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The screeching alarm cut through the silence of the bedsit, but was quickly shut off. John withdrew his arm and folded it back across his chest. He had been awake for the last few hours, but the night terrors that had interrupted his sleep had left him drained and unwilling to leave the thin mattress. Now that his alarm had gone off, John knew that if he didn't rouse himself he would remain in bed all day. He couldn't do that. Again. For the third day in a row.

So grumbling softly to himself, John lurched forward into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

When John returned to London, he had become a bitter and resentful man. But he hid it well under layers of political correctness, "doctor smiles", and masks of indifference he had gained mastery of in the army. But inside, John was damaged and hated himself for it. The bullet to his shoulder incapacitated him, but it was his magic that ended up getting him invalided. If he wasn't immune to the healers' efforts, then John wouldn't have had to suffer through mundane medicine practices.

Practices and techniques that left John stiff, immobilized, and permanently scarred.

And if that wasn't bad enough, John had somehow gained a limp; it had no reason to be there and it wouldn't go away. Not even magic could identify the source of the muscle strain. Medically speaking, John's leg was in perfect health and yet it continues to give out beneath him.

So John, crippled and aching, is sent back to London.

And he hates it. Because now he can no longer be Captain Watson, the respected warlock, or Doctor Watson, the talented healer. Instead John was back to his benign self, suppressing his powers and envying every adept able to use and flaunt their own. John is reminded of it every day and the very fact makes John ache in a way he didn't think possible.

He had a taste of freedom when enlisted and deployed and now the way it was before just wouldn't cut it. But there was nothing he could do except cause every loose item in his government funded bedsit, which wasn't very many, to levitate and fly about the room.

John rubbed his eyes before stretching, wincing when he pulled at the scar on his left shoulder. He absently pressed at the angry mark as his left hand reached for the aluminum cane the waited by his nightstand. He paused a moment, looking down at the very object that visually represented all the hate and despair now festering inside of him. Shaking his head, John firmly plants it onto the ground and leverages himself up.

"I really need to get out of these four walls," John mutters as he shuffles to the kitchen, just a few meters away, to make himself some much needed tea.


John carefully placed his RAMC mug into the sink. He had been back in London for coming on a month now and he had had no luck on the job hunt or flat searching. John woke every morning, forced himself to get up and go looking for something to occupy his time, and then came back to the same bedsit to lay in the same uncomfortable bed and experience the same nightmares. It was getting repetitive and it seems with each passing day his leg was getting worse, not better.

Staring off into space, John contemplates going back out that night. Perhaps he was just looking at the wrong time. John violently shook his head and then flinched when he heard something shatter behind him. Turning slowly, John saw the broken lamp against the far wall. Sighing, John pinched between his eyebrows and then rubbed his forehead. He had neglected to release some of his magic and the excess energy was fighting to escape, using any sharp movement as an excuse.

John sniffed slightly, pursing his lips towards the mess. I hated that lamp anyways, he thought with a shrug before turning back towards the front door. John ambled over, pulled on his coat, and left again, locking the door behind him. Stepping outside, John took a deep breath of the smoggy London air. As much as he hated his current miserable existence, John had missed London. Just a touch.

Looking about the empty street, John grimaced. During the day it was difficult enough to hail a cab, John was short and this wasn't the best side of town, but at night it was bloody impossible. So with a huff, and some magic causing the bins on the opposite side of the street to rattle noisily, John set off towards the city proper still leaning heavily on his damned cane.

John didn't get too far before he noticed the dark figure walking in front of him and a second walking not too far behind. Hiding a smile, John increased his pace and, when the man behind him did the same, he let some of his magic leak to his fingers, ready to use. Not one minute later, the man behind had caught up and the one in front spun on the spot and pushed John into a side alley.

"Roit, ol' man. Give us tha money," the one that shoved John growled. John winced slightly. Something happened between getting shot and arriving in London that resulted in him prematurely grey and with a few more creases on his face than he cares to admit. "C'mon. You 'eard me. Tha money. NOW!" At this, the two men both pulled out weapons, one had a switchblade and the other had a gun.

John eyed the blade. "Well that's not going to help much if he's got a gun, is it?" he asked with a smirk. The one with the blade glanced down at the small knife, to his companion's gun, and then back.

"Oi. He's got a point," the man said with a sour face. "Gimmie the gun, Al. You can't even shoot tha' good." He reached for the weapon, but it was snatched out of reach.

"No, Danny. It's mine," Al hissed. "But that ain't tha problem, issit? We need to finish dis an' go." He turned back to John who simply watched on with amusement, cane happily hanging from the crook of his elbow. "Give us tha money, or I'll shoot."

"Yeah, but you'll miss," Danny insisted. "I wouldn't. Me Pa learned me proper." He reached for the gun again. What ensued was a small squabble between the two failed muggers that left John barely holding back laughter. It ended with Danny bearing the gun and his friend reluctantly brandishing the small blade. They both faced John again.

"Okay," Al said, looking slightly surprised that John was still there. "Now give us tha money."

"Yeah, or I'll shoot you dead," Danny added with a smirk.

John smiled, eyes hard. "No you won't," he said simply.

"Oh yeah?" Danny pressed. "Wha' makes you so fuckin' sure?" He sneered, brandishing the gun.

John tilted his head up. "Because I've got magic." He splayed his fingers, letting some of the energy humming inside of him, begging for release, to trickle out, causing some pebbles on the ground to hop about and the skip on the far end to shake once.

Danny laughed, not noticing the small display. "Is tha' so? Well guess wha'?" He leaned in, "So do we, so we ain't scared for nuffin'." Al, who did notice the phenomena, began tugging at Danny's sleeve, shaking his head.

"Mate, I fink we'd be'er go," he insisted a bit shakily.

"Naw," Danny brushed the boy's hand off and eyed John again. "Dis one's ripe for tha pickin'. 'e's beggin' for it."

"You really should listen to Al here," John said, nodding towards the trembling man. "He's got it right." John let some more magic out, relishing the warmth that spread through him at the release, and lifted the dumpster behind him off the ground about half a meter before letting it fall back with a crash. Danny noticed that and blanched.

"Wha' tha fuck?" he wheezed, his hand now shaking with the gun still trained towards the calm ex-soldier. "I don' know nobody who can do dat." John smiled, eyes flat. "You… you're…" Danny began to stutter. By this point Al had run off, but Danny hadn't seemed to notice.

"Danny," John says calmly, holding up his hands in a sign of peace. "I just want to go. Let me by. No trouble, no bullets, no blood." Danny began to slowly nod, John's soft doctor voice calming him slightly. That is until John took a step forward.

Danny instantly tensed again, finger jumping to the trigger but not actually pulling. "DON'T MOVE ANOTHER MUSCLE!" he screeched. John kept his hands up and his head down, a kind smile playing his lips, and took another step forward.

BANG!

Danny flinched and stumbled back a step from the recoil. He may have been taught by his father, but he hadn't shot in a while, so it was a touch unexpected. When he looked back up at John, expecting at least a bleeding man, both his jaw and gun dropped.

Before him stood a 5'7" man with grey hair, a wrinkled face, and a bloody cane in perfect condition. Not even grazed. However, his hands were still up. Before them hovered the 9mm bullet that was discharged, still spinning but rapidly slowing, encased in a small ball of golden energy. Danny froze, watching the bullet as it finally stopped and fell to the ground with a small "clink". His eyes followed it as it went down and then flicked back up to John who simply stood there, arms back at his side, hands perfectly steady, and his hard blue eyes screaming 'You have no idea what I am capable of'.

Danny turned and ran, not looking back once.

As soon as the footsteps had receded completely, John sighed and let his shoulders relax. Smiling to himself, he turned headed back towards his little bedsit. Cane twirling all the way.