Author's note: English isn't my native language. I'm painfully aware of that. I tried my best so hopefully it isn't trash, but if there is a good soul who would like to look this over and free my writing from mistakes I would be incredibly grateful (along with all English readers here I suppose).

Boredom noun [u] – the state of being bored.

Even definition of his current state of mind was dull. Everything that day was tedious. Constant rain, people with umbrellas almost running from dampness surrounding them, passing cars, that kid jumping in every pound to his mother disapproval… Dull. Boring. Utterly uninteresting.

Sherlock was sitting on bench overlooking park, waiting. For what exactly, he had no idea. But being bored out of his mind, he didn't have a better things to do anyway. Surely something shall happened here, in one of busy streets of London, today. It was an itch under his skin. That feeling ordinary people called a hunch. What an awful word. What an awful motivation for getting drenched in a shower.

Nothing happened for hours. His wet Belfast weighted on his shoulders. No reason to keep sitting there. But also no reason to move. People-watching was boring, but less boring than wall-watching.

And… there. Finally something, someone, interesting. He didn't have an umbrella for once but despite that he walked slowly. As if getting wet all over was the last of his worries. Short, sand blond hair, now drenched and sticking to his head, were cut in military fashion. He had kind of spring in his march, even with that cane of his. Former soldier, obviously. Should be incredibly dull, but something was there. Sherlock could feel it, almost put a finger on this one observation which was jelling "Different". More data needed.

Sherlock rouse, slowly straightening his long limbs, muscles a little sore form cold and staying in one position for too long. Small grin found way to his lips. Hunting time. He hadn't pick-pocketed anyone in long time and military men, even invalided, were usually more conscious about their surroundings than other people. So a challenge. It should be fun.

One incidental bump with stranger and his wallet belonged to Sherlock. Easy. Dull. Multicolored eyes looked at new gained evidence. Item was evidently well-loved. Leather had fraying and cracks indicating that it had been in use for long time now. Inside carefully organized lied documents, cards and a little notes about what-not. Sherlock briefly looked though them. John Hamish Watson, then. Army Doctor, had been honorary invalided due to injury, had a psychologist. PTSD?

Sherlock throw a glance over his shoulder. The soldier was standing now, talking with someone through phone. He hadn't sat on bench two steps away, nor he leaned more on the cane. Psychosomatic limp probably…

'No, I do not need your help, Harry!' A forceful yell reached Sherlock's ears. His eyebrows went up. More interesting. Note in wallet said that its owner just had job interview. Judging by John's looks right now, it couldn't possibly went well, but he still refused help, even though it was obvious that he could use it. The man's whole posture right now screamed that he was done. Done with being invalid, out of fight, with being cuddled and fussed over. With being bored.

Ah. Just what Sherlock needed. With a smirk he took a pen out of one of his Belfast's pockets and started writing on contents of John H. Watson's wallet.

Conversation with his sister went as good as he expected. She was concerned of course, as always. Normally John had been finding her worries laughable or irksome, today they were simply unbearable. So what if he hadn't got that job? She was alcoholic and adulterer who destroyed what could be happy marriage and good life. Who she thought she was to try and mess with his life too and said he could use it!

After a few deep breaths and short consideration he had to admit that he wasn't doing well since his discharge. He wasn't doing well at all. He couldn't be doctor anymore, he couldn't get any job really, he could barely walk, for fucks sake.

John was looking at disconnection screen on his good-will-from-his-sister phone with dead eyes. It was official – he was useless.

"Sir?" A light touch on his shoulder made John look up from phone in his hands. Tall man was holding familiar wallet.

And now he had lost his money and documents in one go. Wonderful. He couldn't longer live like this. He will make last effort and listen to whatever this stranger has to say, he will go to his bedsit, get his gun and…

"Before you make any rush decision, like blowing your mind, for example, you should check your wallet." The man handed him mentioned item over with a smirk and when he took it, stranger just turned on his heel and went away in brisk march.

"Wha… Wait!" John cried, already in motion, trying to catch up with strange man, but his leg wouldn't let him walk quite that quickly. The desperate plea went ignored.

"See you later, Dr. Watson" yelled stranger over his shoulder and there was amusement in his voice.

Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers stopped perplexed and watched tall figure until it vanished from his sight. Streams of rain were mercilessly hitting figure standing still on park path.

John felt as shiver run along his spine. His clothes were beyond simply wet, they were dripping. He was going to get sick, the cold making his immune system weaker. Former soldier finally moved and feeling strangely numb went to his, hated with whole heart, bedsit. Later he couldn't remember how he ended up there, the whole way was blur. But the memory of sitting on his bed with his service gun in left hand and the wallet in the other was crystal clear.

The gun looked almost bright new. John kept it clean at all times. By now it was part of his going to bed routine – have shower, wear clean t-shirt and pants, clean and oil the gun, star in a barrel for some time, lie gun down in bedside cabinet, go to sleep. John didn't want to think too closely about implications of his behavior. He hadn't even named the thought until today.

The stranger knew. How did he know probably will stay mystery to John forever. But who was the man? His guardian angel? Ridiculous. He was only typical passer-by, right? But how did he know?

"Check your wallet" the stranger asked and John Watson was currently staring at said wallet like it was his last beacon of light in dark sea of feeling weak, useless and so, so much alone.

But what if the man was only taunting him, what if inside there was no note, what if pathetic contents of his wallet will only laugh at him again?

"Get a grip, Watson." Sound of quiet, carefully blank words echoed in sad, bare room. "You can always choose the gun later."

His hands were shaking slightly, but first time since his discharge he was sure the tremor wasn't due to his injured shoulder, but hope. Useless, naïve hope there was something better for him, that it wasn't an end of John Watson just yet.

Finally he opened the simple leather wallet. The first thing he noticed was note on his therapist card. "Fire her immediately. She don't know shit. (Partly due to your silence, mostly because she's an idiot.) You aren't haunted by war, you miss it."

John lifted an eyebrow, corner of his mouth lifting slightly against his will. "Not helpful so far, but nice nonetheless" he thought, looking for another messages.

Next note the stranger had written on his job interview reminder.

"You should feel lucky you managed to not to get such dull job. You would be driven mad by the end of first week anyway."

Yeah, John supposed that was accurate comment. He was an army surgeon, sorting mail would drive him insane with boredom. The stranger seemed to know awful lot about him. John started to wonder if he had ever met the man before.

"If you are interested, come at noon to Backer Street 221B. I will make sure Mrs. Hudson get you special deal on rent, so you'll be able to afford it on your pathetic army pension. I advise you to take the offer, buy some nice things with the extra card in your wallet and look for job that will actually interest you. Get a grip on your life, Dr. Watson.

Sherlock Holmes"

John was pretty sure his jaw hit wooden floor at the sight of last message. It looked so innocent, elegant blue letters on back of his last shopping list.

Sherlock Holmes. The man who he met mere hour or two ago was the Sherlock Holmes? He haven't been what rumors said, that's for sure. If he indeed was feared mob boss, why would he help somebody as damaged as invalided soldier. What was the catch? Was it some sick joke? But the stran… Mr. Holmes seemed to know so much about him.

John throw one last glance at the gun in his left hand before putting it back in bedside table's drawer. He would see if the message was true tomorrow. The gun will be waiting, should he come back disappointed.

Another note:

I hope you had good read.

If you liked the story, give me some sign. If you don't, tell me. It's my first try writing in English and I'm sure there are lots of things I can learn yet.