John limped miserably through London, leaning heavily on his cane with every step. Psycho-somatic? What a load of rubbish. His leg hurt. A lot. That couldn't be all in his head. He was a doctor; he'd been to medical school. He knew the difference between make-believe pain and the real thing. He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear it when an old class-mate flagged him down.

"John! John Watson! I heard you were overseas getting shot at! What happened?" Somehow the man's jovial tone annoyed him deeply.

"I got shot."

Well good, now they both felt awkward.

They'd chatted for a while in the park, sipping at coffee as John tried to subtly conceal his shaking hand. It was always worse when he was anxious. He really just wanted to go home and sulk. Maybe indulge in his own self-pity for a while. Instead, quite by accident, he piqued his friend's interest with an offhand comment.

"Come on. Who'd want me as a flat-mate?"

The plump man beside him chuckled. "You know, you're the second person today to say that to me."

John glanced at him.

"Who was the first?"