The grimy train pulled into Platform 12 at Paddington on Friday morning at precisely 11:49. Captain John Watson stepped off the train with two other officers travelling from the base to London to see their families. All three were resplendent in their No. 5 Dress Khakis complete with 70 litre packs and the dark blue berets which indicated they were in the RAMC. Even the business men rushing to catch their connections paused briefly in respect for the three soldiers who walked with the weight of the world on their shoulders and their brotherhood in their stride. They halted at the top of the steps leading down into the Underground.
"See you in a month then, John."
"Yes. Hope things go well with Jason, Melissa."
"We can but pray." First Lieutenant Melissa Renfrew looked more nervous than she had throughout their entire six month tour in Helmand.
Major Alex Horrocks smirked. "I think I'm going to have the same problem. Luke hates me being posted for so long."
"At least it's only Cyprus this time. Could've been the Falklands with 6th Battalion." John grimaced. "Imagine the whinging."
"And that would just be you, sir," Melissa grinned.
"I'm trying not to be insulted, Lieutenant. That's insubordination, you know."
"Promote me and it won't be."
"Settle down you two," cut in the Major. "I'm surprised we came back in one piece with all that bickering."
"Yes sir. Apologies." The two junior officers looked suitably abashed.
Major Horrocks nodded and John and Melissa drew to attention and saluted sharply, parade ground manner not forgotten even in the moment of light hearted relief. The Major saluted in return. Melissa quickly dropped the formal manner and kissed them both on the cheek; Alex looked disapproving, John blushed slightly. She smiled and headed for the exit, her blue beret quickly disappearing into the crowd.
"John."
"Sir."
The two men shook hands and parted, Alex going the same way as Melissa and John heading down the steps to the tube. He caught the Bakerloo line and six minutes later stepped out onto the platform at Baker Street. He jogged quickly up the escalator, his hefty pack seeming as light as a feather as he neared the familiar black door. A year back in the army had done wonders for his perspective. He no longer felt crippling grief at the thought of Sherlock Holmes; in fact, he was looking forward to seeing the flat and Mrs Hudson again.
He opened the door quietly and slipped up the stairs, wanting a private moment before seeing the landlady. A month in London, then back out to Cyprus with 2nd Battalion would be nice, he thought. He was in control. However, the sight that greeted him as he stepped into the flat made him feel very out of control indeed. His pack thudded to the floor in time with his heart and Captain John Watson simply stood in his khakis and wept.