A/N: If you spot historical inaccuracies, LET ME KNOW so I can fix them! Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!

Prologue

The thing John missed most about home was the tea. It was an old brew, certainly nothing to, hah, write home about, but it was comforting and strong and very English. It wasn't anything typically to miss in the scrum of combat training and medical emergencies that were his current method of operation.

To be honest, there were many other things he should have thought about. Bill Murray, a couple bunks down, complained loudly and long about the potato stew they were served on Thursday nights and rhapsodized about his wife's famous goulash to anyone who would listen. Dave Anderson, a decidedly greasy piece of humanity and with about as much backbone as a banana, sparked some empathy within John when he spoke of his sweetheart Sally back home. Even little Tommy Dimmock, not even twenty, who missed his mum so much that he was physically sick the first week at training, had better things to miss than John.

But John had no one, certainly no woman waiting for him to swan on home in his uniform. His relationships had been abrupt and whirlwind; he was by no means a virgin, but the women he had grown up with had certainly influenced what he thought was important about a relationship. Lieutenant John Watson Senior, combat medic, had been killed in the Battle of the Somme saving a life, leaving Margaret Watson with two children, Harriet at seven and John at three.

Nearly thirty years later, John couldn't remember the last time he had seen Harriet. Probably at Mum's funeral, scant months after he had completed his medical degree. Harry had looked miserable, but not for the obvious reasons, clinging desperately to Cyril's arm and slurring her words worse than ever, the neck of a bottle obviously protruding from her bag, eyes red and puffy from lack of sleep rather than any real sentiment.

John hadn't said more than ten words to Harry, watching the entire spectacle with the first attempt at his rock-solid demeanor he perfected when he went into the military to pay for his education. Many of his commanding officers recognized his name, and some were kind to the young man following in his father's footsteps to save lives and be a great man just like his Da.

But that was not what John wanted.

John wanted completion. He wanted to be able to solve problems quickly and efficiently, with the minimum amount of fuss, and with a minimal amount of cleanup to do afterward. This attitude spilled into his work, and while promotion had been within his grasp for almost a year, his commanding officers were wary of him. His methods were certainly capable of saving lives, but they were completely unorthodox and in some cases dangerous. After the third denial of promotion, John swallowed, gritted his teeth, and dully settled into what he knew would be his occupation for the rest of the war, perhaps the rest of his life, a fully trained combat medic with everything but the combat.

His mandatory marksmanship records brought him to the attention of one man. This man, referred to in all conversations as the Inspector, came to one such practice of marksmanship, gray eyes narrowed as he watched the medical man empty a clip into the head and heart of a dummy with almost perfect accuracy, then with equal precision when practicing shoot to injure, not kill, landing shots on kneecaps, through shoulders, and clipping the waist and hip on either side of the target without a second thought.

As John cleaned his gun, he saw the Inspector watching him. The man gestured, and John followed him out into the hallway. Not seeing anything to salute, John folded his arms, looking him in the eye with that solid, rock-like set to his jaw that made his superiors nervous.

"Sir."

The man did not return the courtesy, gazing at him with cold eyes. "You're a fully trained combat surgeon who is wasting his time treating sore shoulders and minor lacerations as your superiors are impressed and yet distressed at your somewhat unorthodox methods to combat medicine. Your father served in the Great War, but you are not acting out of a sense of familial intent, but rather wish to make your own way in the world and make it away from your family, not particularly difficult with a drunkard sister. You are easily impatient with the shilly-shallying of the full operating theater which is why you maintain your current situation."

John blinked. "I suppose you read that information in my file. You've got one, don't you? All you government types have some sort of dossier, right?"

"Just your marksmanship scores, John." There was a hint of a smile, appearing feral in the fluorescent light of the hallway. "I believe you are in a similar situation to that of a small group of men I have been recruiting for the past six months. You are all impatient with how things are currently, and you are willing to do whatever it takes to get to that next step in the fight against Hitler. Perhaps your motivation is that you wish to avoid waste; another's might be for a different, but no less valid, reason."

John didn't flinch, not so much as blink this time. "I want to know who's been saying all this."

The Inspector sighed, and John felt he had failed some sort of test. "I observe." He leaned closer, gesturing to a piece of paper with WATSON, J in large capital letters across the top. "Combat medics content in their occupation, particularly combat medics still stationed on this side of the Channel, do not attain scores like these."

John shrugged. "It's fulfilling. Pays the bills." The almost unnoticeable tightening of the muscles in his jaw spoke otherwise, as the Inspector observed them, and rebutted coolly.

"And you know that's a farce." The man smiled and handed him a manila envelope. "Captain Watson, knowing this is a volunteer mission behind enemy lines with little chance of survival, do you accept these orders to join this elite commando team?"

The words slipped from his mouth before he could help himself. "Oh, God yes."