The hectic images came racing into his mind. It was always the same ones - they quickened his pulse - of the time he spent in Afghanistan. He heard the constant rattle of automatic weapons being fired; felt the quiver of the earth beneath his feet as explosives reached their fiery end nearby. He could smell the salt of sweat, the metallic tang of blood, the burning of the sun on sand, and the coldness of fear. A thrill from adrenaline soared through his veins and lit up every synapse in his nervous system. A heavy weight rested in his hands - not from a gun, but from his medical case stocked full for such an ambush. Voices shouted all around as his comrades scuttled about the encampment, ducking for cover or attempting to log a kill shot with their AK-47s.

His role was to provide the necessary medical attention to keep a wounded soldier alive in order to be transported to a fully equipped hospital. It was a dangerous job - one that John Watson fully enjoyed. Nothing could compete with the high he experienced out on the battlefield where death was always lurking around the corner or whispering in his ear. And nothing was more glorious than escaping death's clutches for one more day to celebrate with his fellow soldiers. Added bonus was helping someone in his company join the celebration at the end of it all.

This particular day started like any normal fire fight, and soon, Dr. Watson was called to aid a wounded man. He rarely thought of his own safety as he traversed the sands, avoiding enemy fire. His first thought, only thought really, was on his patient. Reaching his destination, he blocked out the ambient noise as he tended to a gun shot wound in the shoulder. After washing the blood away, he quickly assessed the damage and found the wound to be superficial. Messy, yes; painful, absolutely. He disinfected the area, bandaged it, and gave the solider a quick-acting pain killer before slapping him genially on the back. A grateful smile was given as John neatly and efficiently returned all supplies to his case - in their proper places, of course.

Usually, before rising again, John would pause to re-enter the world and listen for any indication that now wasn't a good time to move on. Why he didn't do so this day was still a mystery to him, but he made that near fatal error. It would forever change his life. He stood, and as he came to his full height, he registered a nearby voice screaming, "CLEAR THE DECK!"

Too late.

The pain came immediately after the dramatic boom of an explosive detonating yards away. John dropped his medical kit, and his right hand went instinctively to his left shoulder. A gasp and a strangled cry escaped his lips as he tumbled to the ground. Sand entered his open mouth, and he managed to spit some out before rolling to his right side and letting out another cry of pain. He panicked as he lowered his right arm and gazed down to see his hand covered in blood.

"No!"

His eyes snapped open, a part of his mind still holding on to the images of that sand-filled wasteland. For a brief moment, John dared to hope he was still there, but cruel reality came crashing down when his eyes registered the plain white ceiling of the darkened room. He continued to scan the practically bare room to further prove that he was in his rented, military-issue flat in London. He sighed, feeling his accelerated heart beat began to settle back to normal. A hand went to his forehead where beads of sweat lingered. A dull ache throbbed deep in the bone of his right thigh. It was early still...the dreams always woke him before he wanted to get up.

Disappointment overtook him. He desperately wanted to go back to sleep, but his body was alert. His therapist called this hyperarousal, and she felt John needed to engage in calming exercises to allow the rational part of his brain a chance to communicate with his instinctual brain and let it know there was no threat to his life. So John dutifully laid in bed going through a learned grounding technique. He wiggled his toes to feel the roughness of the insides of the socks on his feet. He clenched the standard issue sheets in his hands, noting that the fabric softener he used had done little to improve the texture of the linen. He looked down at the grey, long-sleeved shirt he was wearing and noted it felt silky smooth like the material used to wick away moisture. He sat up and began another grounding technique in which he was to name every object he could see in his current setting. Lamp. Carpet. Desk. Dressing gown. Window shades. Slippers. Chair.

Calm. John knew it was a few hours until he was scheduled to see his therapist, and despite the grounding exercises, all chances for sleep had vanished. He may as well make himself a cup of tea. He looked over to the head of his bed where his cane stood patiently waiting to assist him today.

Damn my leg.

It wasn't the first time he had thought that, or even uttered the sentiment. It was his leg that had brought him to this sorry excuse for a flat and to an early retirement. Yes, he had effectively been honorably discharged with a medal of valor, a smaller than anticipated pension, and a military-issue therapist to help him with his transition back to civilian life. So far, they had talked at length about his nightmares, and the therapist insisted, after six months of minimal improvement of his symptoms, that he was suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD. The big buzz diagnosis slapped onto almost every single service member returning from the Middle East. She then decided that talk therapy wasn't enough and insisted that John start a blog as an alternative platform to explore his traumas. His homework had been to write an entry before their next session.

Without conscious thought, John grabbed the cane and limped his way to the immaculate and orderly kitchen to put a kettle on to boil. He pulled out a ceramic mug emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and set it on the counter while he waited for the water to boil. If he was completely honest with himself, John would admit that he thought his therapist had it all wrong. He was sure there was probably some diagnosable mental condition going on, though he couldn't claim to be well-versed in psychobabble. It didn't take someone trained in psychology to discover that it wasn't his combat experiences that were at the root of his current state. The kettle whistled, and John fixed his cup of tea before sitting at his desk and pulling his laptop out of a drawer. His eyes barely flickered over the handgun he stored beneath the computer. He opened the lid and let the machine boot up. He may as well attempt to complete his homework.

"Who gives homework? Besides teachers, I mean," he had said during his last session.

"Therapists, of course," she had replied a little tartly. "Even psychological healing requires work outside of session to be effective."

"You are supposed to be helping me with my transition."

"And that work can't begin until we address your traumas."

So there he was, staring blankly at the screen in front of him. The headline of his empty blog read, The Personal Blog of John H. Watson. He wasn't sure how writing about his experiences since returning to England would help him feel more normal. There was no such thing, not after being part of a war zone. No, he wouldn't write about his slow, short walks through London, stopping at the same coffee shop every day just to stare out the window. An Army pension meant not enough money to even buy a take away cup of tea. How could anyone find that exciting? What he really wanted to talk about was his leg.

At the time of his injury, John was certain he had taken shrapnel to the shoulder. It was only later, during his recovery process, that he learned a bomb hadn't exploded just yards away like he had thought. A member of his company had been shot by the enemy, and as he went down, his body had tensed in response to the pain and shock of the death blow he had received. A finger was still on the trigger, and John was shot by a high-powered rifle at close range. Not taken out by enemy fire after all...bloody friendly fire. He had to undergo surgery and was transported to a hospital in Germany to remove the bullet and repair the damage. The doctors all said he was lucky to have been tended to so quickly on the field as it had saved his life. He would never tell them that he had the where with all to reach for his kit and make a rudimentary tourniquet to wrap around his arm to staunch the blood flow. They probably would have questioned his sanity at that moment to be able to work through the pain of a devastating injury and think logically. Better to let them think he had been lucky.

John spent weeks in Germany to recuperate. He was monitored for infection, allowed ample rest time, and physical therapy. They had him complete some sort of psychological trauma screening tool since he had been in combat and injured by friendly fire. Everything appeared fine, and John was well on the road to recovery and being able to return to his former duties. All he had to contend with was intermittent tremors in his left hand, which the physical therapists attributed to weakened arm muscles and some nerve damage. Two weeks passed before additional problems began. That was when John began to wake up in the night with a shout - he would experience his time in Afghanistan in a matter of minutes. Every night, he was unable to fall asleep after those nightmares. This lasted for about a week before the psychologists stated he had Acute Stress Disorder. They made mention of a therapist, but John refused, stating he was sure it would be a short-lived phenomenon. The next day, John was going to get up for physical therapy when he realized that his right leg was in an excruciating amount of pain and he could not put any weight on it without falling out of his hospital bed. He was put through a gauntlet of tests to find the cause, but none could be found. Meanwhile, two more weeks had passed with his nightmares continuing along with the lack of sleep. He could no longer walk without assistance. A psychologist met with him and after speaking with him for about an hour, told him that he met the criteria for PTSD as set out in the DSM-IV-TR (short for Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Edition, Text Revision), and that he was in need of a therapist to help ameliorate his symptoms.

John heard the death knell of his career. It was a well-known fact that those who sought out therapy on their own or were required to attend therapy were forever relegated to desk duty. He would never be able to see battle again, especially with his leg acting up. John was devastated. He would no longer be seen as useful. His life would cease to have meaning like it did before the injury. Despite continued physical therapy, John's leg continued to cause him pain and required his constant use of a cane. He couldn't walk far distances and running was out of the question. It was like his body knew that he was no longer needed by the military, and his leg was a sign that he should just give up trying to stay in the service. There wasn't a medical explanation for this phantom pain, and his therapist began using the word psychosomatic to explain it. In the end, he was being considered damaged by those around him, and with the continuation of his nightmares, he truly began to believe so. A crushing blow to his ego. The doctors declared him disabled and he was medically discharged from the Army. He was supposed to be proud of the things he had accomplished and his medal he had received, but he was empty inside. He had felt most alive on the battlefield, and his life had been stolen by a dead man who, frankly, couldn't make use of the pilfered force anyway.

He shut the laptop with a click of the lid. No journal entries. No one would care for a dead man's musings anyway.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John was momentarily dumbfounded. "Afghanistan. I'm sorry but how did you kn-"

He was cut off by the curly-headed man with ice blue eyes and facial features of a serpent accepting coffee from a young woman in a lab coat called Molly. John didn't know whether to be incensed at the man's rudeness or to just let it go. After all, he barely knew the man, so he supposed he should just excuse the behavior. Though John noted that despite his apparent rudeness toward Molly, the man was well-dressed in a fitted suit and buttoned down white shirt. He looked as if he took great pride in his physical appearance, which could hopefully translate to an orderly home. Wait...why did that matter? It wasn't like John knew for sure the man was looking for a flatmate. He looked over at Mike who was grinning knowingly. John cleared his throat and looked back at the man, who was now absorbed with his petrie dishes.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

At first, John wasn't sure that he was the one being addressed. Mike shot him a look, which made John focus his attention toward the lithe man across the room once more.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Now John was confused. "Who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and he returns after lunch with an old friend just come back from military service. It wasn't difficult to make that conclusion."

John's first reaction was to be slightly flattered that a man he barely knew was interested in him for a flatmate. His immediate secondary reaction was to be rational about a decision such at this. How could he consider this man as a potential flatmate when he didn't know a thing about him? Apart from the fact that he apparently liked to play scientist, play the violin, and would be mute for lengthy stretches of time. Which, John considered, was not entirely bad. He could deal with a flatmate who was quiet punctuated by violin playing (as long as he was good at it)...he wouldn't handle one that was unceasingly loud. Still, the nagging thought in the back of his mind was that he still didn't know a thing about this man! And John made him quite aware of that.

Then the man spoke quickly about John's career and discharge, his brother's (actually sister's) alcoholism, and finally the limp being psychosomatic. John was astounded that this man knew everything. So he was wrong about Harry's gender, but still! He knew! The man began to walk away, and John was going to get irritated over the fact that he hadn't shared a bloody detail about himself, but as the man was about to walk out the door, he poked his head back in.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock Holmes.

John bit back his annoyance with the man. He did seem rather insufferable. And yet...there was a spark within John. One he had not felt since he had been in the military stationed in Afghanistan. He felt...believed in. This Sherlock was willing to look beyond the limp and the implied difficulties that can come with a returning Afghan conflict veteran to see who John truly was. All John had been looking for since he returned was for someone to believe that he was capable of more than his PTSD and therapist would suggest. Then, there was the comment about the riding crop in the mortuary. John instinctively knew that living with this man would be an adventure...and adventures were something he couldn't pass up.

Sherlock donned his coat, flipping the collar up, and wrapping his muffler around his neck. John watched from a cushy armchair as Sherlock uttered a stream of directives for poor Mrs. Hudson, his excitement all but palpable in the room. John had felt his heartbeat increase with Sherlock's joy, but as Sherlock told John to have tea and make himself at home, he felt deflated. So, was he wrong in accepting this man's invitation as potential flatmate? Maybe he was wrong about Sherlock, and that crushed John's spirits more than he cared to admit. He had genuinely hoped that Sherlock was different from all the other people that had been in John's life until this point...that he wouldn't consider John an invalid. Mrs. Hudson offered to make him tea with a gentle reminder to rest his leg, and John's anger got the best of him.

"DAMN MY LEG! Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just that...sometimes, this bloody thing..."

John didn't know how to put his sentiment into words that Mrs. Hudson would understand. He supposed he could have a cup of tea and some biscuits before he left. It would appear that this arrangement wouldn't be worth John's time. He looked at the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had left on the arm of the chair. He heard a door open and that smooth baritone voice floated across the room.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor."

John looked up and stood. "Yes."

"Are you any good?"

"Very."

"I suppose you've seen lots of injuries, violent deaths. You've been in a bit of trouble too, I bet."

John didn't know where this was going. "Of course. Enough for a lifetime."

A ghost of a smile played on Sherlock's lips. "Care to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

By the end of their first case together, John had found that his psychosomatic symptoms had all but disappeared. He still had the "nightmares" of his time in Afghanistan as a way to obtain the high he sought, but only time would tell if they would continue. Maybe that was the diagnosis he should've had instead of PTSD: Substance Dependency. In Sherlock, he had found the cure for his PTSD and the dealer for his addiction. He wasn't to be a medical doctor, but an assistant in sometimes the most dangerous circumstances. It felt like war all over again, but the names, places, and faces were different. It was exactly what he had been looking for.

He had never wanted ordinary...and Sherlock promised that.