AN: I had some formatting issues in June 2015 when I tried to clean up some old chapters - please let me know if you spot problems!

Thanks for your help,

-M

It was neither sunny nor rainy, but cloudy and grey-skied as John sat on a bench in Postman's park, tucked in the shadows of St. Bart's and the neighboring buildings, ruminating about his situation.

He was tired. His nightmares had returned after he had been shot. Nightmares about fallen comrades, about good men he didn't make it to on time, soldiers and friends who died bleeding out in his care – even the ones he had managed to save in the waking world.

He had other nightmares, too. Nightmares reminding him of a forgotten life and another time previously realized only in the fugue state of dreams, now more substantial after his brush with Death in the desert. Memories full of small spaces; high, thin, cruel laughter; flashing green light; lightning-bolt scars; pain; and loss haunted him even in his waking hours.

It had been disconcerting, waking up in the army hospital with two sets of memories. It made him weary, and left him feeling so much older than before. And wasn't that odd? That the added memories of a younger man could make him feel so much more worn than he did already.

His body felt as broken as his mind. His shoulder ached. His hand trembled. His leg throbbed with pain, and he limped with every step. The betrayal of his body was somehow worse than the intrusion of another lifetime of memories. The limp and pain in his leg were psychosomatic, though knowing it didn't seem to help. His body had healed, and while intellectually he understood that, the pain was still there. He couldn't help but to limp. He avoided looking at the cheap but effective standard-issue medical grade cane resting next to him on the bench.

The thought that he was somehow keeping himself from recovery, that he was the cause of his limp, made everything that much worse. He was John Watson - the surgeon with steady hands, the doctor who knew better, the soldier with a sharp shot and serious right hook, the field surgeon who healed the wounded, and the captain who made sure his troops were kept in order, in supply, and performed their duties admirably - not the pathetic shell of a man who couldn't cope with too many shocks in too short a period of time.

Remembering his past as Harry Potter, chosen one, boy-who-lived, man-who-triumphed, person-with-too-many-hyphenated-titles was overwhelming in many ways, but somehow being invalided home was the greater shock. He had faced down Voldemort and survived. He had literally looked Death in the eye and had walked away, back to the world of the living. He had been resilient then and was so now. Except for his ability to control his own bloody body!

He scrubbed his hand across his face, a habit he'd picked up after adopting his new life as John Watson and shedding his former appearance of Harry Potter. With no scar to pull his fringe over, he'd developed new ways to fidget. He'd never even bothered growing out enough of a fringe to fidget with.

There was more to his bad mood than his recent medical discharge and various health issues (both mental and physical). He'd been to see his sister, Harry. Short for Harriet. Really. The name was an uncomfortable coincidence. He hadn't minded the name before - except that it heralded his sister - but now it triggered a cascade of internal reactions for him.

He never liked meeting with his sister. They never got along growing up - they loved each other in the way all siblings must, and had done their best to support each other in their various times of need - but now that he knew who she really was, and who he really was, well, now she was unbearable. He couldn't believe she'd become his relative. Made them siblings!

He had grown up with an alcoholic mother and a father who worked hard to keep the household together despite the obvious difficulties. He and Harry – and oh, she really was asking for it using that name! It really rankled now that he remembered – had been left in their mother's care while their father worked longer and longer hours to keep the family afloat, and keep away from home.

Their mother was rarely abusive, but had been neglectful. Harry wasn't very good at taking care of herself (or him), regardless of the fact that she was the older sibling. It had been left to John to make sure they had lunch to eat, that their clothes were clean, and all of the other mundane little tasks adults are supposed to take care of had been accomplished.

When Harry was sixteen and John was thirteen, their mother died, killed by a drunk driver on the rare instance she had been sober. The irony of that had never seemed very funny to the surviving Watsons. She hadn't been a great mother, but she'd been his, and the loss had stayed with John throughout his life. He'd always wondered why he seemed reluctant to move on. Now that he remembered being an orphan, he wondered if a part of him clung to the idea of having a mother that he knew loved him, regardless of her inability to demonstrate the emotion.

Harry picked up the bottle where their mother left off, shortly after the accident. It wasn't obvious at first, but John noticed the signs. She had become more moody and irritable. Her eyes weren't quite right – too unfocussed, too sad, too accusing, and sometimes glossy. She was always out with friends, though the friends were rarely the same ones. She slept too much or too little and her skin lost its healthy glow. She had been beautiful, as he imagined their mother had once been, until she'd washed it away with too much drink and too many parties.

Their father worked even longer hours after their mother died, avoiding the house and the children inside even more once Harry started drinking. Then he just didn't come home at all. It was a week before his body was found and John and Harry learned he had killed himself one day after work. John was sixteen. Harry was named his legal guardian. He tried not to feel bitter about it. He'd been taking care of her for years by that point.

Now that he could remember everything from before, John didn't think it was very fair that he'd had an opportunity to start over – to experience a new life free from the burdens of his last one – only to have it wasted on another shit childhood and be orphaned all over again. It had been an improvement over his past experience, but without the joy of Hogwarts and the wonder of magic to balance out the mundane drudgery of life with a struggling family, he felt cheated somehow.

John ran his fingers over the phone he held loosely in his palm. It was a gift from her when they'd met yesterday. He wasn't sure he wanted to keep it. She'd given it to him so he'd have a way to call, to keep in touch if he needed help. He wasn't sure he ever want to speak with her again, though. The thought had been nice, but the gift was soured by the knowledge that she'd probably only given it to him to keep sad memories away. The phone had been originally gifted to her by her ex, Clara, who'd refused to take it back when she left Harry.

He found the inscription on the back particularly irritating. It reminded him of failures he hadn't even contributed to. Or maybe he had. Was it his fault Harry and Clara split up? He wasn't sure – would Harry have even in a position to woo Clara in the first place if he hadn't left his past life? Was he responsible for all of the Watsons' woes? Would they have happened if Harry Potter hadn't done what he'd done to become John?

He really hoped his memories – the old set of memories – would fade again soon. He didn't think he could handle thinking in so many layers for very long. He'd only done what he'd done to get away, but now the memories were back and he felt the weight of responsibility and recrimination settling back on his wounded and weary shoulders. If the memories didn't recede, he thought he'd need to work on his occlumency skills, just to keep everything organized. He scrubbed his hand over his face again and shifted forward in his seat, propping his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in the middle, eyes on the middle distance as his thoughts churned round and round again.

The sound of a slightly shuffling step caught his attention, and John glanced towards the walking path by the bench. His old friend, Mike Stamford, waved to him.

John had bumped into Mike at St. Bart's a few days earlier after a physio-rehab appointment. They had caught up over a pint or two after Mike's shift that evening. John confided his frustration at his persistent limp, and his trouble finding a suitable position to ease his transition back into every-day life in London.

You're a fine surgeon," Stamford told him. "Any hospital would be glad to have you on staff."

John grimaced in response and sipped at his pint. "Maybe before, but not with a tremor like this," he held up his left hand, his dominant hand, to show Stamford how his damaged nerves caused fine spasms to chase up and down his fingers.

"Damned sniper," Mike cursed as he examined the proffered hand. "Is there anything I can help with while you're sorting yourself out?" he offered as much as asked, honestly concerned for John's well-being. He remembered well how proud John was of his steady hands, how integral they were to a surgeon's livelihood.

John shrugged in response. "You don't happen to know anyone looking for a flat-share, do you?"

He couldn't afford to live on his own any longer, not on what his pension from the military paid – certainly not in London. Luckily, Stamford did know someone who was looking for a flatmate.

"Actually, I think I do," Mike smiled at John, pleased to be of some assistance.

Mike had suggested they meet at Postman's park the following day before heading over to Bart's together to meet an acquaintance who was also looking for a flatshare. As Mike's shadow approached, John did his best to quell his troubled thoughts. He was due a break, he tried to reassure himself. Things were bound to get better at some point.

John didn't quite believe his own attempts at self-comfort, but smiled anyway as he pocketed Harry's old phone and grasped the handle of the cane before heaving himself up. He was determined to find a way to make things work. It was time to meet Mike's mysterious acquaintance and his new flatmate.

This chapter kind of got away with me. I thought I had a good back story (well, a serviceable back story) for how Harry became John, but then I started writing about Harr(y)iet and John's relationship and things changed. I think it will be a change for the better.

The last bit with Stamford was kind of slapped on there...I don't think it flows very well, but I wanted to get things moving a little better. It's been a long time since I did ANY creative writing at all. It's hard to get back into the swing! I fear this was much better as a one shot, if you agree, feel free to mentally edit out all of the rest of this.

Also, HOORAY! We seem to be finally getting close to meeting Sherlock!

Thanks again for reading my oddity - I'd love to hear your thoughts!

-M