Forgot in the first chapter – characters and settings as depicted in the BBC series not mine – no money being made – plot is mine.

Mycroft was true to his word. A small part of John was vaguely hopeful that this meant that John was still needed – that somewhere out there, Sherlock was off doing Sherlockian things and Mycroft was keeping his little brother's toys in order. It was only a small part of John, though. The rest of him knew that it was just Mycroft's need for controlling people working in John's favour – for once.

Mrs Hudson was a bit tearful, but John promised to call her and helped set up a Skype address so they could chat. He would also be sending her his half of the rent because technically his stuff was still there. He'd made it very clear that she could throw it all away if she got a tenant into the flat and she made it very clear that Would Not Happen.

Harry was furious and hung up on him three times, then called back so drunk that he hung up on her. When she'd finally sobered up and managed to call without shouting abuse in his ear she made it very clear that she would forgive him if he un-enlisted immediately. When he refused to do so – pointing out that un-enlist wasn't a word in the way that all smart arse little brothers never quite grew out of – she advised him that she would never speak to him again and that as far as she was concerned from now on she was an only child. Her decision didn't surprise him, really and he let her go with only a little regret.

He had a farewell pint with Mike Stamford who couldn't believe he was going off to get shot at again, and spent his last night in London before leaving to report for duty wandering the streets, indulging in the memories he had of the city, both with and without Sherlock.

John hadn't been able to do as Sherlock asked. He hadn't been able to tell the world the man was a fraud, nor had he been able to forget about him. There was an active graffiti campaign on at the moment: 'I believe' was popping up everywhere and John had … let it all go. He couldn't bear the thought of joining in, even though he did believe in Sherlock and had said so on the blog, but nor would he condemn it. He hadn't spoken to anyone from the Yard since Sherlock had died and saw no reason to seek them out either. Lestrade wouldn't care where John was or what he was doing – he had only been useful as Sherlock's go between and 'handler' to the DI and besides the DI was in enough trouble of his own at the moment.

Of course, John had been expecting some sort of interference from Mycroft, so when he reported for duty he was informed that he'd been stepped up a rank to Major and that he would be re-deployed overseas to the hospital facility at Bastion. His orders very clearly put him in charge of a department and John would NOT be allowed to step foot in the field. It wasn't what he'd had in mind, but it got him out of London and doing something useful once more, so he didn't fuss.

Of course, the army didn't just hand him a uniform and send him off. John went through a week of basic training and then a thorough physical and mental assessment, which he passed with flying colours. The grief for Sherlock was still there, but John had found channelling it into activity worked wonders and the PTSD diagnosis was revoked. John requalified as a marksman and sat through a round of detailed briefings to get him up to speed.

Being back in green was oddly soothing. There was the order and discipline side of things, something that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the flat, and there was also a sense of purpose, something that John had lost suddenly only weeks ago.

As a Major he was in command of 120 other people and would be second in command out at Bastion, reporting to Colonel Walker. The Major he was replacing was being retired – which was Military code for 'hole in his bag of marbles' – and there was a lot to review before he reached the base. Luckily John had not lost his skill of researching on the run – in fact he'd improved it during his time with Sherlock – so the idea of reading and absorbing many personnel files and situation reports as he travelled didn't faze him.

Bastion was as he remembered. It was a standard military installation, with sheds and prefabricated buildings set up as well as the usual sleeping quarters and shower blocks. John's office was a shipping container that had been split into three sections – office first, then his sleeping quarters, then a shower/toilet/basin space. The hospital space was what he'd expected and the usual ammunition and fuel dumps as well as the machinery sheds were dotted about where he remembered.

Colonel Walker was waiting for him, so John didn't dawdle. Walker was not medically trained and oversaw the running of the whole camp – it would be down to John to manage the other surgeons, nurses, orderlies and allied health staff, as well as running the administration side of the hospital and reporting to Walker after the fact.

"At ease, Major," Walker snapped a salute in reply, dark eyes looking John over closely. They weren't half as sharp as Sherlock's nor half as perceptive but John put that thought aside. His best friend may be gone, but that didn't mean he was forgotten, hovering always close to John's thoughts.

"Thank you sir," John replied and took the seat that was indicated. Walker's office was a carbon copy of John's, though there were personal photo's dotted about – wife, three children, eldest daughter married and first grandchild on the way – and this was not the Colonel's first command if the shots of military personnel were anything to go by.

"I'll admit, Major, I'm concerned. You've been out of green for a year and you've recently lost a very close friend," Walker said it baldly and John refrained from swearing or even just sighing. He knew that he brought baggage with him other than his standard issued kit, but he would never have requested re-enlistment if he'd thought he'd be a danger to others.

"You read the blog," there was resignation in his voice, and Walker nodded, "Sir, he was no fraud. However, that is neither here nor there. I'm here to do a job sir, one that my records show I'm very good at. Am I grieving? Yes. Will it affect my work? No. Sherlock was not the sought to demand wailing and hair tearing, and I'm not the sort to indulge in that."

"No, I can see that," Walker said thoughtfully, "Well, we'll see how we travel together. You understand that I need to balance the wellbeing of this command against your performance."

"I won't let you down," John replied simply. His work would be his answer and at least Walker was up front about his concerns. The Colonel nodded and pressed a button on his intercom.

"Corporal Archer is your assistant," Walker informed John, though John had already read the Corporal's file on the way over, "He's a bit obsessed with Marvel comics, but he's competent all the same. Your predecessor didn't see eye to eye with him."

"I've read his file, sir," John stood as the Colonel did and turned to face the door as Archer entered. He was thin, young and possessed of a pair of glasses that slipped repeatedly down his nose. He saluted perfectly and John and Walker returned it.

"Archer, this is Major Watson," Walker waved a hand, "Show him around the hospital and his quarters. Major I'll expect you up and running by tomorrow morning. Dismissed."

John saluted and caught up his kit, leading the Corporal out into the cold winter sunlight. Archer stepped around him and deftly relieved him of his kit before leading the way, talking as he did and pointing out the various landmarks and general camp layout. John followed close on his heels and put London away for now, intent on his job.

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