Fanfic:
As he sat down, John set his luke warm cup of tea down on his bare wooden desk. His apartment wasn't much. A small flat just outside of London, it was all he could afford on his meager army pension. And when he said small, he meant small. Constructed of barely two rooms, the bedroom (his bed), the study (a desk) and the kitchen (a small stove and water sink) were crammed together in two small "rooms" maybe 20 square meters in total. Overall, a tiny space.
He didn't particularly like living here, it wasn't central and it wasn't plentiful, but it was enough, and his bed was relatively comfortable. That was, when he wasn't having nightmares. Well nightmares would be the wrong word, really, more like remembered fantasies. The excitement, the thrill of the warzone, the constant feeling that anything could happen, he could die and be shot, and the adrenaline that coursed through his veins as a result remained locked into him, a memory he could only access through a somewhat uninterrupted sleep. Anyhow, his bed didn't have anything to do with his memories, except for the fact it had been paid for out of the tiny army pension he was allowed.
He didn't keep much in his rooms either- didn't own much to keep. He had long- ago lost any important photographs, both parents having died when he was little, spending his adolescent life in an orphanage with his sister and graduating from this place only to discover that his sister would become and alcoholic. Nothing worth remembering. Sure, he'd had people he was close to in the army, but he didn't want to think that tomorrow they might be killed in a bomb explosion or something equally and horrifically unavoidable. Harsh it was, but that was the reality of war.
Aside from his mug, the only other things John owned were his gun, (kept as a souvenir from Afghanistan) and his laptop- an old model- bought before he left for his last season in the army. And he owned a rather inconvenient scar and limp, and cane, of course, to help him walk.
But where this story really begins, is in a park. Limping down his usual walk in a park near his house, John had stumbled across an old friend from medical school.
"John" He thought he'd heard his name but it was a common name and could've been anyone, so he kept walking. "John Watson!", although, presumably, a few other people owned this name, the park was quite clear, so the shout could only have been intended for him. He looked up, and saw a balding, middle aged man sitting the bench he had just ambled past. Taking a few moments to place this familiar face, John turned to face the man.
"Stamford. Mike Stamford" the man smiled as he shook John's hand jovially, "we were at Bart's together!"
Ah, Mike, an old friend. It was the last thing he needed. To talk to someone who knew him for who he wasn't. Things had changed since then. Very much. Mike seemed to be fatter.
"I heard you were bored somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"
"I got shot." John replied curtly, but he didn't mind so much having a small chat with the man. It was good to get some social interaction after all the time he had spent cooped up in his flat, recovering from well it wasn't war trauma, quite the opposite in fact, and a limp which his psychiatrist called psychosomatic. He thought she was wrong on that account though.
John exhaled pleasurably enjoying the vague richness of the cheap coffee they had bought. It turned out Mike was still at Barts and seemed to be happy with his life. How lucky he was.
"staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked John, reminding John of his tiny, dark flat and only slightly comfortable bed.
"I can't afford London on an army pension" John had replied, curt again, Mike, unconsciously, making him feel uncomfortable about his ruined and lonely life. Mike noticed John's embarrassment and suggested he found a flatmate.
At this ridiculous suggestion he'd laughed, "c'mon, who'd want me for a flatmate."
Curiously, Mike started laughing. Why would he be laughing? "you're the second person to say that to me today."
"Who was the first?"