(John POV)
"How's your blog going?"
John Hamish Watson, formally Captain John Watson, formally of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers kept his expression of bland affability in place. He had not expected his military trained expression of "whatever the fuck you say, sir" the come in useful in his civilian life. He even managed a slight smile as he replied, "Hmm, fine. No, good, very good."
Ella nods, her eyebrows rising fractionally. "Written much?" she inquires, her tone mild.
"Not a word." He keeps his tone dry but he allows his light expression to drop. There's no point really. He isn't sure why he bothered with the facade in the first place. Nor, for that matter does he know why his therapist has even asked. She must know that over the past few months, he's done little more then pull the damn thing up in his computer occasionally to stare at it. He certainly isn't going to mention his habit of absently eying his Browning a bit longer then is strictly necessary as he pulls the laptop from the drawer of his rickety table at his small, gloomy bedsit.
"John", she prods. He keeps his attention on her only out of politeness, "it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life."
John closes eyes and nods. He wonders what it's like to have a career where your job is to explain the obvious facts of someones own life to them. It is perhaps a rather cruel thought, but it's the one that has been circling his brain ever since he started coming to Ella. She's never been able to tell him anything other then what he already knows. And what's more, the pity he see's in her eyes every time he limps through her door brings a sick feeling to his stomach.
"Sure," he nods again.
"And it will help so much to write bout everything that's happening to you." Her tone is so earnest it's almost painful. Her brown eyes wide and steady.
For the first time this visit, John looks at his therapist with and replies with total honesty, "Nothing happens to me."
Later, as John exits the tube on the way to his bedsit, his mind wonders back to a more pressing issue then his lack of blog posts. Even if his supposed PTSD and limp were to miraculously disappear. He'd be still left with the problem of a crap flat and no job. He's too overqualified, and at the same time too damaged. No one in there right minds wants to hire an unstable ex-army surgeon with an intermittent tremor in his working hand.
"John?"
The name is so common that he doesn't even glance around at the sound of it at first, but then...
"John Watson!"
This time it catches his attention and he turns around in surprise. He is met by a wide, grinning face whose gaze he returns without recognition. The man is heavily overweight and is dressed in a long tan coat over a suit. He has short, curly brown hair and wears glasses.
Eagerly the man steps forward gesturing toward himself while saying, "Stamford, Mike Stamford! We were at Bart's together."
It finally clicks and John remembers a much smaller, younger man. Mike Stamford, short, enthusiastic, but thankfully not the loudest or most obnoxious of his old medical school friends. He also seems to remember the keen interest the boy had taken in everyone else's love lives, or in some cases, lack thereof.
"Yes!" The word comes out in a huff of surprise and he apologizes, "Sorry, yes. Mike, hello." He smiles genuinely and holds out his hand in greeting.
"Yeah, I know," Stamford grins and reaches up to indicate his chin. "I got fat."
"No," John protests halfheartedly shaking his head and smiling a bit.
Stanford continues blithely. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at!"
"Hmm," John has to hold back a smirk at this. It's probably the most casual way someone has brought that little tidbit up in a long while, although it freezes briefly at Mike's next words.
"What happened?"
What do you think happened? he thinks as he tries to keep the incredulity off his face. His voice is very steady when he replies, "I got shot." That's what happens. You get shot, or blown up, and then you're sent home to wonder, what the hell happens next?
Lunch was at Mike's insistence and John didn't need much persuading. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had had a decent conversation with someone other then his therapist and he wasn't sure if that even counted. She was essentially being paid to talk to him after all. In any case, it was either that or go back to the bedsit.
They ended up at a place called Citerion that John vaguely recalled bringing a girlfriend to once.
"So you still at Bart's then?" he asks.
"Teaching now," Mike replies, reaching for a piece of bread as the waitress stops at their table. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them." he adds with mock rancor.
John snorts slightly, smiling. He can picture it. Teaching suits Mike, he has the patience and the cheerful enthusiasm for it.
"What about you?" Mike asks, indicating John. "Staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"
He smiles wryly, "Can't afford London on an army pension."
"Oh I don't know , get yourself a flatshare or something?" Mike suggests, reaching for his wine.
If only it were that easy, John thinks. Leaning back in his chair he says, "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
It's meant more as a statement then a question but Mike get's an odd, far off look on his face and chuckles.
"What?" John asks.
"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." He's really smiling now. Amusement written all over his face.
John could have passed over that statement without comment. Could have written it off as an odd coincidence but, in the end, not a viable option. Years later he would sometimes winder why he didn't. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, perhaps it was the knowing look on Mike Stamford's face that made him ask, "Who was the first?"