Even walking the streets of London had turned into an ordeal.

The John Watson who had once invaded Afghanistan felt far away, as if he had been a character in a dream. Memories from light years away constantly bit and tore at the edges of the current John's consciousness. Maybe he did have post traumatic stress disorder.

John happened to be one of the fortunate - or unfortunate, depending on how you look at it - individuals who had suddenly developed extraordinary powers in the last thirty years, and he had used his abilities extensively in his army career. He could lift a (very) small tank when under stress, and his skin was a pinch tougher than it should have been. When he concentrated hard enough, his eyes gained a sort of hyper sensitivity that helped him understand, as if by instinct, where to put his hands (though by all means, with his medical training he really didn't need to). When John wanted to heal an injury or illness, all he had to do was lay down his hands and he would take any and all ills from the patient into himself. He never developed any wounds - usually the after-effects would manifest as pain that eventually faded. John could take pain. Or at least John could take pain.

In the past it would happen quickly. Efficiently. Automatically... but as he aged, it seemed to stay longer and longer. Eventually it got to the point where the army couldn't use him anymore, and they sent him back without so much as a 'thank you sir'. On his last assignment, John had healed a man's bullet wounds, one in the shoulder and one in the leg. The pain from the shoulder disappeared eventually, but left a scar, which was highly unusual. The leg pain still hadn't faded. Sometimes John woke up in the middle of the night smelling gunpowder and feeling a phantom bullet tearing through his upper thigh.

If it wasn't just the leg causing John's problems now – though surely it contributed, John could tell you that much – it was the futility of it all. He'd led his life as well as he could, did his damnedest trekking down what he thought was the right path, and this was what he had to show for it. The people on the road passed him by, sometimes staring at his cane but otherwise completely unconcerned. Probably eager to go home to their loved ones. What did John have aside from his cane?

My feet are taking me to Barts, John realized. He'd half a mind to stop, honestly, but all he could do was limp on. Maybe he was desperate to see-

"John? John Watson!"