AN: Got this idea while reading "Letters to a Soldier" by Pakmai. Really great story, I recommend it.

John Watson was not exactly having a good day.

In fact, he hadn't been having a good month.

It started off well enough. He'd gotten a letter from his correspondent from London, which was always interesting. He was a strange and rather blunt bloke named Sherlock Holmes, who had only written a letter to an anonymous soldier (who had just so happened to be Captain John Watson, MD) because he was forced to by a drug detox clinic (or prison, as he preferred to call it) as part of their twelve steps or whatever. Sherlock was quite adamant that admitting he had a problem to some random soldier on the other side of the world would in no way help, but figured he would do it if it would get his captors off his back.

But back to the point. Sherlock had written about a rather interesting case he had just helped Detective Lestrade with, involving one victim with three separate murderers (or, rather, three different people who were trying to kill him and each thought they had). It was fascinating, as Watson always thought, but before he could draft a reply he had been called out to assist the wounded in the field.

Where he had promptly gotten shot.

He'd been unconscious for days, having lost quite a lot of blood before they could get him back to base, and after that had been confined to a bed for a week while they made plans to have him shipped back to London.

After that, he hadn't even been able to write Sherlock for a few days more because of an irritating combination of lack of materials and his own injury. When he finally did get off a letter he had been practically released, and a few of the other patients had been adamant that letters, real physical letters on paper written with real ink and everything, were old fashioned things saved for being romantic. Perhaps Sherlock had a point with his whole "everyone in the world is an idiot" mentality.

And on top of all that were the therapists. Those bloody therapists. He was beginning to empathize more and more with Sherlock's detox experience, which was a whole other kettle of fish. Really, he felt like he should be worried that he was beginning to share world views with a self-proclaimed sociopath, ex-drug-addict who, as far as Watson could tell, was in trouble with the police as much as he helped them. Sherlock had written that therapists were "fools. Absolute imbeciles whose miniscule brains couldn't comprehend how to make breakfast, much less what was going on in a mind such as" his. At the time Watson had first read it (this had been his first letter, which was intriguing enough that Watson had written back), he thought Sherlock was being arrogant and perhaps just lashing out because he was confined. Later, he realized that Sherlock actually was a genius and people really didn't have any idea what was going on in his head. Now Watson was inclined to think the description was entirely accurate even for himself, who had average intelligence.

Which was bad. The poor girl was just doing her job, after all, but Watson really couldn't help but hate her for it, just a bit.

He had just gotten out of another session with her, which was why this particular day was bad. They seemed to be making progress- that's what Mrs. Thompson had said, anyway. He had actually said words to her besides "good morning" and "bye" today, so he figured that might be what she meant. On the other hand, she seemed absolutely determined to make something of his letter exchanges with Sherlock (a man he had never even heard the voice of, much less met). Even if it wasn't a romantic attraction (which she had been oh-so-subtly hinting at, the wretched old hag- no no, wonderful woman who was trying to help him. Yes), she theorized it was a sort of mutual support by which the crippled ex-soldier and rejected ex-addict could continue living and overcome both of their mental illnesses.

John thought that was a load of poppycock, and had said as much. Those were the words he had uttered that made Ella Thompson declare that they were making "progress".

John was now wandering the streets of London with no purpose and no destination. He didn't like not having something to head towards, but told himself that the undefined floating would do him good. That's what that bloody therapist had said in their first session ("living a life with a single-minded purpose for so long can cause a sense of uselessness when soldiers return to civilian life, but..." and then John couldn't remember the exact words, but it was basically that a little bit of uselessness made people more flexible and it was good for the body or some rubbish like that), but John absolutely abhorred not doing anything. He was a soldier, a doctor, both professions where sitting back and doing nothing was hardly an option. And even the waiting had a purpose- waiting for the right moment to strike, waiting for medicine to take affect, waiting for the patient to either die or recover. Never just sitting, doing nothing. Like he was. Right now. On this uncomfortable bench. Right now.

Jeez, this whole civilian thing was rough.

John struggled to his feet and hobbled in a random direction, deeper into London. This was really a no-win situation; walking reminded him of his issues and injuries, not to mention it being quite the workout, but sitting still just gave him time to think and reflect. He just needed something to do.

Despite these thoughts, John sighed. Finding something to do was a slim to nothing chance for a crippled army doctor who could no longer do surgery or fight.

Spotting a crowd up ahead, the doctor decided he might as well see what was going on. He wasn't really one to shove his way to the front and demand answers, he preferred fading into the background and observing, only asking when he had absolutely no idea. That was why he didn't insert himself into the crowd, but hovered around the edges; close enough that a casual passerby would think he was part of the throng, but separated enough that he was able to observe without being jostled and pulled in by the people.

It seemed to be a crime scene. A murder, based on the grim faces around him, and either it was very grisly and word had gotten out or it was part of a serial case because the crowd was already whispering about how horrible a way to die it would be. Though none of them had bothered to say what was so terrible, so John decided not to dwell on it. He had seen too many grisly deaths; he knew better than to let his mind supply a scenario, though it would be all too eager.

After about ten minutes (in which John had discovered that there were two victims in the house, they were mutilated beyond recognition, some guy everyone referred to as "the freak" had been the only one to make any significant discoveries, and when doctors told you to rest you should probably listen because his shoulder was killing him) John decided he'd better be off. Probably to a park bench, to sulk some more, because he really didn't want to return to that bloody "recovery center". More like a prison.

Hmm. That reminded him, he could hunt down Sherlock if he got that bored. He did have the nut job's address, after all, for sending letters. He had fallen out of touch with every friend he had that wasn't in the military save for that particular genius, if Sherlock could really be called his friend. He hadn't sought out the man yet only because John was having a bit of a hard time talking to people, but he was adjusting. Maybe speaking to someone who wasn't military or ex-military (besides the bloody therapist) might do him some good.

Mind made up, John began hobbling off. After a moment he realized he had no idea where he was going and turned back.

"Excuse me, but do you know where Baker Street is?" He asked a random crowd-goer. The man did know and gave him directions. John nodded and went to head off (in the right direction this time), but didn't get more than two steps.

Because the window on the second floor in the center of the crime-scene house (the room John had figured out was where the murders had taken place thanks to the blood splatter on the glass) was flung open.

"Watson! You've been shot!"

John didn't know what made him say it. He had never heard this voice before, nor seen the tall, pale man with cheekbones that could probably cut glass. He was usually very polite to people he had never met before. He should have said something like "who are you" or "how do you know who I am". But instead, John turned to look squarely at the man in the window (who was being yelled at by a woman to "close the window, freak") and it just slipped out.

"How observant of you, Sherlock."

AN: Common sort of plot, but I hope my little twist made it a worthwhile read. I've got another chapter coming in the next few days of Sherlock's perspective.