Your stare was holdin'
Ripped jeans, skin was showin'
Hot night, wind was blowin'
- Call Me Maybe, Carly Rae Jepsen
Chapter 1 – The One Where John Is All Alone
John Watson wakes with a start. He had been dreaming again, the same old dream, or rather nightmare. Somehow the memories still come back and haunt him, not matter how hard he tries to forget. It still hurts, even after all these months of living in London, far away from the war. The war that had cost him so much.
John sits up and tries to breathe deeply and slowly. He shakes his head violently as if this movement would help to dispel the horrible memories. But they won't go away. After a few minutes he decides to get up and make himself a nice cuppa. And he should probably get something to eat as well, even though he doesn't feel hungry at all. In fact, he hasn't felt hungry since his return from Afghanistan. No. That's not completely true. He hasn't felt hungry since the day he got shot, the day he lost so much.
Leaning on his crutch, John slowly makes his way to the kitchen. His trembling left hand makes it really difficult to pour the hot water into his cup. He spills some onto the floor, but cannot be bothered to mop it up. It doesn't make any difference, really. On the way back to his room, he picks up an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table, even though he knows that he will just leave it on his desk, untouched.
After putting down his cup of tea and sitting down at his table, he opens the topmost drawer and takes out his red laptop. He switches it on. And then he just sits there, staring at the screen, not moving a muscle. He stares and stares and stares, while his tea slowly cools.
His therapist told him he should run a blog. Writing down what happened to him every day would help him to cope with what had happened in Afghanistan. There is just one flaw in this otherwise entirely flawless plan: nothing ever happens to John.
Since his return to England, John spends every day doing exactly the same: he gets up (often after only four or five hours of sleep, thanks to the recurring nightmares), spends some time staring at his laptop, goes out to get some lunch (even though he has no idea why he even bothers), takes a nap for two hours (if you can call waking up after ten minutes of light sleep, trembling all over from nightmares he doesn't even remember a nap), goes for a walk (just so he can escape the loneliness and emptiness of his small apartment), and finally tries to read a book or watch a movie, but gives up every time after a couple of minutes. Three times a week he goes to see his therapist, but he doesn't have the feeling that he's making any progress. How could she possibly understand what he's going through, she with her happy marriage and her two wonderful children and her detached house with the garden that goes all the way down to that little creek?
Nobody could possibly understand what John is going through, not even his family. Especially not his family. There are so many things they don't know about him. There are so many things they shouldn't know about him. Some things are better left unsaid. Right after his return from Afghanistan, John had thought about talking to his family. After his dad's sudden and quite unexpected death two years ago, things are a bit easier. His mum probably would understand him. But John doesn't want to face her and tell her the truth. He doesn't want to complicate her life. And Harry? Harry tried to help him, all right. But John turned down her help, partly because he is too proud, partly because he doesn't approve of the way his sister treaded her wife during their divorce. And the drinking. John mostly disapproves of his sister because of the drinking. He can't even remember the last time he saw her sober.
Later that day, John goes for a walk. It's a rather cold evening in November, around six. It's nearly completely dark. But John doesn't mind the darkness; he quite likes it, in fact. It makes him feel safe and protected. Today, he decides to walk up the hill near his apartment. From up there, he has an excellent view over the city.
It seems as if there is more life in the city during the first few hours of the night than during the day. All the lights are glistening, twinkling, sparkling, some bright and dazzling, some warm and inviting, some so brilliantly white that even glancing at them is worse than staring directly into the sun on a very clear summer's day, others shining in all the shades of orange, from amber to gold, from ochre to peach. Sometimes, it is even possible to spot small blue and violet dots in this sea of glittering, shiny white and orange lights. John often counts those blue and violet lights, because the colours remind him of a pair of eyes that are long gone. And when he's done counting, his own eyes wader to the flashing red beacons enthroned on the tops of the highest glass towers, keeping watch over their buildings and, so it would seem, over the whole city, looking down on lively streets.
Those streets themselves wind, meander their way through the city, through canyons made of glass and steel, brick and clay, like enormous veins, pulsating with life and noise. They are clearly distinguishable against all the small dots of light, coming out of the windows alongside their path. Some of them even manage to shine brighter than all the blazing white lights and burn brilliantly until they reach the outskirts and slowly begin to fade away into the impenetrable darkness surrounding this sea of street lamps, traffic lights and lit windows. John often wonders what it would be like to live behind one of those windows with a family or at least one person who cares about him. And sometimes he wonders what would happen if he would just follow one of those streets, leave the city and never look back.
Only one element of the scenery remains truly dark and calm and peaceful: one river moves majestically, sublimely beautiful through the heart of the city, untouched and unimpressed by all the hustle and bustle framing it. Even the frail attempts to make it a part of the lively surroundings are destined to fail; the few feeble lights floating on the tranquil surface of the river are swallowed by all the darkness and silence, for the heartbeat of the city does not spread as far as to the vast amounts of water in its midst. This is the true soul, the true essence of life – without it, the city would not be able to survive; sooner or later it would perish. John sometimes smiles when he thinks about this. It's not a happy smile; it's full of sadness and regret. John is like the city without its river. He lost his river, his soul, his essence of life.
Nobody could possibly understand what John is going through, not even his friends. John Watson doesn't have friends. He doesn't need friends. He decided that while he was still in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had taught him that having friends (and, in one case, more than a friend) just led to suffering and despair. He couldn't possibly go through all that again, all the misery, the sorrow, the anguish, the pain. No, alone is what John Watson has. Alone protects him.