So, I was lying awake one night, and this idea came to me. Again, really shouldn't have started this while CWPFAW isn't done, but it'll be gone if I don't.

When I get Skype for the first time, I don't think much about it. It's not like I have anyone to talk to. Harry's in rehab, my army mates are either dead or still at the fort, and who would want to be friends with a guy that has PTSD, shaky hands, and a limp that has absolutely nothing to do with the actual injury? Believe me, I was better off without the program.

My flat is barren and virtually empty: a chair, a table, a bed, and a lamp taking residence more than me. An army pension doesn't get me much, a bit of food and this dump of a place. Most of the time, I try not to be here. I walk around London trying to ignore the pain in my leg and people's stares because I can't, really, can't pretend I don't hear what they're thinking. They pity me, and I hate it, but it's better than the empty flat with nothing but my gun to keep me company. The stares or the gun? Most times, I don't know which to subject myself to.

I'm not exactly healthily-minded. I liked the danger Afghanistan provided and the opportunity to save lives, but when that was taken from me, I'm left with nothing to think about. My head is full of nightmares, my soul is stained with blood, but what can I do about it? Nothing. I hate sitting around without anything to do, without a job, without a shag, without a friend. I need the friend more than the job or shag, but since I'm a respectable male, it's better to let people think I don't. Danger, friend, nothing. If someone told me I had gone mad, I would believe them.

Funny. I never imagined I'd end up here.

My laptop sitting on the counter as I brush my teeth, I open up my new program, Skype, and briefly contemplate typing in a random name and seeing their surprise when they notice this strange man talking to them. Most would probably cut me off immediately, like 'oh creepy stalker guy that looks like an army officer', but I'm a captain, one, and for two, I'm just kind of desperate for contact. Not a stalker. Big difference.

I close the door to my flat and make sure the key for it is on the same chain as my dog tags. I've never really been the kind of person to carry their key around their neck, but I got used to the dog tags, and it was convenient. Wearing the key is like having a killed mate's tag jingling with my own, like I'm carrying dead weight. Fair enough. That's what the cane's for.

The streets are as busy as London mornings usually are, with the sunshine acting the extra. I smile up at the sky, almost bumping into someone, and then quickly limp off to the coffee shop. I haven't managed to find too many good places, but this little café is the only thing I look forward to, day after day.

"Mornin', John," the barista calls. Liz. She's so nice to me, and I really can't figure out why. "Coffee, two cream, one sugar, and a raspberry scone?"

"Yes, ma'am," I answer, passing over three pounds. Liz laughs at the endearment and gives me the change, beginning to faff about in the back with the coffee machine. I sit where I usually do, the chair nearest the window, and wait. A lot of different people show up here: a brown-haired, mousy woman that sometimes comes in her scrubs; an older, built man with a gun holster on his belt; a dark-skinned, curly-haired woman with a sort of vengeance in her eyes if the barista gets her order wrong. I wonder what their lives are like.

Every once in a while, I'll see a very posh man walk in, carrying an umbrella. His voice is posh too, the kind of voice more suited to French or Italian than English. He always stares at everyone else, as if he's figuring out their lives from just one look. I can't do that, but I've heard him mutter observations under his breath. He's interesting, but he's got a wedding ring. Taken.

"Coffee with two cream and one sugar and a raspberry scone!" I walk to the front counter and grab my things.

"Thanks, Liz."

"No problem. Hey, how's the date search?"

I shake my head. "As non-existent as ever. It's like they're hiding from me."

"Sorry, sweetie." Liz smiles ruefully. "You know if I didn't play for the other team, we'd be going out every day of the week."

"Yeah, after I came home from my invisible workplace." I smiled too. "I guess I just have to keep looking."

"Keep trying, John. You'll find someone." I nod, and sit back down to enjoy my scone. The best scones are the ones made with the secret ingredient that Liz still won't tell me about. It's not like I know anything about cooking!

I had taken my laptop with me to the coffee shop, and so I open it up and stare at the empty blog screen for a while. My therapist, Ella, says it'll help me, writing about what happens to me, but here's the thing: nothing happens to me. I can't exactly write if there's nothing to write about, now can I?

Dr. John H. Watson. My name, printed across the top of the screen. I don't remember why I put the H. there, since I sometimes pretend I don't have a middle name to save myself the embarrassment Hamish causes. Maybe I should have put the rank of Captain instead of doctor. It's not like it matters, anyway.

I close the blog tab and open up Skype again. What should my username be? I type JohnWatson. Nice and simple. I use it for all my dating profile usernames, too. Why change a good thing? The password...maybe Fusiliers5. Not everyone knows that about me, plus, how many people can spell Fusiliers while typing fast? I fail at least fifty percent of the time.

Well, now that that's done, who should I Skype? Again, same dilemma with no friends, no job, and no shags. I laugh a little, and the person in the table near me probably thinks I'm crazy. I'm not, I'm just a really unlucky bastard. I don't think I'm crazy just yet.

I close my laptop and put it in the briefcase I sling over my shoulder to hang over my functional leg. It's time to go. Any longer and people wonder what I'm doing there so late in the day. The park looks nice, so I drag myself out of the seat and through the door to find a bench.

It is November, which means there shouldn't be sunshine, but there is somehow. As I limp around to find an unoccupied bench, a person calls out my name. "John! John Watson!"

"Mike Stamford," I say, slightly amused. I know him from doctor's training at St. Bart's. Well, knew him. I don't know anyone anymore.

"Heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at! What happened?"

"Got shot." I point to the leg.

Mike looks a bit sorry he asked. "How's the living lately?"

"An army pension isn't much, but I manage. Besides, who would want me for a flatmate?"

"Ah, you couldn't leave London if you tried." He stays silent for a moment. "You know, you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Really? Who was the first?"

When we get to St. Bart's, I see the mousy woman again. "Hello, Molly," Mike says. "She's a forensic pathologist," he explains to me.

"Hello," she replies quietly. For some reason, she's carrying a riding crop. "Are you looking for him?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Is he gone already?"

Molly nods. "He told me to text him in twenty minutes if his experiment was running, but he's been busy. Contacting the entire Yard press conference, not-working on the serial suicides case. I don't know when he'll be back, sorry."

Mike smiles. "That's alright. We'll catch him next time. By the way, this is Dr. John Watson." I shake her hand.

"Pleased to meet you." I see her every day when she comes to get coffee. And yet, we've never met before.

"So, I'll try to catch him later. Would you tell him?"

Molly grins. "I will. Nice meeting you, again."

"You too."

Mike turns to me. "He'll end up contacting you himself, just to see what all the fuss is about."

So, one bit of excitement in an otherwise inconsequential day. I know that a man who solves crimes probably has at least a girlfriend, if not a flatmate.

Here I am again, staring at the Skype screen. When did I buy this anyway? Was it yesterday? Two days ago?

It's about 7 pm, so I heat up some ramen in the microwave. I do like ramen, but I really shouldn't be eating it every night. The sky is dark, smoggy. The usual. Nothing changes for me. I should get used to it.

I watch the BBC for a little while. Reruns, but it's fun to know the lines as well as the actors do. My ramen doesn't last forever, and eventually I throw the plastic container in the rubbish bin. The part that hits me the most is that I could survive like this for a very long time. Survive, not live, but I gave up on living a while ago. The nightmares would only get worse, the gun would only get more tempting, the skies would only get duller, but I'm very good at survival.

I hear sirens out the window. They're loud, and obnoxious, but I think something's different about these. Suddenly, my Skype screen starts ringing. Who on Earth could that be? I've said there's really no one for me to talk to. The ringing gets more insistent, like they need me right this minute, but I don't answer. I reassure myself that I could take them down if they were dangerous and press the Answer button.

"Hello?" I say. God, I look terrible. My small part of the screen has dark-circled eyes and some hair sticking up in the back. I pat it down. There isn't any picture for the person calling me. The username is SherlockHolmes. Interesting name, if that's even their name. "Hello?"

"Oh, I did press the Call button," a deep voice says. I hear a lot of movement, sirens, clothing rustling. "Dr. John Watson, am I correct?"

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" I ask.

"Well, your name isn't Harry Watson, and you aren't divorced, so I assume you are who your username says you are."

I stare at the screen is disbelief. "And who are you?"

"I thought my username was clear enough. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. And if you'll excuse me, it's Christmas!"

"What do you mean?"

He sighs. "Must I explain everything? Three serial suicides and then a fourth with a note? It's Christmas!"

I smile. "Well, don't let me keep you."

"Mrs. Hudson!" he calls, further away from the screen. "No tea for me." He walks away from me, I can hear it, but he comes back. "You're a doctor. An army doctor. You've seen blood, grave injuries."

"Many, far too many actually."

"You want to see some more?"

I look at the blank screen for a second, barely thinking. "Oh, God yes."

Sherlock carries his phone with him, turning his camera so I can see the house where the newest serial suicide victim was found. He tells me the front camera on his mobile has never worked, which is why I couldn't see anything. We get stopped by the curly-haired woman, who is apparently a policewoman.

"You can't bring him in here," she says, folding her arms. "Who is he, anyway?"

"A colleague," Sherlock answers, pushing past her.

"Since when do you have a colleague?" She turns to me, moving to take the phone from him, but he avoids her skillfully. I almost have to laugh. "Did he stalk your social accounts?"

"No, Donovan, I assure you I didn't. John, you have every right to ignore her."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a doctor," I say, since she was going to bother us more if I didn't.

Donovan shakes her head disapprovingly. Pulling a communicator from her belt, she speaks into it, "The Freak's here." I don't see Sherlock wince, but the picture rotates a few degrees to the right. Another person, wearing a light blue, scrub-like uniform that covers his body, approaches from the entrance to the house, looking just about as happy to see us as Donovan.

"Having you on a crime scene is bad enough, but now you have an electronic tagalong? This shouldn't be allowed!"

The policeman from the café comes over, wearing the same uniform, and moves the angry man out of the way, but not before Sherlock says scathingly, "And it shouldn't be allowed to have imbeciles such as yourself near bodies." He steps closer to the man. "You're wearing deodorant. It's for men."

"Of course it's for men!"

"I smell Donovan's wearing the same kind, meaning she didn't have a chance to go home after your little escapade. Washing your floors, by the state of her knees. Or was it something else?" Sherlock leaves them, mouths gaping, following the older policeman.

"You shouldn't have done that," the man says exasperatedly. "They'll be after you even more now."

"They deserve it. John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, Dr. John Watson."

"Nice to meet you," I say. "I would shake your hand, but I'm kind of inside a mobile."

"I can see that." Lestrade turns to Sherlock. Well, I think so. I still can't see him. "Is he good?"

"Yes." Sherlock has no wavering in his voice. Why would he trust me after knowing me for maybe a half hour? I feel really lucky.

"Good. If you trust him, I trust him. Bring him upstairs. You have five minutes."

"That's more than enough time."

Read + review!