You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it.
John wore Mycroft Holmes's diagnosis like a medal pinned to his chest, close to his heart.
On that first drowsy morning, he picked the cane up often, craving the hard chill under his palm. A ruthless constant in a world now flooded with Chinese meals eaten in the dark and violins at midnight.
That night, he propped it up in the shadows at the foot of his bed. It gleamed, bleached by the cold light of the streetlights. Silent and still. An old soldier on sentry duty.