Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: Watson is the narrator - just like in the original stories. Of course, he isn't really the Watson we all know and love. Nor is Holmes. I wanted things to be a bit different, a bit more original. Hopefully that doesn't bother people.

Also, Holmes doesn't show up until the next chapter. 'Doug' leads Watson to Holmes.


'Nam was a nightmare.

Sometimes I can't even bring myself to think about it. None of it made any sense at the time. We were children, shipped across the globe to die. I was drafted at age 18. It was all a blur. One minute I was being checked over by a doctor, the next I was in a foreign country fighting for my life. I quickly learned not to get attached to anyone, or even memorize names. For the sake of my own sanity I became a near-sociopath.

After two years they brought me - and many others - home. That is, back to the United States.

I returned to my parent's house in Maryland, though I only lasted a fortnight there. I knew I didn't belong there anymore. People didn't look at me the way they had. I think some of the neighbors envied my family. Why had I survived, while so many others didn't? Why hadn't Jim or Steven or Paul returned?

To make matters worse I'd also became rather disruptive. It wasn't even intentional, though my Dad seemed to think so. He called me weak. At night I tossed and turned, reliving the deaths of fellow soldiers. Everything startled me. Shadows and memories haunted me. Sometimes I lashed out a people I loved. Before the war I'd been a likeable, talkative kid with many friends. Keeping secrets, avoiding people, brooding, hiding... the young John Watson would've never done that.

Suddenly I didn't know who I was anymore. War changes people - especially the bright-eyed, innocent boys who do all the real fighting. None of us knew what we were getting into.

Things weren't working. I need to leave my family and find a new place to call home. Somewhere the old John had never visited. Somewhere in which the new John could live out his life. Somewhere people wouldn't be bothered by the coldness and the paranoia.

And where did I go? New York City, obviously. Where else do outsiders and loners and all other oddities end up?

So, exactly two weeks after I've arrived in town, I took a bus to the city. Mother paid for the ticket and a few new shirts. Father didn't even bother saying goodbye. I'd become to much of an embarrassment to him. If only the bastard had been there, too… scared every moment, surrounded by suffering. Squares became druggies and patriots deserted.

As the old bus steadily drove through town and farmlands, I began to think about what I'd do once we actually arrived in New York. At the time I had about $100 (mostly in cash). That wouldn't last too long, though it would probably be enough for a few days. There was also the military pension. I still didn't have that totally figured out, though. Not to mention it probably wouldn't be enough to live on unless I shared, say, living expenses with someone.

A roommate would be useful, I thought to myself.

At some point I fell asleep. For once I was not plagued with nightmares. This was certainly a good thing.

I awoke just as we arrived in the city. It was already quite late in the evening by then. Due to the darkness, I tripped over my own suitcase as everyone got off the bus. The ground was of unpleasant concrete. The palm of my right hand stung painfully and my left knee was skinned. Worst of all, my jeans were torn. I wondered if

"What the fuck are you doing on the ground, man?" asked a voice.

I looked up to see a man with shaggy, almost-shoulder-length brown hair. Strangely enough he didn't appear to be a hippie. No, hippies don't wear black leather jackets and dark skinny jeans. He also didn't seem much older than me. There was an oddly childish look to his face, a prankster's gleam in his eye. Sort of like Iggy… yet girlier, sweeter. I'm not quite sure how to describe it.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, grinning like the Artful Dodger.

"Watson. John Watson," I replied, sitting up. "Who are you?

"I go by many names..."

"What should I call you?"

"Doug."

There was an awkward pause. Then, he knelt down and grabbed my right hand. Before I could respond in any way he'd pulled me into a standing position. That's when I noticed that - though thin - he was clearly pretty strong.

"Thanks, Doug," I said, a bit nervously.

"You are welcome!"

Again, a pause.

Then…

"You don't know of any nearby hotels, do you?" I asked.

Doug shook his head. "Not any good ones."

"What do you mean?"

"This is the heart of New York City. Nobody gives a fuck about us anymore. The cockroach-exterminators and proper cleaning people have long since abandoned this godforsaken place. There are rats and shit like that everywhere. You must avoid them, young man."

"How?"

"Stay with me, for now."

I stared at him for a moment. Despite the jacket, he didn't seem very dangerous. What harm could one guy do? Anyway, I knew that alienating people the moment I arrived probably wouldn't be the greatest idea. This Doug guy seemed really nice.

"I can carry your case, if you'd like," Doug said, smiling happily.

"Just… don't steal it, okay?" I replied, handing it over.

"Why would I ever do that?"

I didn't bother answering, for fear of offending him.

Luckily, he didn't seem interested in stealing my stuff. He happily led me down the street to a brownstone building only a few blocks from the bus stop. I followed him carefully up the steps. When we go to the door he handed me my suitcase, then unlocked it with a key hidden in his jeans. Quickly enough he'd unlocked it. We then walked up another set of stairs to the second floor. Here there was another door, which he unlocked with a different key.

"Home sweet home," he said happily, as we stepped over the threshold.

It was a rather cramped little place. There was a sofa, a few mismatched wooden chairs, and a round rickety table. The only light sources were a (currently lit) lightbulb hanging precariously from the ceiling and an extremely grimy window. There were also a few unlit candles on the table. One of these was in a chipped tea cup. It was all rather strange.

There were two other doors, presumably leading to a bathroom and a bedroom.

"You can sleep on my sofa until tomorrow morning, Watson," Doug told me. "I'm sure we'll be able to find you more permanent lodgings tomorrow."

I thanked him, then passed out on the sofa. It had been a long, long day… even with the little nap of mine.


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