So I'm relatively new to writing Sherlock fanfiction...I tried to do some texting between Sherlock and Ms. Hudson awhile ago, but that didn't pan out much. (Maybe I should consider texting between other characters. Hmm.) Anyway, this is mostly a John Watson story that is slightly AU to Sherlock, although it might veer into canon now and then from Watson's perspective. I might add in some Sherlock, and perhaps other, perspectives later on, but for the most part, it's all John. I'll note if it's anyone else.

1. Shooting Game

When I was a kid, my father used to take Harry and me on fishing and shooting trips in the Scottish countryside, saying that he wanted to instill in us a sense of sportsmanship, camaraderie, and strength through such difficult tasks. My sister and I rolled our eyes at that and protested the need, even though he insisted that fishing and shooting were useful survival skills to learn. Even though this was the 20th century, almost the 21st, (I never could imagine what the 21st century was going to be like) I said at one point, and everything we ate came from the store? It wasn't as if we would ever be left in the forest or wilderness on our own and forced to fend for ourselves. (Although that did happen to me once, much later in life, and shooting and fishing weren't really on the cards then, no gun or pole and too much danger. I scavenged plants.) My father told Harry and me to button our lips at this point, we were going fishing and shooting whether we liked it or not!

Harry took to fishing well enough as she was able to catch some when I was barely able to get a nibble, but it wasn't her favorite activity in the world. Pretty boring, just sitting in the boat for hours on end, waiting for something to happen. She was always antsy, wanting to get out of the boat and back to shore, almost like Sherlock now that I think about it, while I could sit for hours on end, comfortable and relaxed in the tranquil environment. I wanted nothing to ever happen to me then. Those were the days when nothing troubled me and I didn't feel the urge to escape and find an adventure of my own.

I wish I could go back to those days sometimes, when the urge wasn't so strong and I could fully relax, but those days are gone and over with now. I'm stuck in this adventuresome life and part of me loves it, part of me hates it, but most of all I have gotten used to it. I can't change who I am in that regard.

Anyway, Harry point-out refused to handle the gun when we went shooting, saying that it was a morally wrong and perverse activity and I don't blame her one bit. I would have refused as well if I could get away with it, but my father insisted that one of us should at least learn how to shoot. He didn't insist on Harry learning, though, he chose me. I suppose he thought that I was better able to handle it or wouldn't protest so much and scare off game. I mostly went alone with our father then while Harry stayed with the car or at the camp site. We had a dog with us to sniff out game birds and fetch back their bodies, but mostly it was up to us.

My father taught me how to aim and shoot the shotgun, gently pulling back and easing my breath beforehand, even to the point of trying to calculate how fast the bird was going and what its trajectory might be. The dog flushed out most of the birds, although I was occasionally sent out if the dog was too unruly.

I would be attentive to my task, ready to beat about with a stick as I searched for any sign of restive movement in the brush with my ears pealed for any cooing or crackling noise. Occasionally, I would bypass them, hoping to avoid shooting them, but eventually I had to flush them out or else the dog would be unleashed and my father would scold me and even knock me on the head for not paying attention or ignoring the prey. Whenever I did have to rouse the birds, I privately urged them to flee and fly far away before the gun could be aimed and fired, the shot ringing out as the bullet found its mark.

I would have to stand to the side, though, or risk being shot at by my own father, although I mostly trusted his judgment and accuracy in aiming at the birds. I cannot recall how accurate my father was, if he shot the birds more often than not, but we usually came away with something, no matter how small it was. I was relatively good, I suppose, for a beginner, although I barely came away with anything. Harry would always glare at us when we returned to camp or to the car with our prey, but she never said anything too loudly, except to toss the cooler at us.

I suppressed my own feelings of anger, both at her, at my father, and at myself in those moments, quietly packing away the dead animals. We never ate them or at least prepared them ourselves. My father would find a local butcher who would accept them.

There was a moment, though, when I first went shooting with my father that forever sticks in my mind. My father had shot at a beautiful dove, which fell, but when we sought it out, we discovered that it was still alive. The bullet had mostly grazed by it. Yet the bird was still badly wounded with the fall having compounded its injuries and it would not fly again. It would surely die out here in the brush, with another animal coming to eat it soon. My father would have finished off the bird himself, to show it some mercy, if such mercy could be called that, but this time he insisted that I should do it to learn how.

I had practiced firing the shotgun at bottles, cans, and even clay pigeons, but I had never really shot a real, living bird before. I wasn't ready. I had imagined and hoped I could manage it, just for the sake of pleasing and proving to my father that I had what it took to be a man, but right then I couldn't do it. My hand and heart trembled and faltered in that moment, seeing the dove twitching and cooing helplessly as it bled out and I could not do it. I could not kill the creature, even if it was an act of mercy.

My father took the shotgun away from me after a few minutes and finished off the bird himself. He was almost angry at me for recoiling and stalling so much, although he did not hit me like he did when I refused to flush out the birds. I felt no shame in what I did, though, just anger, shock, and distress at my father's actions and for putting me in such a position. I remained in a sullen state for the rest of the day, matching Harry's moodiness and casting a cloud over the whole rest of the trip, yet it taught me an important lesson. I valued the life of (almost, now) any creature, especially one that was injured and innocent of any crime.

I decided, either in the moment or later, to devote my life to saving these creatures, to protect and treat their injuries whenever I could. In essence, I decided to become a doctor. And I started off on a hard path in life. Being a doctor isn't easy, especially for where I come from. My family is respectable, for the most part, but they weren't intellectual, or at least they didn't live in an environment that encouraged intelligence and professional excellence in a driven, hard-working field. To them, the best, most professional, intelligent, and driven line of work was football, rugby, or cricket.

I did play those sports in school, but they weren't what I wanted to excel at and base a career upon, no. I dedicated myself to science and math courses, especially biology, anatomy, and the like in preparation for a medical career, keeping my grades up, doing all of my homework and studying extra hours, and getting into advanced classes. However, I did not neglect my other courses, and even did well in literature and composition. My parents were relatively proud of my accomplishments, though they didn't overpraise me, while Harry groaned and rolled her eyes at my achievements, teasing me.

Outside of my studies, school was tolerable for the most part, although I didn't spend much time making friends, just acquaintances. I avoided hazing and bullying for the most part by remaining affable and genial whenever possible, ignoring snide remarks over my intelligence, and running and hiding during the worst hours. My father had taught me how to defend myself if need be, but I didn't feel like fighting much, saving my aggression for sports, and I certainly didn't want Harry standing up for me. However, as school was winding down, I started to worry about my chances of getting into university and pursuing a medical career, especially when my parents didn't have enough saved up for me to remain in school without a scholarship or a career to support myself with.

I looked at all of my options and weighed them, considering how much money I needed to fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor and what were the most expedient, efficient options, until finally I chose to enlist in the army. My sister was shocked.

"The army?" She asked. "You can't find a better way of earning your degree?"

"No, I can't, not if I want to become a doctor before I'm 50 or whatever," I told her. "The army is my best choice. They'll support me at university and even provide me with some education and training-"

"For the front lines." Harry said.

"It's not like we're at war, Harry." I told her. "And it's quite unlikely that we will be. I'll be fine."

How wrong I was, how very, very wrong.

The idea for this start to the story, especially the hunting scene...I was considering doing a Victorian Sherlock Holmes story from John Watson's perspective, but after awhile, I said, 'Heck with it, I might as well make it fanfiction and do it with BBC Sherlock, since I am more familiar with the modern era and such a story would require some research into the Victorian era. Besides, it's not like it would gain much attention.' So, yeah, there's that. Please read and review.