Note: This story starts off following John's storyline in "A Study in Pink" with a few alterations for the sake of the overall plot but soon digresses into its own story after a couple chapters. Some dialogue in these chapters is taken from "A Study in Pink" and does not belong to me. Just the writing, plot and general ideas, as usual.

I put this story in the mystery genre because it does indeed have a mystery inside it, but I wanted to note that the mystery ultimately plays only a minor part in the overall story, and is solved long before the story ends. There is also a somewhat supernatural element as well (if supernatural is even the correct term here), since, obviously, it's a Hobblock story and will deal with characters having past lives and whatnot, so bear with me.

Also note that I am American, and while I try to be as British as I can, unfortunately I'm not perfect. If you see any inconsistencies in my writing (incorrectly used terms and whatnot) please inform me so that I can fix them as soon as I can. :)

Please enjoy!

The cold wind swept past my face as I sat there, ears numbed from the breeze, body weak from exhaustion, and eyes blurred from the hot tears that beset them. His body lay limp next to mine: cold and pale, smothered in a jumbled mixture of wet and dried blood. A cruelly vacant expression lay white across his face, and his final, parting breath had risen into the air and was now being carried away by the wind from the East, and the only thing I knew in that moment, the only thing I could comprehend was grief. No memories flooded my vision, no regrets clouded my judgements, no single thought was able to pierce its way into my mind. There was only the insurmountably overwhelming manifestation of grief. Draining. Crushing. Dominating. What have I gotten myself into?

From far away I heard the sound of swords clashing, men screaming as blades ran through them. Carnage littered the field, the colour of red stained rocks and grass, and I lay there in the midst of it all, cowering over his body, resembling—to onlookers—just one more dead body amidst the rest. I heard an explosion in the distance. Then another one: much closer this time. Suddenly the clanging sound of swords disappeared and instead transformed into gunfire. The scenery changed, and suddenly I was surrounded by soldiers. Soldiers that I knew; soldiers I respected and cared for. Everything was so loud; on top of the gunfire was the gruesome sound of screaming soldiers. Some lay lifeless, but worse were the ones who weren't so lucky, wailing, under the affliction of pain, like children. Blood gushed forth from their battle wounds as they strained their eyes to look up at me, asking me, no, begging me to just let them die. It was agonising to witness. Suddenly another explosion went off, this time only a couple metres away, and I was thrust back by the force of it. My ears rang, and my heart hammered away inside my chest as everything went bleary.

I awoke suddenly, my heart sending deafening pulses of energy that rang in my ears. The lingering feeling of despair still gripped tightly to my chest. It was a dream. It was a dream. It wasn't real. But we all know how powerless rationality is in when pitted against fear. And the danger, the sorrow, the distress, it's all somehow so much more vivid when extracted from a dream. Delirium repels reason, and for a little while, the real world is ductile and the dream is reality. That was how I felt in that moment. Despair and grief and anxiety, it was all so certain.

I sat upward, clutching the sheets of my bed and trying frantically to breathe at a normal rate. Time passed slowly, but eventually I was able to come back to grips with reality. I saw that the sun was beginning to rise, sending invasive tufts of light through my window, spoiling the dark privacy of my apartment. It stirred me up a bit and helped to clear away some of the lingering grogginess from my dream. Without any intention of going back to sleep after this incident, I overcame my haziness and sat up on my bed, legs dangling off the side. Traces of the nightmare poked incessantly at the back of my mind, and so trying desperately to ignore them, I sat there in a mindless stupor for an indeterminate amount of time. I had no desire to get up or to eat or to write on my blog. I had no desire to do anything, really.

"PTSD," they said. "Depression," they said. "Life," I said.

I didn't believe in mental illnesses. For my part, I considered the act of putting a label on a certain state of mind was apt to induce more harm than good. It's like how a butcher wouldn't name the pig that he was preparing to slaughter because it would give an unpleasant sense of reality to what he was going to do. Names have a way of giving a certain definitiveness to things, and labels are more powerful than people really give them credit for. Diagnosis was worse. Diagnosis meant that not only would I be officially labelled as "depressed," but that it would forever show on my record; any job I applied, for any trouble I found myself in, wherever I went I would always be "at risk of depression," and that was almost worse than any of the other shit I've had to go through. If I wasn't being constantly branded as "ill" or "unstable," then maybe I could actually get over myself for a day. Why couldn't people understand that?

Eventually, however, as the sun was beginning to shine bright enough to light up my apartment, I pulled myself out of my stupor and finally stood up, grabbing the cane that was leaning against my bed. I was very not ready to seize the day. The familiar sensation of hunger gripped at the pit of my stomach, but for some unexplainable reason the thought of eating was distasteful to me. So, after grabbing a small apple from the fridge and warming up a cup of tea, I shuffled over to my desk and pulled out my laptop. Already the website for my blog was pulled up on the screen. I tried to think of what to write, but my mind was blank. What was there to write about? My life was so mundane and boring, and the only supposedly interesting things about it were not anything I was readily willing to put up on my blog for the world to see. I stared at the screen for a little bit before giving up (perhaps a bit prematurely) and shutting my laptop mainly out of frustration at the fact that my life was so bloody boring that I couldn't even come up with a single bloody thing to write about.

Ella would be disappointed in me, but I really didn't care at the moment. What was it her business anyways? I sighed. It wasn't that therapy didn't help, it's just... well, it didn't. No matter what I did, how I went about my day, what I recorded in my blog about adjusting to civilian life, it didn't change the fact that I was a soldier, and I was constantly afflicted by my blasted psychosomatic limp due to PTSD. Again, with the labels.

I looked around my apartment and realised how unbelievingly sad it looked. I rubbed my eyes with the tips of my fingers. I need to get out of here, this place is so goddamn dreary. How about a walk. I can take a nice stroll down to St. Bart's and enjoy some fresh air. Of course the idea of taking a long walk was much easier than actually getting up off my arse and doing it. The pain in my leg was especially prominent today, and suddenly the idea of taking a walk was unappetizing. But I knew that in the end it would be for the best. I hadn't gotten out of my apartment in a while except to attend my regular therapy sessions, so I grabbed my cane I finally staggered out of my apartment.

I was immediately glad of my decision, for the morning turned into quite a beautiful afternoon as I walked down to Bart's. A chill breeze swept over me and it felt quite relaxing. It was long since I had felt a breeze like this one, pure and pristine, untouched by the contaminated feeling of a stuffed apartment. I hated that apartment. It was a cage. The only reason I was still stuck there was because it was really my only choice for the time being. I was currently unemployed and could not afford my own flat, not in London anyway, leaving me to bench off the British Government. Of course I would get a job, but with my leg being in less than ideal condition and recovery from the war and all….well, you get the picture.

My mind was a mess as I plodded down the street, trying earnestly to enjoy the scenery.

Somewhere behind me I heard someone calling my name. "John! John Watson!"

I turned to look behind me and saw a pudgy, bespectacled man with a flashy tie walking up to me.

"Stamford," he gestured to himself, "Mike Stamford, we went to Bart's together."

"Yes, yes, of course I remember, Mike, hello." I held out my hand and we engaged in a gruff handshake. I wasn't really expecting to meet with anyone today, but the idea wasn't entirely unwelcome.

"I heard you were abroad getting shot, lad, what happened?"

I stared at him briefly, a bit put off by the question. "I got shot," I answered tonelessly.

He looked at me a bit awkwardly, but quickly recovered, asking "Well, why don't we get some coffee, you and me? We can catch up, talk about the old times, that nonsense."

"Yeah, yeah that sounds good," I replied, only half fudging my response. To tell the truth, the idea of sitting down and chatting with someone on equal grounds sounded appeasing. It would be nice to talk outside of therapy sessions (or more accurately, in my mind, drilling sessions). So after grabbing some coffee we sat down at a nearby bench and began to simply chat. Normally, I'm not a fan of small talk, but it was pleasant, and it got me out of my comfort zone, which I realised then that I really needed.

"So, you're still at Bart's then?" I asked after a short silence.

"Teaching, yeah. Bright, young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." We shared a short chuckle. "What about you, just staying in town til you get yourself sorted?"

"Well, I can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," he speculated, quite truthfully. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the John Watson y—" I faltered over my words, holding them back, trying to cover up the aggression in my tone, but it wasn't any good. Being in the army, being in a war, it changes a person, and people needed to understand that. I wasn't going to be the playful chap they knew in college that flirted with all the pretty girls and pulled pranks on my classmates and bubbled with youthful energy. I just wasn't.

We both looked down at the ground before Mike spoke up again. "Couldn't Harry help?"

I laughed in a vaguely mocking tone. "Yeah like that's gonna happen."

"I don't know," he retorted, " you could … get a flatshare or something."

"C'mon, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

He looked back at me with a queer look in his eyes, before he grinned and chuckled.

"What?" I asked, half annoyed.

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."

I gazed at him, struck with curiosity. "Who's the first?"

Please review and tell me what you think! I read all reviews and benefit greatly from hearing all of your thoughts. What did you like? What could use some change? I very much appreciate constructive criticism so please don't hesitate to tell me what you thought! Thanks!