Joanne Watson woke up with a start, screaming covered in a cold sweat like the many times before, her shoulder-length dirty blonde hair sticking to her face. The nightmares she has are of her days being in Afghanistan. It scared her memory so deeply, like the bullet wound in her shoulder. Now not being able to sleep, she made her bed as best as her bad leg would allow. Afterwards sitting on the edge, putting her hair up into a messy bun. Joanne stared at the cane across from her that was propped against the desk wondering why she tortured herself like this. Day in and day out.

Much later that morning, Joanne opened the laptop in front of her the web page loaded instantly to the page of her blog, the only thing it bore was the title that displayed her name: 'The blog of Dr. Joanne H. Watson' nothing had been written not one entry in the slightest. It made her think 'who would want to read about the depressing life of a former army doctor. I mean who would?'

Later that day Joanne now found herself sitting opposite her psychotherapist Ella, for her usual appointment. "How's the blog going?" Ella asked with interest seeing if Joanne had made any progress with the blog like she suggested.

"Yeah, good," Joanne started convincingly at first, clearing her throat. "Very good," she went on to her therapist, she's done some of her blog.

But her therapist doesn't buy it for a second. "You haven't written a word, have you?" she asks knowingly, before she writes it on her notepad.

Joanne notices instantly what her therapist has wrote down reading it out upside down. "You just wrote 'Still has trust issues'."

"You read my writing upside down," her therapist points out that to she has a problem with trusting people, if she couldn't trust the very person that was trying to help her. "You see what I mean? You're a soldier, it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you," she told her it would take time, getting back to what was considered 'normality' since her army days. And writing a blog about what she did day to day would help, but Joanne just knew nobody would want to read about her boring life.

"But nothing ever happens to me," Joanne told her therapist honestly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders. And it was unknown to one Joanne Watson that a few short months later, she would meet a man that would change her life, for the better.

-Sherlock-

January came and it was now nearing the end of the month. Some progress had been made with the blog since her last therapy session with a few updates. As for getting back to 'normality' she'd meet up with a few old school friends from Blackheath, not once did anyone mention her leg. The 'serial suicides' that had been in the news recently struck her as odd, with all the deceased having no connection to each other. Which made no sense whatsoever. But meeting the army nurse Bill Murray who saved her life in. Reminded Joanne of how nothing interesting was happening with her life.

It's until she was taking a leisurely stroll through Russel Square Park one brisk morning, cane in hand limping along the pebbled path, not realising her fate was about to change.

"Jo! Joanne Watson!" someone called out to her. She turned to see a rather portly man with brown hair and glasses getting up from a bench and approach. "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together," he introduces himself, seeing if she would remember him, giving herself a couple of seconds to think.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello," as Joanne now recalled, giving him a small yet friendly smile and firm handshake apologising politely.

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!" Mike mentions gesturing to his body that he's piled on the pounds over the years since they had last saw each other.

"No," she brushed off convincingly that he hadn't changed.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" He asked about her time away

"I got shot," she responded awkwardly leaving both equally embarrassed about it.

A little later they have bought take-away coffees and are sitting side by side on a bench in the park. Mike looks at Joanne worriedly. Oblivious, Joanne takes a sip from her coffee then looks across to her old friend.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" Joanne asked her old friend if he was still at the hospital.

"Teaching now," he informed joking with a smile, "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!" both of them laughed.

"What about you?" Mike inquired to Joanne about her current living situation, "Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension," she confessed with a deep sigh and taking another sip of coffee.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," Mike protested how unlike her it was to not admit defeat, "That's not the Jo Watson I know."

Joanne shifted uncomfortably on the bench, "Yeah, I'm not the Jo Watson..." before she even started to speak she stopped. The air between the two becomes awkward once again as Mike looked away and drank his coffee thinking he might of hit a nerve. Joanne switched her over cup to her right hand, gaze directing down to her shaking left hand, she balled it into a fist as she tried controlling the tremor before Mike turned back round again.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike casually suggests, if her older sister would take her in for shelter.

"Yeah, like the hell that's gonna happen!" She scoffed with joyful sarcasm, knowing that her drunk of a sister wasn't going to be of any use to her right now. Seeing as they hardly never got on. Ever since her messy divorce from Clara a couple of months ago she had just gotten much worse.

Then Mike came up with the daftest idea that maybe she should live with some total stranger. "I dunno... get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on - who'd want me for a flatmate?" She scoffed again with a roll of her eyes, not taking Mike seriously as he chuckled at Joanne's response.

"What's so funny?" She stared at Mike in confusion.

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today." He recalled.

"Who was the first?"