London, October 2010
It's just begun to rain when Harry arrives at the cafe.
John's been waiting outside for nearly twenty minutes now, the hand wrapped around the handle of his cane tightening as the ache in his leg becomes a sharp pain he can't ignore. He's almost glad to see her, but one look at her bleary, blood-shot eyes - one whiff of the stale alcohol that clings to her clothes - and his goodwill withers away.
"Johnny," she says, preemptively defeated, as though she can read the battle she's fought and lost in John's eyes.
"Harry," he replies, a soft rebuke hiding behind her name. "Glad you could make it."
"Piss off," Harry says, but she walks around him to pull the door open, and he doesn't fail to notice that she holds it for him as he shuffles through. They order coffees at the counter; John makes sure to cover his with a plastic lid, as he's found out the hard way what happens when he limps with hot coffee in his free hand.
Once they've settled in their seats, Harry removes a mobile phone from the jacket she's draped over the back of her chair and lays it down on the table, sliding it towards John.
"Here," she says. "Don't be such a stranger."
John picks it up, experimentally presses a couple of buttons, then turns it over to find an inscription on the back. His eyes flick back up to Harry's face, but she's pointedly looking away.
"What happened with Clara?" he asks, and Harry shrugs.
"Wasn't working out."
"Wasn't working -" John leans across the table and, with a quick glance around, hisses quietly, "She's not your girlfriend, Harry, she's your wife. You can't just -"
Harry's eyes flash angrily. "Can't what, John? Leave? It didn't seem to bother you when you were the one doing it."
"That's not -" John begins, but Harry's not done.
"I buried him, John Watson, and where the hell were you? Mum's talked about nothing but you since he died. 'Hope Johnny's alright, Harry.' 'Have you heard from Johnny lately, Harry?'" She lets out an explosive sigh. "You just left, you dickhead, and I've had to pick up the pieces."
A small part of John wants to tell her it's about time she did. That it's only fair after the years of arguments and slammed doors she inflicted on them all. It's true what she says, though; he did leave and he hasn't been back in years. Calls home from time to time, but he stayed away from his father's funeral, and although he's been back for a few weeks now, he has yet to visit the facility where his mother now lives.
He doesn't want her to see him like this.
And it seems that there's something about being shot at - being shot - that puts things in perspective, so instead of arguing the point, John simply asks, "How's she doing?"
Harry eyes him warily. "Same as always," she replies.
The minutes pass in silence, the only sound between them soft slurps of their coffee.
Then, abruptly, "Did it hurt?"
John lets out a humourless laugh and looks out the window. "Of course it hurt. I was shot."
"What're you going to do?" Harry asks, and that's the question, isn't it? What can he possibly do? It's not like he can stand for any length of time, and the tremor in his left hand makes even the simplest of everyday tasks that much more difficult.
And it's not just his body. John's never had that cocky confidence that separates the leaders from the led and, bereft of the things that gave some form to his otherwise shapeless sense of self, he has no idea who he even is anymore. John's paid the price for that fleeting sense of purpose and definition that enemy fire lent him, and it's too high. He's gambled his future and lost.
"No idea," he answers with a grimace.
Harry snorts indelicately. "You could always get married. Start a family."
John knows she means it facetiously, but it strikes truer than the stray bullet that hit his shoulder, and his eyes fall to the cup in his hand.
It's a long-held fantasy of his, starting a family. He'd spent sun-baked afternoons in the too-still shelter of canvas and netting, leaning back and imagining the green, bucolic life he might build once his tour was up. A son and a daughter; a wife - pretty, but not beautiful, because why would someone beautiful ever look at him? She'd be sensible and staid, like his mum. Predictable, and her predictability would give his own life a stability that his has lacked for years.
But that's another of those dreams that the desert has dessicated.
John lifts his cup to his parched lips and takes one last sip. Then he looks Harry in the eye, the sharp glint in his own a bitter contrast to the tight smile it accompanies.
"Who would have me now?"