The first several weeks of Sarge's assignment were uneventful enough. The blonde soldier arrived on Saturday around late morning consistently. He took the train from London. The taxi fare would be killer to come out this far as often as he does. He walked down the street from the train station with his head down. He knew the route to the grave stone of his friend without having to look up once.

Once he arrived at the stone under the tree Sarge would often go out for a smoke. He didn't like the distractions of being in the pub when he was observing this man standing vigil at his friend's grave. He felt like the noise of the crap telly playing in the background and the useless conversations about whose team is better this year were, in a way, disrespectful when this man on the hill hung his head and gently touched the black stone. Sarge sent as much detail as he could.

"Stayed for 20 minutes. Stood like a rail the whole time. Turned and left quick."

"Stayed for 22 minutes. Looked like he was talking to his buddy again." Sarge texted one week.

"Stayed for 28 minutes. Tensed up halfway. Started pacing and clenching hands. Angry. Came into pub for a drink afterwards. Calmed down."

"Stayed only 12 minutes graveside. Had a hard time getting himself to walk through the gate to go in. Crouched by grave with both hands on it. May have been crying."

Sarge never received any return texts from his employer, nor did he see him after that first meeting. Sarge had questions but willed himself to not look into things further. He never approached the gravestone. He felt he would have been invading in some way on the younger soldier's grief, as if he wasn't enough already sending reports on it to, well, whoever that was.

One day it was raining cats and dogs. The man still came to see his friend's grave. Didn't stay very long but long enough to get soaked to the skin. He jogged the last few steps to the door of the pub and shook off the rain. Sarge was struck by how much the blonde man had aged in just the few months he has seen him coming around. He hung up his canvas jacket on a chair near the hearth to dry but then sat at the bar. Sarge quickly noted the outline of the gun tucked in the back of his pants, concealed by a sedate cardigan. Sarge felt a swell of sympathy for the ex-soldier. When he was just home from his last deployment he also kept his side arm with him at all times. It simultaneously helped him feel safer and also still connected to the rush of war. It was a touchstone to both sanity and insanity when "home" was an confusing term.

Sarge learned a long time ago that the best lies were those that were as close as possible to the truth, and that you should do what feels natural. Also, he was possibly a little buzzed already and he his downfall was always his own over-confidence. Sarge picked up his pint and walked over to the bar. He sat down next to the blonde, wet man. "Jerry I'll take another and get this gentleman another of whatever he's having."

"Oh, umm, thank you but I really shouldn't. I need to get going when the next bus comes in a bit." replied the younger man.

"Just looked like you may need another one to warm up before you hit the rain again, Private." said Sarge, keeping his eyes forward on the display of bottles as he spoke.

A moment later the blonde man offered off-handedly "It's 'Captain' actually." and sipped from the glass that just arrived.

"Oh don't mind Sarge, here!" interjected Jerry from his side of the bar. "He calls everybody that."

"Oh?" Asked the Captain. He turned toward Sarge and extended a hand with a small smile. "Captain John Watson, RAMC"

Sarge accepted the handshake, a notably good handshake, but only replied "Sarge."

"Right..." said the Captain John Watson, getting the hint.

After a few more swallows Sarge couldn't help but ask "So are they still issuing British Browning L9A1's?"

"Sorry?" the Captain responded nonchalantly without making eye contact. When he did glance over at Sarge a moment later the older man responded by pointedly directing his gaze to John's lower back. The Captain sat up a little straighter. "Used to have one. Carry a Sig Sauer P226 now."

A few more minutes passed in silence.

"Nicely concealed garrote by the way. And thanks for the drink." Captain John Watson of the RAMC retrieved his jacket, flipped up his collar, and headed back out into the rain.

Sarge texted soon afterwards "Still carries a gun. Good handshake. Looks dead tired. You could have told me he outranked me."

Sarge received his first text back. "Don't underestimate his observational skills. Do not engage him. Your arrogance could be your downfall again."

Sarge drank a bit more than usual that evening. A few bottles may have hit the wall. "Little smart-ass sod!" could have been heard from the street. He finally fell into a restless sleep. Scenes of dragging the bloody body of too-young private played over and over in his mind. He felt the bullets bruising his ribs again as artillary imbedded in his vest and he let his hand slip out of the man's lifeless grip.

When Sarge next saw Doctor John Watson he did as he was told. A few more weeks passed with the usual weekend visits and observations. As Sarge was finishing up his smoke, John was often finishing up his visit. A nod across the street to one another was now the extent of their interactions.

Then there was an unusually hot and still day. The bar was not air-conditioned. Sarge was a bit more pissed than usual because the cool pints brought some relief. Besides, it was a Tuesday. Figures though that it was one of those rare mid-week times for John to come visit his friend.

The Captain was clearly agitated today. He walked with quick determination to the graveside. Even from the distance of across the street Sarge could see the smaller man's shoulders and chest heaving with the effort of breathing, only part of which he figured was from the heat and exertion. His fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly at his sides. A silent, sad, one-sided war was raging.

After a bit the war grew more silent. Another tentative truce must have been drawn, or perhaps it was defeat that he gleamed from a quick glance at the Captain as he walked into the pub. He headed straight to the loo and emerged a few minutes later with water droplets still clinging to his hairline and collar. He got a glass of water from the bar and downed it quickly. The mask of composure was back in place for the train ride home.

As John passed Sarge, who was still outside trying to catch a semblance of a breeze, the Captain asked quickly "Hate to bother you Sarge but can I borrow your mobile? I'm running late for some dinner plans in the city. Need to send a text."

"Sorry, no. Never had a need for one." Sarge replied without eye contact, concentrating very hard on the burn pattern of his cigarette.

"Really? Could have sworn I saw you texting on a mobile before. It's only been a glimpse in the reflection on the window of the drug store down the block though on my way back to the station. My mistake. Sorry! Have a good evening."

The Captain continued down the road back to the station with his hands in his pockets, head down. "Shit!" Sarge let slip from his lips once the Captain was far enough away. He did not take the mobile in his pocket out until he was up in his flat, pouring something a bit stronger. He left that last bit out when he pressed send.

That weekend the Captain was back again, his usual time. He was walking down the road slower today. Sarge could tell even from the distance that there was something weighing heavy on the younger man's mind. Sarge was at his normal post, smoking. Just prior to reaching the gate of the cemetary, Sarge thought he saw Captain Watson shoot him a quick look, as if to see if he was watching. John slowed further, head lowered. As a car was approaching down the street it appeared as though John Watson stepped off the curb carelessly, deep in thought. It would appear that way to anyone who wasn't watching him for months and knew him to be a man that would not make such a mistake. A second before the driver slammed on his brakes and glanced John's hip and knee, Sarge was sure he saw it. John braced himself for the impact.

John went down hard enough to scare the shit out of the driver. She rushed out and started calling for help. For just a moment Sarge's hand flickered to his pocket, the thought of calling for medics with the phone tucked away. He caught himself and ran into the bar, yelling for Jerry to call an ambulance. Sarge then took up watching from inside the window of the pub as Jerry ran out with a first aid kit and the rescue squad soon arrived.

John was sitting on the curb now, wincing periodically but providing more words of comfort to the driver about his carelessness and it not being her fault than receiving any care himself. When the rescue squad arrived he was taken into the back of the ambulance. Through the cracked door of the pub Sarge could here him protesting going to the hospital and using technical medical terms to explain that he did not believe his injuries required that level of attention.

Sarge's mind was reeling. He knew this was not an accident. Was Captain Watson trying to kill himself? What would Sarge's "employer" think of this? Would he receive a text back asking him to approach John with a question of some kind? Sarge saw that the Captain was still occupied with the rescue unit, shrugging a bright orange blanket from his shoulders with annoyance. Sarge downed the remainder of his pint in two gulps and headed to the loo. He took out the mobile and started typing a message about the events as fast as he could with thick, slow fingers.

When he was almost done the door to the loo slammed open. There stood Captain John Watson, torn and bloodied. For a smaller man he suddenly commanded the room. He was not slumped now and, although injured, he strode with confidence toward the large man.

"I see you got yourself a mobile now. Welcome to the 21st century, Sergeant." He said with a chillingly controlled tone for someone just struck by a car. He held out his hand while keeping eye contact with the older soldier. Sarge suddenly felt like he was back in basic training getting reprimanded by a superior officer for being in possession of a non-authorized item.

"I really should get in touch with my sister to pick me up rather than take the train. May I use your phone?"

"I'd rather you didn't, Captain." Sarge mustered as sternly as he could.

"Sending an important message, then?"

Sarge closed the phone in his large fist tightly, half-expecting the smaller man to lunge at him at any moment. He straightened his back to his full height and stepped past the Captain, roughly bumping him as he passed quickly. "None of your business." Sarge snarled.

Captain Watson did not move or attempt to follow. A few strides from the door, just as it was closing, Sarge heard the man reply quietly "I beg to differ".

That was the last time Sarge saw Captain John Watson.

SHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJWSHJW

Yeah! Writing tough John was fun! Our doctor is so clever! There will be more to come in coming days. Next stop, Baker Street! Thanks everyone for following the story! Please write a review if you have a moment. Constructive criticism is welcome as well!