Prologue
Month after Sherlock's funeral
Mrs Hudson watched sadly how Watson closed his small suitcase.
"Are you sure?" She asked third time that day and John nodded.
"I can't… I have to go." He said, observing his room what had been his real home after Afghanistan for some time. But now there was just memories, happy but painful memories what he wanted to forget.
"But to Africa?" Mrs Hudson asked, again. John stepped closer and hugged her. "It's so far away." His landlady sniffed.
"Exactly." John whispered on her ear.
"It's a war zone!" Mrs Hudson cried. John closed his eyes, pushing back his tears.
"I know. I'm used to it." John tried to smile surely, but Mrs. Hudson shook her head and asked again. "Are you sure?"
How much John wanted to say that no, he wasn't. But he wanted to leave. He just has to. The pain in his chest was just too much to bear right now. Being somewhere else, helping people, which was good choice to do.
"Yes. I… I come back. Someday. Now I just can't stay and… I'm used to war and there are people who need help. I fit there perfectly. It's only two years, and then I'm back." John promised and grabbed the bag. Mrs Hudson eyed him.
"Just sent me messages that I know that you are… alive."
John couldn't say anything. He placed a gentle kiss on her cheek and was gone before he saw Mrs Hudson's tears.
Next three month she regularly received a message from John. Then they suddenly stopped coming. Month later she received a message from MSF that John H. Watson was missing due the attack on small African village. He was saved all the children from the hospital. No one believed that he was alive.
#
Six month after the funeral
"Do something!" Sherlock yelled to his brother who just calmly stared back.
"I have already done what I can. And I can't do anything more. You know that." Mycroft said quietly. Sherlock stormed to the window and watched how the snow covered the land.
"So he's dead. And it's my fault." Sherlock whispered finally. Mycroft eyed his brother and shook his head. "It was his choice to leave. He wanted to help people. And he was a soldier; he knew what he was doing."
"Did he? Did he really? If I hadn't faked my death, he had never left. Why I didn't told him?" Sherlock pressed his forehead against the window.
"You protected him from..."
"How? Was this protected by me?" Sherlock roared and his hand wiped the nearest flower vase on the floor. Mycroft shook his head again but didn't said anything. He watched his brother's grief and felt sorry. After John had came along with Sherlock, everything was slowly chanced around his brother. Mycroft was watched how Sherlock was chanced. And because of that Sherlock was pretended his own death, left everything, knowing that someday he would gain it all back. And now this; John, his best friend has left and killed.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I miss him too." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock stared the broken vase. John is gone, was his only though and he couldn't believe it.
#
18 month later
Warm water drops covered him when he stood still under the shower and let the water push away all the stiffness. He couldn't say how long he was there, not thinking anything, just feeling. The tears mixed with water until there was nothing left and he finally turned the shower off and wrapped himself with a towel. When he walked barefoot drying his too long hair into the living room he stopped and nodded his greetings to Mycroft who sat Sherlock's chair waiting him.
Of course Mycroft knew that he was back.
"Good to see you again." John smiled warmly and sat.
"Good to see you too. I though that we lost you." Mycroft's eyes studied the younger man front of him. The old shoulder wound was gained some new companion. There was old burning marks and lot of scars. He noticed two missing toe. But the worst was the red scar on the back. How John was survived? Again.
"I though so too for a moment." John's eyes wandered off and Mycroft saw the sadness and the hardness what last two years had built there. Mycroft hesitated. Now when he had seen John, he didn't knew was this right thing to do, but he leaned forward over his umbrella. "I've got a job offer for you."
"I just came back Mycroft." John sighed not looking the man.
"It can't wait."
"Why?" Now John's eyes locked him and Mycroft tried to keep himself as cold as ice front of those eyes. What kind of hell he had gone through? He didn't know details.
"Because the plane leave tomorrow, and you should be there then."
"What plane?"
"The plane what will take you there where you can train yourself that you can work for me." Now it was said.
"I just came back." John repeated and Mycroft retreated and he casually rolled the umbrella. What to do? John could say no after everything. And because he was Sherlock's brother.
"I offer you a war John. A war beside of me. Something what you haven't experienced yet. I know and I can guess rest that you have seen too much in your lifetime, too much different kind of wars. If you are up to some more, be here tomorrow." Mycroft rose and put the neatly folded paper on the table. Then he stopped beside of John and smiled. His hand touched the shoulder lightly.
"We missed you John."
"But you still ask me to leave again."
"It's your choice, like always. I'm offering this occasion to you because I think we will need you someday. And, because what you have gone through you are too valuable to us to lose you for some pity small clinic. Again."
Oh, he had been too late last time after Sherlock's death.
"Mycroft." John's voice was now hard and Mycroft noticed the silent warning. "I'm a doctor."
"Not anymore John. Not anymore." Mycroft's voice was dry like sand that John still could feel under his feet. How he hated and loved it.
"Did you told anyone? About me?" John asked.
"No. Not to anyone" Not even Sherlock, Mycroft almost added. "Everyone still think that you are missing, and probably dead. Did you?"
"Not even Harry know. When I came I just wanted to be in peace, alone for a moment."
"I though so."
"And still you are here, offering a job." John almost laughed. Almost. Mycroft looked away.
"But I will found you other job, as a doctor, if you really want it. Your choice. Goodbye."
John didn't rose and walked him to the door. He just sat, not feeling the cold what slowly crept to full the empty room. He was used to the cold and warmness what burned. And the darkness. Not anyone who really recognized him knew that he was back in London, that he was after all alive almost two years after his disappearance in Africa.
He finally rose and walked there where his minor belongings were. He took the silver medallion and opened it.
"Mary." He whispered and smiled at the picture. "I promised to you that I will not give up. I'm afraid that if I stay I will give up eventually, being here, at home. I get your testament yesterday. You made me really wealthy man. I could just be, but you know me. Too many ghosts behind me to face. I afraid that I can't do that just yet. Too eager to war. Forgive me that I leave again."
And that was it.
Next morning he was waiting eagerly to see what next.
Mycroft was there. They watched how the people walked over the small empty field and stepped inside the private plane.
"You knew that I would come."
"Yes. I know you Doctor John Hamish Watson. Even after what you went through in Afghanistan and with Sherlock and in Africa, you are soldier with bottom up."
"How long?"
"Maybe six month. After that you will come as my personal assistant with Anthea."
"Like Anthea?" John's eyebrow rose a little.
"Nothing like Anthea. Although that she can kill by his little finger, you will be come my weapon John."
John though a moment. What a hell he was doing?
"And what happened to your last weapon?"
Mycroft sighed. "I don't lie to you John. She got killed on a job. You are only scratched the surf of my world when you were with Sherlock, running around the city and the country like a mad men what you were."
"And still you offer me this job."
Mycroft spun around, stepped forward, halted and smiled, tilting his head a little.
"And still you are willing to take it."
John grinned.
"Holmes, never expecting anything less."
Mycroft whirled his umbrella walking away. "See you again dear Watson."
John watched him leave and the plane what was ready to leave. "And here I go again."
MSF = Medecins Sans Frontieres (doctors without borders)