Through the bustling and tussling of the common crowds that often situated in the outdoor markets, the small ex-army doctor had somehow managed to tumble clumsily out of the chaos, nearly falling right on his face in the process. John Watson leaned heavily on his walking cane in one hand and carried a paltry supply of groceries in the opposite, one leg lagging right behind the other as he began to limp as fast as he could away from the mass of shoppers. He absolutely hated these days where the food had run out, which forced him out of the comfort of his shabby flat and into the crowded streets of London, where the population seemed to always burst with cheer. It absolutely sickened him.
John had felt this way ever since his return to London from the war only a few months ago. The rest of the country celebrated the defeat of the enemy and savored the relief that all this bleeding warfare had finally ended. But for John, it never did have an end. All it took was a momentary blink of his eyes and he was flashed right back into the trenches. The smell of molding dirt and rotting flesh, the ear shattering noise of gunfire flying all too close over his head, the terrified screams of fellow soldiers as they grip to what little hope they have of surviving, all the while witnessing their imminent demise and being unable to save them, the bullet that found its target, piercing his skin in an explosion of his own blood; they always found their way back to him. John glanced around at the smiling faces that surrounded him and couldn't help but feel a mixture of jealousy and relief, that these people will probably never experience the trauma that came with being sentenced to a life of carnage and catastrophe.
Mind you, anything is better than that fear of possibly not living to see the next day, but readjusting back into city life hardly proved to be much better. It was agonizingly dull in comparison to his previous environment; he no longer woke up to gunshots and barked orders in the small hours of sunrise, he would instead be met with muffled taxicab horns and occasionally the excited barks of the neighboring tenant's dog. Day to day activities no longer consisted of lurking in soggy, disease infested ruts; they consisted of morning newspapers and crap telly (when lying in bed became too mundane.) As much as John tried to once again meld himself into the simplicity that everybody else seemed so accustomed to, he has only ever managed to further contrast his inability to do so.
John had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he failed not notice the strange man clad in a gaudy spectrum of colors emerge from his perch on the sidewalk.
"Oi! A moment of ye time, mate!"
The unfamiliar voice was apparently meant for him, which caught John a bit off guard. Nobody ever talked to him.
"P-pardon?" he managed to squeeze out. The man who addressed him either didn't care that John was obviously uncomfortable with speaking to a stranger or didn't catch on, because he continued to speak in an overly joyful voice.
"Why, ye look like a bloke who could use a right good time, if I've not been mistaken! And, my good fellow, I've got 'ere just the right thing!"
He quickly produced from his large stack of papers a flyer, and proceeded to shove it in John's bundle of food.
"Do take a look a' that beauty there. Won't be here for long, ye should know!" And with that, the strange man shifted his attention towards the next group of passerby, spouting the same words in the same absurdly happy voice, which only made John stumble even faster away from the scene.
When he finally found himself at the door to his flat, he hurriedly locked the door as soon as he let himself in, set the food down on the small dining table, and collapsed as soon as he reached his bed (but not before throwing his cane to the opposite corner of the room in frustration, which he later cursed himself of doing instead of placing it within his reach.) He suddenly felt exhausted, which was downright ridiculous. Here he was, army doctor John Watson, and a simple walk to the markets had nearly taken the breath out of him! How he hated the increased effort it took to do simple tasks. But mostly, he just hated himself. Hated what he has become, and hated what he knows he'll probably be for the rest of his life: a wounded ex-soldier, still living in a war that has already ended. This self-loathing followed him well into the rest of the day and into his sleep that night.
It wasn't until the next morning when John left the comfort of the bed and decided he might as well eat something that he noticed the flyer, still hastily stuffed along with the mess of foodstuffs. He gingerly pulled it out of the jumble, and sat on the lone chair of the dining table to have a good look at it whilst plucking an apple from the pile to nibble on. The flyer read as so:
THE TRAVELING TOP LANDS IN LONDON
FOR YOU THIS RIGHTLY MEANS
A BIG TOP AGLOW
FRIGHTENING FREAK SHOWS
NOTHING YOU'VE EVER WELL SEEN!
Vibrant pictures of circus tents and animals decorated the rest of the flyer. The animals all pointed to one spot on the page, which held the location of the event: not a town, but a large open park in the outskirts of London.
Not since John was a small boy had he been to the circus; thinking about it roused fuzzy memories of flying men and beasts of fantasy shrouded in a dazzling array of chromatic light and sound. Balloons and confetti of every color in the rainbow, along with outrageous music filled the tents as the ringleader made his dramatic entrance, welcoming his guests with a ridiculous flare to his voice. He remembered being especially thrilled when the animals came out. They were so incredible in their acts that John once believed it was them who were secretly the ones running the show and training the humans to perform as well as they did (John actually managed a small chuckle out of this.) An environment such as the circus seemed to be a ready distraction, if nothing else.
John disregarded the flyer for a moment to pinch the bridge of his face. He wondered if this was all his life will be: nothing consisting of any purpose or substance, merely existing in static inactivity only to be temporarily lifted out of it by distractions, but never really cured of it. Perhaps now was the time to accept that distractions were all he was going to get, and savor what little relief they could offer.
Slowly, he rose from the dining table, which took much more effort than expected, hobbled as best as he could for his cane, and trudged out the door in crooked, haphazard steps. He despised his dependency of this cane and silently cursed the old thing when it came time to use it (which contributed to his preference to hole himself up in the flat, if only to remind himself as little as possible that this dingy piece of wood is the only reason he is able to walk.)
Attempting to ignore the people who passed him by; who were giving sympathetic looks at the short man who staggered like a three legged pup still learning to walk despite not being of an older age where carrying a cane was more understandable, John turned his attention to the flyer clenched in his hand once more. He had already studied it thoroughly in the flat and knew where the event was located; yet he couldn't help but feel drawn back to the festivity it radiated. He wanted to believe that the numbing monotony of civilian life could be remedied by juggling clowns and performing elephants, even just for a little bit. But circuses were really just for children, along with the hope that any of this was going to whisk his lethargy away like a great magic trick.
"If only it were that simple." He muttered.