Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.

I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!

I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it.

The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too.

Also this is going to go through the episode ASIP with John struggling with his blindness. There will be text that didn't happen in the episode and I might delete dialogue that did happen. There will also be changes to what actually happened to account for John's blindness.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.

AN: This. Is. An. Update. AMAZING! Sorry for the long wait guys and there are no excuses for how long it's been, but I got writers block and then I started school again and had no time to write because of homework, and then I just forgot about this story. Sorry once again. Enjoy!

It had been three months since John had been allowed out of the hospital. Six since his 'accident' on the battlefield.

John's shoulder had mostly healed, though it was still a painful reminder of what had happened. He walked with a limp, thanks to his previously broken leg and the guilt that he felt about the man he had been trying to save when he had gotten cane he used was both helpful for the limp and to find his way now that his eye sight was gone. He still found it hard to get used to the fact that he was now blind. Every morning he would open his eyes and expect to see the ceiling of his dingy apartment provided by the Army and every morning he was disappointed to find it dark.

The surgeons that had fixed his shoulder and leg had told him that it was temporary and would eventually clear up but John was beginning to doubt their words of optimism. He knew that there was a slight difference between when he had first been blinded and now, but his eyesight wasn't improving fast enough for him. There were operations that could help him regain his eyesight, but they were fairly expensive and John didn't have the money. He would have to let nature run his course and just hope that things would begin to clear up soon.

There were many times when he would pick up the gun that he had smuggled out of service and place it next to his temple, willing himself to pull the trigger. Every time he would stop and calmly put it back in the drawer. Then he would go for his regular walk through the park.

His therapist wasn't a big help either. She kept insisting that he keep a blog. John had pointed out that he was pretty much blind and wouldn't be able to type or see the keys so that wouldn't work. His therapist had just told him to get a family member to write it down as he narrated it to them. John didn't like that idea because it involved going to Harry's and asking for her help, which he refused to do. He didn't want to become dependent on someone to do something that he should be able to do perfectly well by himself. John didn't tell his therapist that though and kept insisting that he was doing what she was telling him to do. She always saw right through him.

He tried to keep some form of normality by getting out of the bed at exactly the same time, getting the same kind of apples and tea, sitting by the phone contemplating weather to call Harry or not, choosing not to, going to his therapist once a week at exactly ten o'clock, going for a walk through the park, going to the same café on the corner and finally going to bed. Repeat every day for six months.

It was one particularly bad day. Every night he would wake up sweating thanks to the nightmares that continued to plague him. Last night's was the worst so far. He was suffering from boredom after half a year of little to no excitement. It was slowly driving him mad. Once again, his therapist was being calm and sympathetic. That was what John hated most. The sympathy was horrible. Even if he couldn't see the glances that people gave him, he knew that they were sorry for him.

That was why, when he heard someone calling out his name in the park, he tried to ignore them.

"John! John Watson!" John finally stopped walking and turned around to face a person that he couldn't give a face to.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together." John remembered. Mike had always been an outgoing person that wanted to be anyone's and everyone's friend. He was a good person but he could sometimes grate on your nerves if you wanted to be alone.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello." He switched his cane to his other hand and stuck out his hand, which Mike took and shook warmly. The hand was beefy and strong. Not at all what John remembered him to be like. Mike seemed to see the question in his unseeing eyes and answered it.

"Yes, I know, I got fat."

"No, no."

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened? Your eyes seem cloudy."

"I got shot. And…" John waved a hand in front of his face. "I can hardly see." John heard the sharp intake of breath which was swiftly released.

"Well then. Coffee?" Mike was trying to make John feel more comfortable and the Army doctor appreciated it. John nodded. His old friend led him to a secluded coffee shop two streets away. The door jingled as they entered and a cheerful voice greeted them.

"Mike! It's been awhile, how have you been?"

"Very well thank you Elsie. Could we have two regular coffees to go please?" John heard the clinking of coins as they were set on the counter and they were soon followed by two Styrofoam cups, brimming with dark liquid. Mike placed one of the cups in his hand and only let go when he was sure that John wouldn't drop it.

"Would you like me to add milk or sugar?" John shook his head and the action made some of the burning liquid slop over the edge. He winced slightly at the burn but otherwise kept a straight face. Mike grabbed the top of the cup and tried to take out of his grip, but the soldier in him made John keep a firm hold on it and Mike let go quickly. John appreciated the gesture but hated being reminded that he was disabled. His thoughts must have been visible on his face because, Mike squeezed his shoulder and muttered an almost inaudible apology.

A short while later, the two were back in the park, sitting on a park bench near a clump of trees.

"Are you still at Barts then?" John asked, trying to make small talk.

"Teaching now, yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." They shared a chuckle. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." John pointed out.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson."

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's going to happen!" John said incredulously. It was partly his fault for not asking for it but why would he ask someone for help if they were always drunk.

"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?"

"C'mon who'd want me for a flatmate?" John said. Mike started chuckling and took another sip from his coffee cup. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

Mike stood up and offered his hand to John, which the Army doctor took gratefully.

"C'mon, we're going to Barts. I'll introduce you to him there." This made John look up a little. Another doctor then, or a patient perhaps. Whoever it was, John was looking forward to meeting them.

John wandered around the unfamiliar corridors following Mike's voice to wherever they were going. The layout of St. Barts had changed since John had been there and he had no idea where they were heading. The tap tap tap of his cane was the only noise that echoed through the halls and John hated it. It was the one sound that followed him everywhere, the one thing that he couldn't ignore.

"Ah, here we are. C'mon in." Mike held the door open for John and broke the monotony of his cane and he nodded his appreciation.

"It's changed, hasn't it." John said as stepped through the doorway, cane swerving from side to side to make sure that he didn't run into anything.

"You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Said a new voice. John assumed that this was who Mike had talked about. He stayed silent, not knowing what to say.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike had moved away from him, probably closer to this stranger.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat." John understood the unspoken order behind the excuse and offered his instead.

"Here, use mine." He fished it out from his left hand pocket, holding it out, and assuming that the man was taller than him, which was likely, stared upwards slightly.

"Oh, thank you." The phone left his hand and he dropped his arm. He could hear the phone slide open and the sound of buttons filled his ears.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" At first, John thought that the stranger had been talking to himself but something told him that he hadn't been. He shuffled his feet a little before replying.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, sorry, how did you know?" He asked. The door opened behind him and someone walked in and behind him. The click of the heels on the tiled floor made it obvious that it was a women and the smell that drifted by meant that she had either recently had a cup of coffee or was carrying one.

"Ah! Molly, coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? It was a big improvement. It's too small now." He was walking away now, probably carrying the cup of coffee. John felt that he was intruding slightly and moved a couple of steps away.

"OK." Poor girl was either nervous or she had a bit of a crush on this man who didn't seem too concerned with feelings.

"How do you feel about the violin?" He said, raising his voice slightly. John was certain that he wasn't talking to Mike now.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Mike must have told this man about him. How else would he have known he was here to see if they wanted to be flatmates.

"You told him about me?"

"Not a word." This was getting weirder and weirder.

"So, who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." John found that he had to ask how the man knew where he was stationed. He doubted that even Mike knew.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" No answer to his question.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked past John and the Army doctor turned his head to where he thought the door was.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" The footsteps were doing a circle.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" Very nonchalantly said, John noticed.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." The man took a deep breath as if preparing to recite a speech.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Footsteps headed towards the door and the hinges creaked as it opened.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." The door slammed as the man walked out of the room. John looked over to where he assumed Mike was.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

And as John continued to face the door through which this Sherlock had disappeared through, there was only one thought that was running through John's mind.

Does he know I'm blind?

I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. And finally… REVIEW!