Psycho-boring disclaimer alert: If I owned Benedict Cumberbatch, Rupert Graves or Andrew Scott, the world would know. Trust.

A Study in Hot Pink.

Nightmares and Elle the Therapist.

The burning sun was beating down onto her, beads of sweat forming on her forehead and the back of her neck that trickled down her skin to follow the arched crevice of her spine running down her back. The air was harsh and dry, burning her lungs and making her golden brown eyes water in surrender as her armour began to stick to her flesh as she became more and more over-heated.

Then she was running. Running and running and running. Tripping through the undergrowth, only to be hauled back up by her arm to her feet and being barked an order of "You must keep running, J. You have to. I won't lose you now."

And then they were running together. Just her and her Duke hand in hand running away from the pitter-patter of bullets and the crashing of bombs not far behind us. Her legs wanted to spasm and the muscle to cramp, her lungs were turning to ash and her heart was about to flat-line in a strike from over-working.

Boom.

And then they were on the ground, Duke's huge body covering her's as blood seemed to be pouring out from overhead. It took her a while to realise that he was unhearing, to roll him off of her and onto his back and to gasp as she saw what had happened.

Duke's flesh had been corroded by the bomb, like the incendiary had eaten at him like acid to leave him to bleed to death. Staring into his eyes, J yelled to Duke to stay with her, to not fall asleep on her and to keep fighting. He raised a hand to cup her face, his thumb running over the tears leaking over her eyes to fall down her golden tanned face. Searching her eyes, Duke knew that he wasn't going to make it, and wanted to give his J one last goodbye.

Through the blood pooling in his mouth, he half choked from the overwhelming taste of blood battering his tongue as he began to speak. "J, I...'m so-orry. Don't cry for me sweetheart." His thick, rough thumb wiped carefully at her tears as he spluttered, helpless to the worsening of his speech as more and more blood filled his mouth. "Could... ne-ver st-st-stand... to see you cry." J wanted to speak, but when she opened her mouth all that came out was a choked sob, her hands clutching at the hand caressing her cheek. Turning his head, Duke spat out the blood, resisting the intense urge to follow the pull that told him to relax, to let go and to die quickly so as to reduce the suffering of the girl he loved most in the world, to then pull his loving J down to listen to his whisper "I'll always love you more than you know. Always. I want you to live, J. Really live. Go find yourself a nice guy and settle down with him. And J... I wanna be buried next to Dad. Can you do that?"

When his J nodded her head and clutched his hand that cupped her blood smeared cheek, Duke could finally relax and let go. And then, with bullet tears streaming down her face, J watched as her beloved Duke let go of his last breath, his eyes came to stare glazed at the open sky above them and the hand that had cupped her cheek so reverently went limp.

"No, no, no! No, stay with me, Duke! Stay with me! Please! I can't lose you" She ran her hands over him, winding in his salt and pepper hair, shaking his half eaten armoured jacket and cupping his bloody cheeks as bombs still ate at the earth behind them and bullet still ricocheted around them. But J didn't pay attention to that, couldn't function her brain to do anything other than cry for her brave leader. Her brother. One who she'd loved the most in her whole life, the one that'd been a parent to her and defended her against Terri's bullying. He was the eldest of them, the leader... her leader. She was lost without him. An incredible hollowness filled her, she was ice, she wasn't alive anymore. And then she felt a searing pain in her shoulder, a fire eating away at her flesh. Her vision fuzzed, and her sense of direction went completely. Noises crashed and banged, voices called to her, but she knew nothing of that.

She tried to stay awake, but eventually she blacked out.

Oh, Duke. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Dr Johnnye Watson awoke suddenly from her nightmare-plagued sleep, her breathes coming in fast and heavy while tearful eyes tried to take in the danger, only to register in her sleep-fogged brain that there was no danger. That she wasn't in Afghanistan anymore, and that she was perfectly safe, tucked up in some cheap, rented bed with lumps all over its surface and a horrid smell of dead something that seemed to be originating from inside the very mattress. And, she remembered with a pain in her chest, Duke was dead. Buried in the ground alongside their dad. All the while tears still streamed freely down her face, Johnnye blinked them back venomously, trying to prove to herself that she wasn't just crying, that it was just the pillow making her eyes have an allergic reaction to whatever its been cleaned with.

The Army Doctor got up and turned on her bedside light, making her hiss in pain as her eyes had to furiously acclimatize themselves to the blinding, off-colour light that the lamp produced. Her cotton pyjama top had ridden up to parade her ribs, and her matching short-shorts turned themselves huffily to face the wall, as if ashamed of her for thinking that she was still in the war zone.

The thin sheet of a duvet fell to reveal the feminine form of Dr Watson, her forest brown hair falling down to just above her breasts.

If only Harry Marcus could see me now.

Harry had bullied her for her braces and her glasses and her, admittedly discusting, acne. He could never let it go that she scored higher than him, and that his dad liked her 'cause she spent half an hour at one Charity Gala talking about whether the new Ferrari F40 was better than his Chevrolet Camaro. She had to run away and laugh in the girl's loos when she'd found out how annoyed Harry'd been when he'd found out.

Then again, Harry had only found such fantastic ammunition against her from Terri, who had teased her unmercifully during those years, making their relationship turbulent and very strained. She didn't talk to him now because he was stupid enough to be drinking himself to the ground while simultaneously alienating Clark.

With a deep sigh, Johnnye got up and headed for the bathroom. She didn't even bother to peep into the mirror, she knew what she'd find. Her hair seriously out of place and her golden chocolate eyes the shape of an almond nut bloodshot from lack of sleep.

It was with a long groan of sleep-deprived rememberance of her appointment with her therapist Elle in the morning.

Well, shit. This is gonna be a long day.

"How's your blog going, Johnnye?"

"Yeah, good. Very good, thanks." Johnnye had been hardly paying her therapist any attention, feeling more like the dorky girl with braces and acne once more, rather than the seasoned soldier that she is. All she does is hope that her therapist doesn't notice the sheepish way she told the lie and the way she wasn't willing to make any eye contact with her, more willing to gaze dreamily out of the window and think about the war, her family, anything other than how this woman, untrained as she is in military inspection, is seemingly able to reduce Johnnye back down to the terrified little girl she was when her mother pissed off.

"You haven't written a word have you?"

Damn it! Johnnye had rather hoped that her therapist hadn't noticed. Gazing quickly for some way to have a comeback, she snapped back with more sting than she would've put in if calm "And you just wrote 'still has trust issues'."

Her therapist, Ella Thompson, looked incredulously at her for a moment, before her gaze moved to her note sheet just to make sure that Johnnye was right, that she really had just written that. Seeing that Johnnye had indeed just read her writing perfectly, upside down, she sighed and gazed understandingly at the poor soul sitting in her chair opposite her. "And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean? Johnnye, you're a soldier, and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Ella can't help but feel a horrible twinge in her gut for the poor girl who'd already suffered so much in her life. A deceased mother she can hardly remember; a heartbroken, beaten-down dad who couldn't get over the loss; multiple unresolved issues with Terri; not even mentioning the death of her eldest brother.

"Nothing happens to me. Nothing good, anyways."

The poor girl's voice is so low, so lost and without the normal spirit in it that Ella had to take her small, gentle hands into her own and say to her in the most mothering way that she can "Things will get better, Johnnye. I promise you, they will get better."

What do you think of my John? Tell me what you think so I can improve, just don't freak or anything. Thank you.

Phoenix