So, huge, HUGE apologies that I haven't updated this for so long. Honestly, I had the most bizarre and hectic end to my 2014 and I just haven't had five minutes to myself for the longest time. But, I'm back! And after giving myself a bit of kick up the arse, I am determined to update this story at least once a week! It might not always happen, but that's one of my resolutions so I will try my absolute hardest to keep it up.

Right, so this chapter is complete filler. As I didn't really go into any detail regarding selection or what the recruits have to go through in order to call themselves SAS soldiers, i thought I would use Soap and this chapter to do that.

BUT I can FINALLY say that the next chapter is where Soap and Lola meet! It's been a long time coming and I am grateful to everybody that sends me messages saying that they love my story as it's you who I'm writing it for! I'm posting the third chapter at the end of this week so keep your eyes peeled!

As always, reviews are always, always welcome and I love getting your feedback.

Hope you all had a lovely New Year and you're looking forward to 2015 as much as me!

xxx

John hadn't really given much thought about selection. It was just another hurdle to overcome on the way to his goal. Besides, he was in great shape. Really great shape. The best shape of his life. He had been lucky that he had inherited his dad's statuesque 6ft4 frame and wide set shoulders. He didn't have to work out much to look "big" but did so anyway. He had been the biggest guy in his regiment both in stature and sheer width. He packed away almost 6000 calories a day but had a narrow waist which was home to his very well earned eight pack. He wore the regulation grade 1 buzz cut with pride as his angular jaw and straight roman nose offset the startling haircut perfectly. He wanted to do more with his hair. He knew that the SAS men were allowed to do what they wanted, within reason, and he was already planning his trademark cut. The other lads laughed at him when he talked about his hair but if he wanted people to fear him, he had to look the part. In fact, since the day he had been handed the elusive SAS calling card, John had spent more time thinking about his hair than he had about how he would cope with selection. He was just that confident.

It wasn't a secret that selection was hard. Hard was an understatement. They had all heard about the men who had died due to heat exhaustion whilst undertaking the five month training. The statistics were hardly the stuff of dreams. 90% didn't make it. This statistic had been drummed into them time and time again during their first week in the Welsh barracks that housed the recruits.

90%. 90%. 90 fucking percent.

He was going to be in the other 10%, He had never been so determined to do something in his entire life.

The first week wasn't so bad. Mostly briefings and lectures. They were briefed on their employment in the SAS. The things that they would be expected to do. Missions were dangerous and almost always high risk. There was a reason they had to be the best. Average just wouldn't cut it in this business. There was a swimming test, a compass test, first aid test and his favourite, a CFT. He excelled at everything and caught the eye of all the trainers, men who had served time in the SAS and knew exactly who and who wouldn't make it. He was going to get through. It was in his nature. He wasn't a quitter.

The next four weeks had been more physically demanding. The first week had been more CFT tests, a 1.5 mile run which had to be completed in under 9 minutes 30 seconds whilst carrying full kit, weapon and water. He had finished in 8 minutes. His lungs had been screaming at him but he willed them to push on. He hadn't batted an eyelid when, after completing the run, the trainer had commanded him to do 45 press-ups followed by 55 sit-ups.

This was the SAS. It was supposed to be hard.

He had grit his teeth with determination when the recruits had headed out on a four week long assignment in the Brecon Beacons, a group of peaks situated just outside their Welsh barracks. The Beacons were a thing of beauty, the marches were not. If you didn't end up covered in your own vomit then you just weren't trying hard enough. The "Fan Dance" was the hardest. The group was split in two and sent to different start points. They had to ascend the famous Pen y Fan mountain, which stood at 2907ft, descend to the start point of the other team, and then reverse the route to finish at their original starting point, all while carrying a full kit, a rifle which had to be held in both hands at all times, and a water supply.

The final week was the killer. Every day was a new march, its length and the weight of their kit increasing until finally, on the seventh day, they concluded with Endurance, a 40 mile march completed in less than 20 hours whilst carrying 55lb of kit, rifle, water and food, Oh, and you weren't allowed to stop. It would be hard enough as a stand alone march, but given that the troop had marched in the six days preceding Endurance, it was almost unbearable. Almost. John watched over half of the recruits fail. He finished top of the pack. Price had shown up on the last day, the day of Endurance to watch the men he had picked. As John had crossed the finish line in first place, Price had simply stared through him. You weren't rewarded for being the best at the tasks, it was simply acknowledged that you hadn't failed yet.

If you passed the first five weeks you were invited to Initial Continuation Training. Not as physically and mentally demanding as the last four weeks, John thrived. Price's second in command, Gaz, was present for most of these fourteen weeks. He was another cockney (where they all?!) with a serious poker face, who glanced at John as if he had just won first place in the egg and spoon race when he led his team to victory on yet another navigation exercise.

He had known it was hard. He really had. He and his father had spoken in great detail about how hard it was. His dad had served in the Para's when he was younger and had been chosen for selection once but had broken his leg during Endurance. Edan Mactavish was the toughest man that John knew. He had hobbled to the end before he had admitted defeat. There was no sympathy. He was asked to leave immediately and had been forced to drive himself to the hospital. Edan still walked with a limp to this day but by God, he was fiercely proud of how far he had got and would regale all the villagers in the local pub of the mischief that he and his brothers in arms had gotten up to during his time with the Para's.

His mam and dad. Fuck. He missed them. It wasn't really cool to admit so but since he joined the forces twelve years ago visits with them were few and far between. It had been eight months since he had seen them last and he couldn't help but feel a pang in his chest when he thought about them. When he passed selection, IF he passed selection, and became a member of the SAS the chances of him seeing them reduced even further. He would be moving to Hereford, the home of the SAS base. The nature of the missions dealt to the SAS meant that they sprang up quickly and you had to be ready to leave at a moments notice. For that reason, leave was rarely granted. He wasn't allowed to tell his mam and dad that he was going through selection, the SAS was secretive stuff, but he had dropped a big enough hint in his last phone call to them that Edan had recognised that he wouldn't be seeing his only son for a while and that he was undertaking the most important training of his life.

He passed the ICT training with ease. There were only thirty lads left now. There had been 110 on the first day. They had been here for nineteen weeks now. Everybody was tired. But, there were only ten weeks left to go and they were at the part of selection that John was looking forward to. Jungle Training. He had packed his kit up and stuffed the picture of his mam and dad inside the breast pocket of his shirt. Close to his heart. He couldn't wait to speak to them. He couldn't wait to hint towards his success. Edan would be proud. He would probably cry. John was an only child and every achievement of his had been met with tears of pride from Edan and Blair, his mother. He remembered when he was six and he had won the sack race at his schools sports day. Edan had pulled him up onto his shoulders and told everybody how proud he was that his son was a winner. On the day that John passed out from the Para's, he had walked across the stage to collect his maroon beret, only to catch a glimpse of Edan in the crowd, the older man had been on his feet, tears streaming down his cheeks. Fuck. He missed them. He felt guilty sometimes. Guilty that he wasn't providing them with the stereotypical life that most parents imagined for their offspring. Guilty that he could never stay too long. Guilty that he had no interest in finding a nice Scottish girl to set up home with. His mam wanted grandkids. She made no secret of the fact. John had been in love. Once. But it had ended as most things did. The only constant in his life was himself and his goals. He didn't really think about her but her face would flash up in his dreams sometimes. It spoke volumes that he didn't miss her.

Jungle Training was hard. Borneo was a total world away from Scotland. They had arrived at the beginning of monsoon season. The rain was relentless. The heat even more so. How was it possible to be both slick with sweat and rain at the same time? They had spent six weeks learning patrol techniques, boat handling, navigation, contact drills and how to perform basic medical tasks. They lost another ten lads. Mostly due to infection. Insect bites in the jungle weren't the same as back at home. The recruits had all watched with bile in their throats as one of the lads, a twenty four year old Marine called Mark, had been evacuated when a seemingly harmless spider bite had turned gangrenous. The last they had heard, he had lost his right leg from his knee down and was on a very slow road to recovery. John powered through. He knew he was top of the set. He helped the other lads. Took care of them when the pressure became too much. He had spent a whole night talking Harry, a twenty five year old Para, out of blowing his brains out. He had left too. It wasn't just the physical turmoil that the recruits went through, no, that was only a small part of it. The most challenging part of the whole thing was forcing yourself to keep going. Waking up every morning in that jungle, hearing the familiar sound of the rain had driven Harry mad. You didn't just ask to leave selection. It wasn't that easy. You were only taken out when you were damaged goods. Edan had broken his leg. Harry's spirit was in the same way.

The final four weeks were the most interesting. All the lads knew what was coming, so it was no surprise when they were called into the briefing room and split into groups of four. Officially, the exercise was called, 'Preparing to Withstand Capture', realistically, John and his fellow hopefuls were about to be tortured. The task was simple, each group of four was given a location of "kidnappers" that they had to stake out over 24 hours. At some point during that 24 hours, a "hostage" would be brought into the mix. All the lads knew that at the end of the mission, they were to be compromised. It was the last hurdle. You had to prove to the SAS that you wouldn't break. He remembered watching the van screaming towards the house that they had be staking out. Remembered the blood red balaclavas that the two kidnappers were wearing, remembered the girl that they had dragged, kicking and screaming, by her hair. He remembered the front door slamming shut and his body snapping into action. He felt alive. His heart was threatening to thud right out of his chest. The other three lads looked at him. He was in charge. The plan to rescue the girl went like clockwork. They stormed the building, shot the terrorists and extracted the hostage and before he could blink the four, sweaty, muddy men were in the back of van. They had done it. They were in the clear. Then the driver had slammed on the breaks.

Silence.

He looked at lads beside him. He had wished them luck. Then the ordeal had started.

When he looked back, John couldn't remember the exact specifics of what had happened over those three lost days. He genuinely believed that his brain had blocked out all the memories to stop him from reliving the nightmare that was resisting torture. It was, truly, the most harrowing, traumatic and terrifying time of his life. Price had spoken to him just as he was being dragged into a cell. "Don't give them anything lad." He had growled. "If you do, they will exploit it. Be smart. Stay focused. You are going to feel pain. You are going to feel fatigue. But you can't give in. One slip up and everything that you have worked towards will be gone. Nobody is your friend until you see me walk in wearing a white cross on my sleeve. Only then is the exercise over."

The tactics were brutal but effective. John had never felt so battered and tired. His head ached uncontrollably and the muscles in his back screamed from cramp. He collapsed again and again. He was exhausted, hungry, thirsty, shivering uncontrollably. The minutes blurred into hours and the hours seemed to never end.

Finally, it all went quiet. He was half naked, his camo jacket pulled halfway down his back and he was huddled over, shivering. He must have looked horrendous. A hand pulled at the blindfold that he had been wearing since the ordeal had started and the light went on. His eyes burned. "Recognise this, John?" a voice said, softly. He squinted. It was Price. He was pointing at a white cross on his arm. John didn't react. He needed to double-check. "This means the end of the exercise, lad. Remember?"

He had done it. He was the only one. The rest of the lads had broken.

Price had sat beside him in the truck as they had made their way to SAS HQ.

"I knew you'd make it." he told, John. "I told them to put you through hell because I could see that you were never going to fail." He straightened himself up. "You remind me of myself."

John gave him a small laugh and stared out of the window at the Welsh countryside.

SAS.

SA-fucking-S.

"You'll have a day to get yourself sorted in the barracks." Price continued. "You'll meet the rest of the regiment, you'll run the CQB just so I can determine how good you actually are, and then you'll start your training."

John turned to him. "More training?"

Price raised an eyebrow at him and pulled a cigar and a box of matches out of the breast pocket of his jacket. "Lad..." He stuck the cigar in his mouth, struck a match and held it against the head of the cigar until it glowed orange and the smoke floated towards John. "If you think that selection was hard, then you're about to be in hell."