In the middle of London, a small, claustrophobic rented room holding a bed, desk, and dresser, has become a sauna as its occupant twists and turns in his sleep. A soft grunt, a whisper of fear, the man is trapped in his sweat-dampened bedsheets, face screwed up tight against the moments playing out behind his closed eyelids. Gunfire, dust and smoke, flashes of grenades and shouting voices pound through his brain as though he is there again, reliving the horror and the shame of taking lives, of losing them, of staunching blood from gaping wounds and hearing the muffled cries of those in pain, of the dying.
When a bomb goes off, you see it first, an explosion of whiteness that lights up a darkened battlefield. Then the sound hits, and it stuns you. You cower, you hide. Everything goes white. The speed of light is faster than the speed of sound.
Dr. John H. Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his rented bed. It takes but a moment for him to realise that he's not in Afghanistan anymore, but in London, in a cheaply rented flat. He closes his eyes for a moment, willing his heart to stop pounding, for his hands to stop shaking. His breathing is laboured and it takes long minutes for him to calm it. Eventually, unable to stop it, he begins to weep.
It takes a lot out of you, a war. Not only because he was injured; a bullet wound to the left shoulder. No. It's the horrific images he remembers. The anxiety, the rush. The adrenaline.
He loved the adrenaline.
Okay, not where your thoughts should go. Let's stop this right there.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, John switches on the bedside lamp. It's still full-dark, and so he sits quietly, wrapped in his own thoughts, staring at the metal cane leaning against the desk across the small room. A grimace crosses his face.
Bloody leg.
He won't be sleeping again tonight. Not if he can help it.
Time passes, and he doesn't move, only watches the sliver of sunlight begin to show in the gap between the curtains. Deep purple, dull grey, then finally, white morning sunlight that leaves patterns on the floor.
He wraps himself in an oatmeal-coloured dressing gown and limps across the room picking his cane up in the process. His face is tired and haggard, scruff on his chin, light brown hair matted with dried sweat, blue eyes surrounded by dark circles. Making himself a mug of tea from the little maker on the dresser, he turns back to the desk, setting the cup down. The mug, bearing the arms of the Royal Army Medical Corps, almost seems to glare at him from it's resting place. He ignores it.
Opening the desk drawer, John pulls out an old laptop, beneath it, a British Army L9A1 Browning Unmodified rests, fully loaded. He ignores this, too. Guns don't disturb him. Maybe they should.
John loads the laptop to his new blog, The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson. The title is the only thing on the page, the rest blank. He has no idea where to begin, nor does he really want to. Leaving things where they lie inside is the best way to forget, or so he tells himself. It's too painful, opens too many old wounds, pun intended. He gives a snort of derisive laughter, and slams the laptop cover shut.
"How's your blog going?" Ella, his therapist, asks. Her legs are crossed as she leans in her chair. Fairly relaxed, and focused entirely on him.
John shifts uncomfortable within his chair.
"Yeah, good," he clears his throat. "Very good."
Ella eyes him with scrutiny. "You haven't written a word, have you." It isn't a question; it's a statement.
"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'."
"And you read my writing upside down. D'you see what I mean?"
He smiles, a bit awkwardly, but it's genuine. She's smart. Too bad she's his therapist. He likes smart women.
She continues, "John, you're a soldier, and it's gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."
It feels like a chasm has opened up in his heart, an ugly monster within waiting for him to start reliving his memories on paper — albeit digital paper — before it makes it's final attack. Before it truly kills him this time.
"Nothing happens to me," he says.