He hated them. Hated the sad looks and pitying stares that followed him whenever he went out. Hated the kind offers for help, as if he was perfectly incapable of handling simple things like carrying groceries or walking across the street (dammit, he had a cane, not a bloody wheelchair!). Hated the way people's eyes lingered on him for just a second more than normal, because he was different; because he was broken. It made his skin crawl with an inane sense of anger and shame creep up the back of his neck and his left hand tremble just a bit when he focused on the stares, actually thought about why he had to live with them.
These were the reasonings behind John's irrational hatred of going grocery shopping. Unless the situation in his minute kitchen became so dire that he began thinking wistfully of Harry's cooking, John only left the flat to go to his therapist meetings and take a short walk around London, a simple exercise routine he'd been told to follow upon his release from the hospital. Especially considering how every damn time, someone offered to help him in some way—like the cashier at Tesco's offering to hold his pathetically half-filled bag of dried pasta and canned goods while he called for a cab. John, trying desperately hard not to smack him, had given a thin-lipped, entirely false smile—more of a grimace than anything, really—before taking his change from the younger man with a sharp shake of his head. "Perfectly capable of handling it myself, thanks," he'd said tightly, gathering his shopping in his left hand and sharply turning on his heel, managing to walk out the doors without so much as a stumble, all the while praying desperately to whatever deity was out there that his leg wouldn't act up and embarrass him by planting him face first into the ground. It was a soldier's (slightly damaged) pride that had John forgoing the usual wave to a cab once outside, deciding that he could very well walk back to his flat on a nice cloudy day like today. Cab fare was expensive, after all, and what harm could it do to keep from spending a little extra money in his dwindling army pension? Honestly, how much trouble could a simple walk back to his bedsit be?
The correct answer: a lot.
John's "brilliant" idea had turned out to be a very, very bad one, when about two blocks away from Tesco's his leg began bothering him. It shouldn't have been that much of a problem, had he not been caught in sudden downpour of freezing rain six streets away from his flat in a wonderful example of typical London weather. Left arm cradling his measly bag of shopping, right leaning heavily on his cane, John managed to duck under the cover of a red awning proclaiming the title "Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café". Unfortunately, the shop looked like it was closed for the day—just his luck. The ex-army doctor grimaced as icy water trickled down his collar from the dripping ends of his flattened hair, soaking the collar of his shirt. Gently depositing the damp paper bag next to him, John placed one hand on a wall and rubbed at his leg with the other, cursing inwardly at his rotten luck. The streets had cleared out by now, only the occasional black cab or pedestrian seeking cover from the deluge passing by. His navigational sense were a bit blunt, to say the least, and he had no intention of wandering about in the heavy rain until he happened upon a bus stop. Grumbling to himself, John was just about to go up to and knock on the black door marked as "221B" and see if anyone there could help with his dilemma when something strange caught his attention.
A wheezing sound had filled the air, sort of like—metal, scraping against concrete. But completely indescribable still. John straightened from his position bent over his leg, looking around in bewilderment. His eyes landed on a large blue telephone box placed right next to the end of the awning.
He was almost certain hadn't been there before.
Somewhat disconcerted, John cautiously inched over to the police box. It appeared to be just that—an old blue police box. He hadn't seen one like this in ages. There used to be a few discontinued models where he grew up, but no one used those anymore. He cracked a small smile at the old-timey appearance.
"Just don't make 'em like this anymore," he sighed.
John jumped when the doors suddenly snapped open, revealing a man with short hair and big ears.
"You!" The man cried, smiling hugely.
John, startled, looked around at the empty street, and eventually decided the man was talking to him. "M-me?" he stuttered.
"Yes, of course, you—John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," The man looked rather pleased with himself, as if he'd memorized the line and remembered it for a test.
John, on the other hand, was beginning to get a little frightened. "How the hell did you know that?"
"You two were supposed to meet—you were supposed to save that idiot, but nooo. Someone's been splashing about in the time stream, messing up the currents. Someone doesn't want you to meet. Someone who's willing to bend time and space to make sure it happens, now what's that about?"
He knew he should have run, turned around, called the police for god's sake. Anything but stand there and listen to the nutter spouting nonsense. But John was somewhat fascinated (and at the same time unnerved) by the box that appeared out of nowhere and the man who knew exactly who he was even though they'd never met.
"Come on then, we have to fix this!" Big-Ears said, turned on his heel into the box.
And when John was suddenly being yanked into the police box by the madman in the leather coat, he was too shocked to even shout.
I completely took a line or two from the prompt on tumblr. Most of it is me besides the idea, though.