walking with a purpose, frantically looking through files, and/or talking urgently with others. Finally he caught sight of two people, a man and woman, who were leaning against a wall while drinking something. They seemed free, or at least freer than the others, so John decided to ask them.

He walked up to them and they instantly took on defensive postures as he approached.

"Can we help you?" The woman asked, seemingly agitated at her break being disturbed. He read her clip-on badge, Donovan.

"Yes. This man…" he showed her the picture, "Do you know him?"

Donovan looked at the man next to her, whose badge read Anderson, and visibly rolled her eyes, "Yes, what has the freak done to you?"

'Freak?' John thought before continuing, "Um, no. No, he hasn't done anything. I just need to find him."

"What, you have a case for him you don't think we are capable of solving?" This time the man spoke.

'Case?' "No, it's just rather important that I find him." If John could tell anything so far, it was that he wasn't a fan of these two. "Do you know where I could find him?"

"Lucky for you, I know his address by heart," Donovan spoke again. "Been there enough times on busts. 221B Baker Street."

"Yes, thank you. I'll be on my way now." John turned to walk away but Donovan cut in again.

"You're not his friend, he doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"Me? I'm… I'm nobody."

And with that he continued walking. He walked straight out, got a cab, and was on his way to Baker Street.

It occurred to him when he was literally at the door of 221B that he had absolutely no idea what he would say to the man.

'I found your picture, it saved my life, my friend wanted to kiss you, he's dead.'

He certainly couldn't say that, at least not the last part.

'I found your picture, it saved my life, thank you.'

Yes, that would work, thank you is good.

John took a steadying breath and rang the doorbell. Some time passed and John started to panic. 'What if he isn't home? What if the woman at the Yard lied to me? What if—'

But before his panic got too bad, an older lady answered the door, "Hello?"

John quickly pulled out the photo, "Does this man live here?"

The lady looked at it and then promptly pulled him inside, "Yes, yes, come in dear!" Then she yelled up the stairs that were inside the door, "Sherlock! It's for you!"

'Sherlock! His name is Sherlock!' John thought excitedly. He was finally getting somewhere!

There was no answer, but the lady didn't seem fazed, "Just head on up, dear. I'll bring up some tea. I'm Mrs. Hudson, by the way, the landlady."

"I'm John. John Watson." He replied and held out his hand. She shook it and then she was gone.

And with that he was left alone. He tightened his grip on his cane and made his way up the steps.

When he got to the top there was another door, however the door was slightly open already. "Hello?" he called and knocked lightly on the door. There was a crash from inside which prompted John to walk in, "Is everything alright?"

"No, no, NO!" he heard a man shout from what looked to be the kitchen. John limped quickly into the kitchen and looked around.

The man, Sherlock he presumed, was sitting at a table covered in papers and a petri dish that had some substance in it that Sherlock was cutting with a scalpel. John mumbled more to himself than anything, "Wish I had one as sharp as that over there."

The floor around him was littered in dishes, which he assumed was the cause of the crashing sound he heard. John was about to open his mouth to speak again, but was cut off by the sound of Sherlock gasping.

A wide grin replaced the anger that was on his face moments before, "Yes! Of course! It all makes sense now. Could I borrow your phone? Mine's dead." He reached his hand out towards John without even looking up.

John was taken aback at first. The man didn't even acknowledge his presence until then and he demanded his phone? However, this was the man in the photograph, he could be assured by the dark curls, so he offered his phone up without questioning it.

As Sherlock was typing up whatever he was going to text, he nonchalantly asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Now John really was baffled, "…Afghanistan, sorry, how did you…?"

"Here you are," Sherlock had finished his text and was handing the phone back to John. John felt Sherlock's gaze upon him and was starting to feel uncomfortable when Sherlock suddenly said, "Do you mind the violin?"

"No, not really. I actually play the piano so…" John trailed off.

"Yes, right, of course. I play the violin while I'm thinking. Some days I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you?"

"What are you—?"

"I assume you're here because of the ad I put in the newspaper about needing a live-in nanny considering the way you keep thumbing at some sort of paper in your pocket and the fact that you are clearly just home from military service and looking for a new source of income. Potential flatmates, which we would be should you take the position, should know the worst about each other."

John cleared his throat, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"I think you'll fit the position rather nicely. Sorry, got to dash, got to pick up my son from school." He pulled on his coat, the same one he's wearing in the picture.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and you're hiring me to be your live-in-nanny? You don't know a thing about me, you don't even know my name."

Sherlock paused for only a moment before saying quickly, "I know you're an army doctor and I know you've been invalidated home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who's worried about you, but you don't want to stay with him long term because you don't approve of him, possibly because of his drinking more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that you've self-diagnosed your limp as psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?" He wrapped his scarf around his neck, again, the same one as in the photo. He was walking out when he suddenly turned around, "Also, your name is John Watson, I know because you told Mrs. Hudson when you walked in and my door was open. Afternoon." He winked and then he was gone, leaving a stunned John Watson behind.