1. Ever Lasting Love

performed by Natalie Cole

My life, up until the day I met him, had been pretty normal. Ordinary. Type of life where nothing exciting ever happens. I mean, yes, I'd been to war and had been shot. Invalided home. But that was the most exciting thing that had ever happened, and I wouldn't recommend it. Before that, pretty straightforward track, decent student, good at rugby, went to medical school, joined the army, but nothing out of the ordinary.

I first saw him about three months before the events that changed my life take place. He was coming out of a Criterion's. Looked a little odd, it did, posh bloke like that, expensive coat, leather gloves, brolly, kind that probably had his name engraved on it somewhere. He was holding a coffee in one hand, juggling his brolly with the other whilst he tried to bite into a rather large pastry, leaving little flecks of icing sugar on his lips and chin. Even though it wasn't something I often thought of about blokes, preferring women most of the time, I mean I'd had my fair share of both, but with men it was usually straightforward, a 'want to shag? All right' and then it's all done and dusted, but this man, you could tell he was a keeper, the marrying kind. Or so I thought at the time. I wanted to walk up to him, place my hand on his shoulder, go up on my toes (he's a lot taller than me) and lick that sugar right off of his mouth. He'd look at me with those piercing blue eyes, smooth back his dark auburn hair and he'd ask me in a low voice, "Would you fancy coming around to my posh house and spending the night?" and of course I'd say yes and we'd scurry off and he'd let me get my leg over, if you take my meaning.

So I sat and watched him, wistful like, Natalie Cole singing Ever Lasting Love in my head (which is weird as I am more of an Aretha Franklin, not that Natalie's shabby) and watched him struggle a bit and I was actually in the processing of working my way off of the bench and hobbling over (my leg see, psychosomatic limp on top of the dodgy shoulder, but that's another story) when an enormous black car pulled up, and an absolutely gorgeous woman got out and held the door for him. I could tell she was his PA or something and not his date because seriously she never once took her eyes from her Blackberry, pecking away at it and looked at him. Who wouldn't want to bask in the glow of that? So he gets in and is whisked away somewhere important, probably banking or stock exchange, maybe a lawyer and I am left sitting there, bum getting cold.

I mean, it was ridiculous, right? He'd never even looked away from his pastry let alone across the street to where I sat, but I felt a connection like it meant something. Enough for a loser that showed up every day for a week to see if he returned and he did but only on Tuesday and Thursday. I kind of stalked him a bit after and sure enough twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday he comes out of Criterion, coffee in one hand, sometimes brolly, always a pastry and get into a car.

And I would sit there and imagine a better life.

But like I said.

Nothing ever happens to me.

The day of Christmas Eve was bit warmer than usual, and John was grateful. He still needed time to acclimate to the damp cold of London. Being a Thursday, a large portion was spent sitting on his usual bench. The sun on his face, a cooling cup of coffee in one hand, paperback in the other, he waited. A pathetic sort of hope ran through his veins. He longed for one brief glimpse. Bleakness had been a companion for so long that this small thing, this tiny taste of something that might happen, sort of helped him through the rest of the week. Even though nothing would come of it, even though he'd get his heart kicked again, he had nowhere else to be.

He glanced at his watch and frowned. The man was late. He was never late. Perhaps, being as it was Christmas, he had gone away, out of town or perhaps something had come up. Maybe he'd even changed coffee shops. John gave himself a little shake, said to himself, "Right, time to give it up, mate, it would never have worked out." Take it as a sign to move on. He shifted a bit as if to stand up when he saw him coming out of the Criterion usual coffee and pastry in hand. He was just about to take a bite and then it happened.

There was a noise John hadn't for several months, one he certainly didn't associate with London, but with Afghanistan. There was a scream and shattering glass, and the man had crumpled to the pavement.

With reflexes he was sure had been lost in the desert with the bullet that had taken him down, John raced through oncoming traffic to reach the side of the man, and he did it in spite of a pounding heart and the wish to quiet the sudden influx of Afghani related noises creeping through his head. He checked the man carefully, efficiently, airway, breath, circulation. His own respiration picked up a bit when he saw the small round red stain on the man's chest which was slowly getting bigger, just above his heart and oddly near the same location as John's own scar. John wasn't even aware of yelling instruction at the shell-shocked pedestrians to dial 999 and was applying what manner of first aid he could.

The man groggily opened his eyes. Looked at John, smiled a little oddly. Jon said calmly, "It will be okay I've got you." The man's eyes rolled back in his head, and he was out.

He didn't see the long, black car; he didn't see the gorgeous PA or hear her speaking rather calmly into her Blackberry. He did see the ambulance and gave instruction to the paramedics. A large grey haired man, tall and rather gorgeous came up to him as John's patient/love of his life was being placed in the ambulance. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and asked John a few questions about what he'd seen and what had happened.

John responded wearily, the adrenalin crash rushing through him faster than it use to. God, he was out of shape. He felt a bit dizzy and was going to need to sit down. In fact, he was lying on the ground, and he didn't know how he got there.

"It's all right," said the DI, "Most aren't use to that sort of action. Takes one by surprise."

John laughed a bit, a quiet, sad little chuckle. "You wouldn't know it, but I was an army doctor. I am used to this, but it's been a while."

"Come on then mate, why don't I take you to the hospital, they can check you over, and you can find out about how your patient is doing. See if he's okay. I'm sure he'll pull through."

John was so tired, and there was still the sound of buzzing in his head. He was having trouble keeping the flashbacks at bay, doing his deep breathing and he realised he was shaking. He didn't even really hear himself say. "I was going to marry him."