UPDATED: Thanks to someone for pointing out my terrible spelling, I've had some trouble with my laptop and Microsoft office is being a twat at the moment. But I've updated both chapters with correct spelling. Sorry! And thanks for pointing it out :)

Thank you blod1tatws for the review on the last chapter :) This is dedicated to her, my friend, my fellow benedict stalker and my inspiration :) LUV YA BUD!

Again, don't own anything, just something that popped up in my mind! Enjoy!

Chapter 2: I need a Doctor

As morning came in the RAF base at Conningsby, John Watson was already up. He'd gotten up at the crack of dawn and had walked to the closest village to get the morning paper. The same old news was in the paper, terrorist threats on the increase, new statistics proving that young girls in Wales are above the national average on teen pregnancy etc. He sighed. This was always the story. Always the case.

'20 Richmonds please' he said to the cashier at the corner shop 'Keep the change.'
He knew he shouldn't smoke. He knew all to well the effects this had on one's health, being a Doctor. But today, he needed something to calm his nerves, and cigarettes were the answer to that.

Back at the base the military proceedings were happening. Registering, pick up of kits and essentials, last minute health checks. John was meant to be there, but he chose to sit outside one of the buildings, watching the clouds race by in the blue sky above.

'Doctor John Watson to report to building A please, Doctor Watson to building A,' the tanoy sounded over the base.

'Bloody hell, can't a man get a few minutes to himself?' he muttered as he quickly hurried across to building A.

'Ah, John!' said a relieved voice from behind, 'You've decided to show your face then! Come on, we need you! These are the forms you need, give them out to everyone on your list and then fill one out yourself. They're waiting for you in room G23, up the stairs to your right.' How can someone be so cheerful so early, John wondered.

In room G23, stood 20 soldiers. Varying in age, from 18 to 36. 17 men and 3 women. A colleague, Dr Jemma Wright, was already there, waiting for him.

'Sorry I'm late, lost track of time! I'm Dr Watson' he shook her hand, 'John.'

'Better late than never! I'm Jemma. Shall we get started? I'll take the first cubicle, you take the second.'

They took their soldiers and gave them the health check, the forms, the information and the whole rigmarole. John didn't really pay any attention to the words spilling from his mouth, he just muttered them along, like a robot. He gave them all a pen and started filling out his forms as well. Some health forms, more health forms, some questionnaires before flying on the aircraft, some voluntary questionnaires.

1) Why did you choose to serve with the Armed Forces?
2) Do you have any doubts at this point?
3) Are your family and friends supportive?
4) Are you scared?

These were all for a college research in the nearby University. He might as well give them a go. As he didn't want to answer them in his mind, perhaps a white paper in front of him would force him to admit something.

1) Disappearing. Escaping. From the past. Decisions that were badly made. Relationships failing. New start.
2) Doubts? Doesn't everyone have doubts? Are they going to die? Are they ever going to come back home? What will be out there? Think it's quite natural to have doubts. That's what I think anyway.
3) Family approve...of my job – Doctor. Where my job is based? Don't think so. It's my choice anyway. And friends? Lost them. Long time ago. Family's got enough to worry about anyway. Not like I'm the black sheep of the family anymore. Sibling's doing that.
4) Scared? I've been through military training and medical school...what do you think?
And the last message read 'Thank you for completing this questionnaire, all your details will not be shared. We wish you the best of luck' – 'Yes, you and me both.' Muttered John as he sealed the envelope.

After lunch, they were all to meet in building B to collect their I.D. He'd been queuing for a good 10 minutes before he reached the end of the line.

'Name?'

'Watson, Dr John Watson'

'Date of birth?'

'23 of April 1979'

'There we go, here's your I.D.'

'Thank you'

He looked at the small card in his hand. Bad picture, he thought. He looked like a thug. Dark circles under his eyes. Understandably, considering he didn't sleep at all the night before he took that picture. It was the night Carrie had come by to get the last of her things. The night she'd told him.