John has strange dreams sometimes. They're bright and hot, like the desert, but despite the hyper-saturated colors there constantly seems to be a fog over everything, some white sheen that covers the world, making the objects in it out of focus. These dreams have no particular sense or plot – or, otherwise, John simply can't remember it once he wakes up—but they do contain a strange, almost symbolic feeling. Wild animals roam through them, usually tigers, and he can never figure out what these images mean.
He never used to dream like this before the war. As a young medical student the closest his dreams got to surreal was when they contained some ancient disease that no one knew about or an abnormal contortion of the human body. But these were few and far between. The strange visions began to haunt him a few months after his first deployment. They were unobtrusive at first, barely memorable. The way hings blur in the heat and the sand, under enemy fire, there was little time to think about these things. When John finally noticed the constant presents of tigers in his subconscious, he tried to shrug it off as an effect of the environment.
Vicious deeds, vicious beasts. And all of it in a haze of sand and blood, drying up in the stifling desert heat.
Jake Brigman brings up the topic as they ride in the back of a truck from outpost to base. Jake generally brings up all sorts of nonsense even at the most inappropriate times so no one pays any mind. "What made you decide to come here?"
"Don't be dense. No one choses to come here."
"You know what I mean. To the army." Somehow he manages to press some of the younger kids to talk. They've all got their own stories. Some went because they thought the money would be better, more stable here than what they could get working some meaningless job at home, some because it was a "family thing" and others out of a misguided sense of idealism which they tried to disguise under various pretexts.
"What about you, Watson?"
"Hm?" John looks up. He'd barely been paying attention. "Oh I don't know. Good place to get lots of experience, I suppose." He shrugs. "Besides, where else is a doctor most needed?"
The rest of them mutter approval and John leans back against the side of the carrier, thinking. He had never thought much of his decision to join the army. His decision to be a doctor, on the opposite, had been easy – he'd always been good at the science, not so bad at math and not very good at much of anything else. He enjoyed working with people and wanted to help them. But when it came time to open his own practice or chose a specialization, he'd faltered. Nothing seemed to appeal to him so much that he could imagine his entire life there.
Harry had started drinking around that time and John desperately wanted to get away from the situations his sister kept dragging him into. It started out innocently enough – she would convince him to go for a drink and then they would spiral off on some barely-legal adventure. But John could always stop. Harry couldn't. So John tried to get out before she dragged him down along with her but once he'd left, there was constantly a feeling like something was missing. At first John thought he missed his sister, but then realized that what he missed was the motion that Harry constantly put him into. Constantly saving her from trouble was even more addictive than the drinking itself.
The connection between that and the army must have been subconscious at the time, but now John wonders if that is truly why he is here – because sitting still has never been a skill of his.
Since their last time at base, things had changed somewhat. There are certainly new people. Some units had left, others joined up. John makes pleasant with everyone as is his general manner.
Colonel Moran drives him crazy.
There's always that one commander who exhibits both a streak of perpetual cruelty but also an uncanny competence which makes it difficult to refuse his demands. Their previous indiscretions make the entire situation even worse. John tells himself it doesn't matter. One of them will get orders soon enough and leave for another outpost.
"Are you avoiding me, Watson?" Moran asks, finding John smoking outside one night. Smoking is another bad habit that John picked up in the war.
"No." John notices Moran's sharp, predatory smile and looks away, up at the stars. "I don't tend to avoid people on purpose."
"Hm." Moran lights up and they stand some time like that, smoking in silence.
John takes the time to sneak looks at Moran out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't changed since they first met a couple of months ago: broad chest, cropped military haircut, hard lines around the mouth and eyes, large hands and a large tiger tattoo on his left forearm.
John twitches involuntarily, thinking of his dreams. When he considers it, he can't be certain if they started before or after he'd met Moran. Probably before, but he only noticed them after.
"I see you're still here," Sebastian comments.
"Why wouldn't I be?" John pauses and throws Moran an accusing side-glance. "I'm probably harder to kill than you think, Colonel."
Moran chuckles. It's thick and deep, resonating through the night air. John feels the old, strange sensation of a bubble growing deep inside him. He knows what will happen if it bursts and nearly flushes. He shouldn't have given in last time, it isn't who he is. "That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
"Thought you might leave. Resign. Go back to London, open up your own practice. You're competent, but I don't think you like it here."
John nearly scoffs. "Does anyone?"
Moran shrugs. "I like it here more than most places. Aside from that one trip we took…tiger hunting."
John does an instant double take. "Wait, hold on, you never told me you hunted tigers."
"Didn't I?" The same sharp, unapologetic smile.
"No… You do know that's illegal?"
"Yes?"
John shakes his head and looks away. He seems to constantly be doing things that he doesn't really want to do, or that he, at least, shouldn't want to do. And once he does do them, he doesn't know how to let go. He got into messes with Harry and missed it afterward. He allowed Sebastian Moran – a man he doesn't even like – fuck him when they met at base last time and all because Moran has some strange hold over him with that scalpel-sharp grin and large hands. And he's here, in Afghanistan, constantly risking his life and while he could easily resign at least after his tour is over, he has never even thought of counting the days.
"But, you know," Sebastian says, after a while, disposing of his cigarette, "maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there is a wild side to you." He doesn't wait for John's answer before walking away.
After the war, John's predator infested dreams dissipate quickly. But when Mycroft Holmes tells him that he misses the war and Sherlock points out that he responds best to the word "dangerous," John starts to think that Moran was wrong after all.
There is something inside him and sometimes it wants to be set free.