A/N: I really appreciate anyone that has followed, favorited, or reviewed this story; even those of you that just stop to read, I appreciate. I hope you guys will continue to give me helpful feedback and ask questions and such.

Returning to London should be...well, maybe not fun, per se, but definitely nostalgic. I spent my whole childhood there, and going back almost seems like a dream that I could wake up from any moment now. Of course, I've been gone so long that it seems almost foreign to me; I can't even remember what my school looked like or the layout of the subway.

All I've seen for quite some time has been war and death and blood, and I've become acclimatized to violence in a way that could pose a few...problems? Bumps in the road? There'll be a lot of those, I'm sure; I've become so accustomed to military life that I almost feel like I...thrive in dangerous situations.

Adapting to life again is making me anxious. Civilian life is so...boring, for lack of a better word. Nearly nothing ever happens, and danger is difficult to come by. The worst thing bound to happen is, what, I get robbed by some petty thief?

It's a big change going from shot and bloody comrades to shopping at Tesco's and taking cabs to pubs with old mates.

I pull at the hem of my jumper, adjusting the collar of my undershirt as I glance up at the mirror in front of me. I look dull. I register the fact vaguely, tugging at my sleeve and smoothing my hands over my pants. The shades of gray are starting to get to me.

I knock my stupid cane against my leg, feeling myself bite my lip as I turn to the window. This flat has barely enough space, even with the little amount of items I've acquired. The sun is a blinding white, seeping through the blinds and causing a shadow to stretch out against the door. I glance at my clock.

8:12 AM. Ella asked me to meet her at 8:30.

Sighing, I amble to the door, twisting the knob and starting down the stairs. I breach the final door of the flat complex, rays of sunlight pooling around me and causing a tingly feeling to creep into my stomach. Several birds chirp as I listen to couples chatter animatedly. I smile slightly.

Even if it's mundane, civilian life is so peaceful; I love it sometimes.

"How've you been, John?"

I give Ella a look, causing her to merely shrug and scribble something in her little black book. I swear I see the word 'cautious' across the top line.

"Met any new people?" she asks, her eyes trained back on mine. I inhale sharply, glancing to the window before looking back at her.

"No," I respond simply, and her pen starts across the paper again. I cross my legs as she finishes her note, peering at the word upside down; 'unresponsive'.

"That's unfortunate," she concedes, tapping the pen against her book. "Would you be willing to meet new people?"

"Depends." I shrug at her questioning look, running my fingers along the smooth fabric stretched over the arms of the chair. She glances at my hands.

"On what?" She crosses her own legs, heels glinting in the lamp light; I wonder what color they are. Maybe purple? I think Ella told me once that's her favorite color.

"I don't know...it just does," I reply, crossing my arms. Her eyes linger on me for a moment before she flips the page of her book and writes something else. I'm tired of trying to decode her notes, so I don't bother looking at it.

"So, I assume you haven't met your soulmate, yet?"

I wince, glimpsing the writing on my wrist. The name's clear in the sunlight, but my eyes dart away quickly. I clasp my hands together in my lap.

"No, but I don't feel comfortable talking about that." My sentence is a low mumble, dismissive in its tone. Ella cocks her head.

"Alright. What would you like to talk about then, John?" She scratches something else into her book, then she clicks the pen and places it on her desk; she already knows I don't want to talk anymore.

"I'd just like to...can I leave?" My legs are practically aching to pace, even with the burden of a cane everywhere I go. I see it leaned against the side of Ella's desk.

She smiles at me, but it looks professional and oddly dispassionate. That's alright, though; I don't want her sympathy. I don't care if she doesn't actually give a rat's arse if I get "better" or not.

"Of course. You're allowed to leave anytime you like. Would you like me to see you out?" She unfolds her legs, eyes still locked on my face. There isn't much warmth to them.

I shrug as I rise from my chair, leaning forward to grasp my cane; the solidity of it is slightly comforting as I knock it against the floor. I give her a nod before starting for the door.

"Another appointment tomorrow?" her voice chimes. My head turns back to her inquisitive expression, my hand resting on the doorknob.

"Yeah, okay," I confirm, nodding faintly, and she slowly goes behind her desk. All I receive is a half-hearted wave and a nod before she says,"Have a nice day, John."

I slam the door behind me.

"Hi, Ma," I mumur, rubbing at my eyes. Squinting at the harsh light, I roll over to face the wall.

"J-Johnn-y...!"

I'm suddenly cradling the phone beside my ear to hear her. She's been crying. My throat tightens, pin-hole thin.

"Mum? What's wrong?" Hoisting myself up, I grip my cane; I stumble. Take a deep breath. "What's happened?"

"J-John...it's so h-horrible...his face is gone..." I inhale, then there's nothing. But it's only a moment before my breath is back. It hurts, it all hurts, and I just want it to stop.

"Whose...whose face, Ma?" I grate out, turning to the window. It's beautiful outside.

"He's all...bloody. His face i-is...muti-lated..." Her breath hitches audibly, and I can see her figure etched into my vision. She's sitting in my desk chair, sobbing into her palms. I blink slowly.

"Mum, who? I need to know?" I lean against my nightstand. My hands lift the blinds to peer through the glass. I see a happy couple with linked hands. My eyes sting.

"Your...your f-father, Jo-hn..."

Inhale, exhale; I need to tamp my urges down. I can't cry; oh, no big boy cries, Johnny. Waterworks are pointless, just tether the sorrow. Let your emotions float.

"What...," I stop, lips thinning into a frown. My eyes find the sun and stare. "What happened?"

"My God, J-John...it's aw-ful. He was d-drunk and h-he was dr-iving home...he hit a-a..." She doesn't finish, I don't start, and together, there aren't any words. The sun beats down on my forehead. It would've felt lovely yesterday.

"Oh, my God," is all I can bite out, and I hear her again. It's almost like she's compensating for her previous silence. Drowning the speaker with tears.

"You hav-have to come s-ee him, John...his face...he's dying...!" Her voice cracks. I suddenly want to roll back into bed; it would be easier. Anything other than now would be easier.

"I...where?" My eyes linger on the couple again; I notice the stroller they're toting around. I can see their baby.

He's beautiful.

"O-oxford stree-t...hurry. They're saying th-ere's too mu-much bleeding to save him...I want y-you to see him be-fore he goes..." I don't respond. l clamor to my desk chair; I can't stand to look at the babe anymore.

"I'm coming, Ma. I'll be there as soon as possible..." I hear a sniffle carried across the line, another, and then a cough. I'm aware of her new tears.

"I love you, John...," she whispers. It's the first full sentence she's said; my eyes prickle.

"Love you too, Mum," I return. I hear her wipe at her eyes before she hangs up. My mobile feels heavy in my palm. I place it on the desk, then I cradle my head in my hands. I just rub circles into my head and blink.

I hear the baby from outside. He's screaming, gasping for air. All of his oxygen is going to his distress.

Before I leave, I weep.

"I had another nightmare yesterday." I push my gaze, force it to stay on Ella. It's uncomfortable to look at her.

She scrawls another note into her book before ending on the cool line,"Oh, really?" As soon as she finishes writing, her eyes are back on me as she says,"May I ask what was different about this one?"

"How do you know anything was different?" I know my voice probably sounds incredulous, but that's only because I am. The only people who know anything are me, Ma, and the hospital.

"I know because I usually have to ask if you've had nightmares, and even then you aren't so forthcoming with information. Am I wrong in assuming this one was different?" She folds her hands primly in her lap, crossing her legs. I shift slightly to turn to the window, glimpsing a woman walking her dog outside; I'm glad Ella keeps the blinds open.

"No, you're not. There was something different," I confirm, looking again to her face, then down to my lap. I mess with a dangling piece of string on my sleeve.

"It wasn't about the war...it was about my dad." I glance at Ella to see an actual increment of feeling in her eyes. It isn't pity, but there's understanding there; it's better than sympathy.

"What happened to your father, then?" she questions, reopening her little notebook. "It must've been recently, right?"

"Yeah...the day before yesterday. He...," I trail off with bated breath, facing the door. "He got into a car accident because...he was drunk. He's dead." The statement almost makes my stomach flop as Ella just leans back into her chair and pens in another little statement.

"What happened in the dream?" I fight the urge to correct her; it was definitely not a dream, but a nightmare.

"I was in the car with him, almost like the guardian angel beside his shoulder. The devil was himself, and he was speeding, over 100 miles per hour," I explain slowly, heaving a deep, soothing breath. My fingers itch to do something other then stay limp in my lap, but it's almost as if my body's locked.

"I kept warning,'Da, this isn't good; Ma will be mad. You're under the influence, you should have waited. You would have been better off then'. He kept brushing me off like...like I was a piece of lint on his bloody shirt!" I shout, and I carefully try to calm the rising edge to my voice. I want my point to get across.

"I was bloody angry as hell, trying to pull the steering wheel from him...and then..." Ella's eyes are right on me, intently examining all of me. I feel stripped, and cornered, and the feeling is not good. My whole face prickles, almost overly sensitive to the air.

"And then?" Ella prompts, writing something else in her book, flipping idly to the next page like I'm not pouring my heart out to her, a stranger. I pucker my lips and shift.

"I-" My voice cracks slightly, and I clear my throat, noticing the rays of light against the carpeted floor. "I turned out to...to be the one that made him crash. We-we were fighting for the wheel, and I jerked it, and-"

I don't finish, the sentence left sharp and prickly in the air. She doesn't say anything, or force me to continue, but that may only be because she knows the ending.

"So you believe yourself to be the cause of your father's death?" Her fingers tap against the notebook, and I wonder offhandedly when she got her fingernails painted.

"I know I am," I state simply. I think the answer should speak for itself, but she still looks perplexed. "Mum said he had been drinking more lately; with that knowledge, I could've asked him about it, helped him."

"Yet...," I drawl, wishing I had a glass of water; my throat feels so dry. "I was a coward, and I let his habit continue, and now, he's dead because of it."

She just stares at me for a moment before saying,"But he could've stopped at any moment, or not have driven while being drunk, or asked for help. There are many variables and factors to situations like this."

My head shakes on its own accord, back and forth in an expression of disagreement, and I tip my head back and laugh. It's gentle and quiet and bubbly and practically hysterical, but Ella just continues to look at me.

"No; it was me. It's always me, with Harry, and Ma, and now Da." I glance at the ceiling.

"Always me..."

A/N: I'd really appreciate any feedback, criticism, suggestions, questions, anything, honestly.