A/N: Thanks for reading, following, and faving! It's truly motivating, and I'm glad my work can be enjoyed by all of you! Feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think of everything!

Soap's making progress. Wrote a good chapter yesterday and looking forward to posting it here soon.

Ch 12: Special Delivery

It's probably the first time I've dreamed like a normal person since I've been here. And even then, the events don't make any sense. But, there's no anxiety. No killing. No violence. Just overly good feelings.

Elle wakes me up, starting with rubbing the back of my hand and moving up to the inside of my forearm along the dead spot of the scar.

"John, do you plan on sleeping the day away?"

"Maybe." I mumble, half asleep.

"And miss out on a fun day and a hot towel shave?"

Mmm. Tempting. Elle's been consistent when she promises a fun day. Then again…
"I told you yesterday, maybe I don't want a shave."

"I know you won't say no to a rub down."

Oooh. Jackpot. She knows what I like, and drives a hard bargain. Elle doesn't wait for a response though.

"Come on John, up. Up!"

There's nothing quite like a nurse badgering you to do stuff. It's not even on the level of nagging. Straight up harassment. You can't say "no" either because they control every aspect of your life at this point. You're at their mercy. Their ward, their rules.

"Up!"

Elle has no sense of enjoying the waking hours of morning. I'm starting to think she's one of those highly motivated assholes who's chipper when the sunlight first breaks. Breeze a 2 mile run before breakfast. I used to be that way. Now I'm just out of shape and disgruntled.

By the time I'm up and moving I've changed my mind. The hardest part seems to be getting started in the morning. I know a lot of it has to do with coming down from the high and fending off the withdrawal. Elle's changed the dose for this morning, she's halved the dosage because she wants me extra responsive to her latest test. Also flip-flops the routine -starts with the pampering first before the real work begins. I only allow her to manicure my stubble.

I feel pretty amped up by the time she sets me up for her latest exercise. Stuck somewhere between edgy and optimistic. Elle focuses solely on sensory reflexes. It's back to poking, prodding and tickling, but she concludes that the only areas with lingering loss of feeling are the usual suspects. She says it's all a formality to set a new baseline before she focuses on my dominant hand. The nerve damage has been narrowed down to my wrist and hand. The lameness in my shoulder is from a torn rotator cuff, the elbow still recovering from the bone splinters that pocupined the connecting tendons.

When she pulls out a weird tuning fork she gets my attention.

"You looking to see if I'm deaf now?"

Elle scoffs,
"You already have a 10% hearing loss. I don't need a tuning fork for that. This is a Rydel seiffer tuning fork, used for vibration sense testing screening for peripheral neuropathy."

"Interesting." It kind of makes sense. "Though I'm pretty sure we've already established there's damage."

"You are correct John. However, I also like to use it for retraining damaged parts of the body to "feel" again. Now look away for me." She adjusts the ends, pinches them closed then quickly releases them. The fork lets out a muted hum, the tips blurring from the vibration. Elle places the handle against the back of my thumb around the joint. I focus on the joint, but I don't register any sensation. Just the pressure on the back of my thumb.

Elle works over every square inch. Pokes a few more times, and tests both hot and cold sensations. By the end of it, from the forearm down feels like it's on fire. She says it's from overstimulation. But there's good news. It's not as bad as she first thought. The majority of the damage is isolated in the thumb, index, middle finger, the tip of my pinky, and the back of my hand. I'm not happy about it, but it gives me direction. I know what, and where I need to focus on.

My day finishes out on a strong note. Elle gets me back outside in the courtyard and takes me over to a new area where we haven't been before. There's so many more buildings to this place. One in particular catches my eye -a full glass house, the upper tiers of glass heavily steamed over. She informs me it's one of the indoor pools they have on site, that one specifically for recreational swimming. It would have been too expensive to retrofit the pool for physical therapy needs, and the primary owners of the ground wanted to preserve the architecture inside, so it was left as is. The PT pool was located toward the eastern end where a more modern glass face extended off one of the buildings. Elle says in the upcoming weeks she'll get me in there when I'm strong enough.

Day 21

January 6, 2017

Anything I've accomplished today is overshadowed by the news I've been dying to hear. Elle's mood has been rather sober today, more serious than usual. I don't figure out why until after dinner. She takes away the dishes and returns with a cardboard box in her arms.

"I'm sorry it took so long to get this to you John. Operations apparently decided personal articles could get buried in the back rooms with no attempt at organization."

She balances the box on her hip as she drags a stand over to my chair and sets the box down. It looks fairly heavy.

"I was starting to think you forgot about it." Honestly didn't think she'd actually get it for me. I felt as if everyone was trying to hide my own past from me but Whitney.

"Believe me, I didn't. I know it's important to you."

I'm itching to take the lid off, but I don't know what to expect to find inside. Could be a lot of nothing. Could be something significant. I wonder if Elle's already nosed through it.

"All of your personal articles are in there. We did have to remove several items and place them in our vault for safe keeping."

"What items were those?" I watch her pluck a pale yellow sticky note off the lid.

"A Colt M1911, three magazines accompany it, six large capacity magazines for a .308, a menagerie of loose ammunition and several types of explosive devices, and three different knives."

"So all the fun stuff?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you John. We do things a little different here in Iceland. I can't exactly have you stowing a loaded gun under your pillow."

"And why not?" It seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do. There had been countless nights I had spent spooning my rifle in the middle of nowhere on reconnaissance. Elle huffs out a sigh. Like she's gearing up for an argument that she's not fully prepared to have. I can see it in her eyes. Feel it. Knowing when to back down isn't always a bad thing. It's called a tactical retreat. Sometimes it's the smartest decision you can make.

"Just no guns or other weapons. Not right now. We'll cross that bridge when we get there."

I concede, begrudgingly. Elle puts her hand on my shoulder and gives a squeeze. She gets why I'm upset. And I can't blame her for doing her job. Part of that means knowing when to say no.

"If you need anything, I'm on call tonight. I'll stop by later to get you to bed."

She gives a small pat on my shoulder and leaves my room. I take a moment to look over the box. Nothing out of the ordinary, plain white cardboard bankers box. The sticky note on top is in Icelandic, but from a quick glance it doesn't look like she left anything out.

I feel optimistic when I lift the lid and set it on the ground.

…

The first thing that hits is the smell. It's not the typical damp smell you expect from something out of storage. It's a wonderful bouquet war.

The first scent I recognize is my own. Anyone who's ever worn a flack jacket or body armor knows what I'm talking about. To anyone else, imagine your work out clothes that you've worn every day for 3 months, and haven't washed it. It's not so bad now because it's dried out, but the moment you put it on and sweat, it's game over. You can never wash the smell out of those synthetic materials after you've practically lived in.

I grab the first item off the top. It's the nylon chest harness. I preferred it over the flak jackets because it was lightweight, and I could throw it over anything. It was easy to get in-to and out-of versus peeling apart velcro panels and lifting over your head -which was an officer safety factor. It also helps distribute the weight across the body compared to hanging off the shoulders like a traditional vest, or a strict duty belt that kills the hips and back. It used to be black. Now it was stained with years of dirt, ash and dust, almost completed greyed out in camouflage. Most of the pockets are emptied out, mostly where the mags and other confiscated items were removed. I'll go through it more thoroughly later. I set it on the floor.

The second item I grab out of the pile is several articles of clothing. The black parka is well worn. Shredded. Scuffed. Singed. It's dark and the material hardened around where there's small holes. Dried blood. It has its own distinct scent of concrete dust, and the metallic sulphur from gunpowder. The acrid chlorine residual of explosives. This jacket has seen a lot of field time. I love it because it wasn't too bulky and had deep pockets. I can see where the flag patches were cut from the shoulder sleeves. No country to call home. No safe haven.

A black base layer long sleeve and pair of BDU pants are wadded up, and for good reason. Completely stiffened with dried blood. The least pleasant smelling. Something between old rusted cast iron and death. Sweet pungent rot. One solider once told me the technical terms -putrescine and cadaverine. The smell of decaying flesh. I check the pants pockets for anything, only to find them filled with fine dust and a few empty shell casings from a pistol. These can definitely be thrown out. I toss those to the opposite side of the jacket and chest rigging.

There's a clump of smaller miscellaneous items. My favorite leg gun holster for the 1911. Black gloves, the finger tips worn so thin they're practically blown out, along with the inseam of the thumbs. Small flashlight, portable radio -battery dead of course, heavy duty zip ties for makeshift cuffs and all other repairs, electrical tape, two field pens, but no notebook. Slim digital phone -screen's shattered and the battery is stone dead.

One disemboweled trauma kit -even the tourniquet is missing. Knee pads -those things were sometimes cumbersome, but a lifesaver in the field. Nothing like kneeling down to get a shard of glass buried in your knee to make you instantly regret your decision not to have them.

My shemagh -I got it years ago when I started touring with the 22nd. It's kind of like a right of passage. It's still on one piece, but it's suffered the same fate of the clothes -petrified in a twisted rope with blood. Looks like it might have been used to staunch the bleeding. I plan on keeping this, too many memories. Just needs a good wash.

At the bottom is my boots and body armor undercarrier. The boots were beat -the soles starting to slick out, laces frayed to exhaustion, and the leather permanently curled. There's a cuff key weaved through the laces and tucked into the base of the joined tongue leather in case of emergencies. The grey material inside the boots is completed stained with blood. I vaguely remember the sensation of my boots feeling soaked, but never walking through any water. I never realized it was my own blood then.

The last item is the ballistic vest undercarrier. It feels frail. There's several holes punching through the kevlar. Even for such a tough material, it's not a 100%. The fabric is broken in and formed after much wearing, and the black material is stained in arches of sweat out salt. When I inspect the undercarrier, small gritty chunks fall out of the pierced holes. I feel the remains of the trauma plates I had installed in the front and back. The ceramic plate is completed pulverized. It's more like a ziplock bag filled with crushed tile. The only thing reminiscent of it being a trauma plate is the steel core. Both are completely destroyed.

The vest hits the ground with an audible thud. I swing back to the rigging and pilfer the pockets one by one. I never considered myself a "pack rat" but occasionally I had collected small mementoes during my travels. Call it what you want, but I hated to admit I was sentimental. The older I got, the worse it seemed to get. I feel something flush inside one of the mag pouch and work on pulling it out.

It's a photo stock paper, folded in half. I wrote something on the back, the ink a bit smudged; Grand National 2012, Price, Sanderson, Riley. 33/1 Neptune Collenges, by a nose!

The memory resurfaces. Sergeant Gary Sanderson -aka Roach, my best rookie ever. Lieutenant Simon Riley -the Ghost, and world class asshole. My closest crew serving under the one-four-one.

Price had insisted we go out that year -he had a thing for the ponies. In fact, made it an order. More like an excuse to get piss drunk, and spend a lot of money. Actually, we made money that day. Everyone except Riley. He absolutely refused to bet on a grey horse for some stupid superstition or another. He always had to be difficult. I flip it over.

It's the first visual I've come across. I pick out Price immediately – greyed out and weathered. That mustache…I still don't have an appropriate comment for it. I'm next to him, and flanked by Sanderson, arm and arm, shitfaced and each holding up a fat stack of cash. Riley is sulking in the background, behind the three of us, dual wielding a proper one-finger salute. It's of the few candid pictures you can actually get a good look at his scowling face -in fact, there's a hint of a smile. It was the first time any of us had gone to the races and we had Price as our personal tour guide to the track.

I take a closer look at myself. How much younger I looked. How much younger we all must have looked. I'm rocking a mohawk and the scar absent from my face. Before the mission went awry. Before a piece of shrapnel tried to eat my fucking face. When Price stayed behind…Again he put himself out at risk for me.

I can't stand looking at it. Sanderson and Riley are dead. The weight of their deaths is still the heaviest burdened I've continued to bear, and I'm ashamed to admit that even for a moment I had forgotten their names. There was time when I thought I had lost Price. I don't even know if he's still alive.

It's when I find it difficult to breath, I take a moment and hold my breath. Count to four. Breath out to four. Again. And again. A tactical pause. It slows the anxiety but it doesn't stop me from having to fight back the tears. I take a couple hard swallows, clear my throat and smooth out the photograph. Wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. One day I'll be able to face it, but right now…I can't…I can't handle it. I wasn't ready for this. This is exactly what Elle was trying to protect me from.

I feel a lot of it coming back. More bits and pieces. Shards is a better term. They're rough jagged memories, and they hurt. Physically manifest themselves as pain. I make quick work to stick the picture in the back of my journal next to the Stranger's letter so I don't have to look at it. Just like last time, I'm avoiding my feelings.

I brave the storm and carefully go through everything before setting it back in the box. Dig deep through the pockets of the clothing. Nothing. I know I would have kept notes or a field journal, but I can't find it anywhere in my gear. Maybe it fell out or got lost in the shuffle while I clung to life in Prague. I know I must have had one. That's why Elle's gift had caught me so off guard. It was so reminiscent of what I once what.

By the end of it, I only throw out the items that are totaled, namely the clothes. I'll hang onto the vest a bit longer. Even if it's rendered useless, I can't part with it. It's a sobering reminder to my mortality.

I pick up my journal and start to write down the findings of my box, and every accompanying thought that conjures up as a result. Jot down what I can remember about Roach and Ghost. About Price and the shenanigans of the 141. After some time my hand starts to cramp up, prompting a break in my writings.

I feel exhausted. Physically and mentally drained. The worst I've felt in a while now. I lean back in the chair and rub my temples with one hand, hoping to stave off the fatigue. I swear I only close my eyes for a minute.

…

There's something warm touching the side of my face.

"John. John. I need you to wake up."

A/N: I found inspiration and necessity for this chapter from my own experience. Your equipment becomes an essential part of you. An extension. Your backup when you have none other. You feel naked without your vest. Yes, they're just items, but they've weathered through every storm with you. And yes, body armor is disgusting.