Neither a Soldier nor a Civilian

Even after he moved into 221B Baker St., John still often felt like a fish out of water. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was never meant to be a civilian. Ella was wrong, he would never adjust. Not really. Sometimes John was certain he had landed on Mars instead of back in London. Dingy weekly-let bedsits, chip and pin machines, lunatic genius flatmates, murderous cabbies, omniscient CCTV surveillance, tenancy agreements, inspectors from Scotland Yard? How had this become his life? He contemplated this strange, new reality as he walked the outer circle of Regent's Park. He had just snapped at Mrs. Hudson, again. Over a stupid light bulb, of all things. She was possibly the sweetest landlady in all of England. How could he have done that? He rolled his shoulder, it ached today. He needed to do better, to be better, to adjust already! No one since his Gran had been so kind to him. Mrs. Hudson was an absolute treasure he would apologize to her.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sometimes John found it hard to organize his days. He was used to structure and regimentation and now there was none. He still woke early, he read the papers, he did his mobility exercises, he practised his handwriting (although neither had improved much in months), he kept up with his professional journals, he went to the shops, he tidied-up around the flat, and he worked on his blog. That still left him with far too much time on his hands. That time was soon being increasingly filled by Sherlock's madcap doings. About three weeks after moving into Baker St., Sherlock dragged him off to another crime scene. Well, dragged was too strong of a word. John had practically jumped at the opportunity. The crime this time was theft. A DVD containing the prototype for a new blockbuster on-line game had been stolen from the home office of a dot-com mogul. The thing was the house had security system that rivaled the British Museum's. This was far outside his areas of expertise but John did his best to be useful, making notes and sketches of the scene, and writing down the technical details of the security system in his pocket notebook He even talked to the family members. In the end Sherlock needed none of it. He deduced that it had been the CEO's fourteen year-old daughter who had hacked the system to gain her father's attention. He actually congratulated the girl on her bold ingenuity. John had just found the girl shy and socially awkward. Afterwards, they stopped for Thai food. John wasn't sure what, if anything, he had contributed to the case. He only knew that it was far better than watching daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Still, John did sometimes wonder what the Hell he was doing. Tonight was a case in point. It was cold and raw and he was standing in a rubbish-strewn alley unable to avoid looking at the corpse of young woman who had been viciously murdered. Who did that? Who spent their free time at violent crime scenes? Sherlock Holmes, that's who. He shivered a bit inside his coat trying to chase the chill. His shoulder ached and his fingers felt numb. He stretched his left hand out inside his pocket. Donovan was looking at him out of the corner of her eye again. Sherlock and Anderson were arguing over a foot print or something while Lestrade tried to referee. Why had he come? What was he doing here? Between the cold and his general unease, his patience was beginning to wear a bit thin. He cleared his throat to catch Sherlock's attention. The detective abruptly turned to face him as if just remembering he was there. He then swept a hand at the body inviting John to examine it, all while wearing a supremely smug, self-satisfied look. Right, I'm here to help him make a point, again, John thought dryly. Anderson let out a derisive snort. John looked at him. He hadn't even said a word yet and Anderson was scoffing at him?

John had loved being a soldier, every minute of it (well, almost every minute), but he had never considered himself overly attached to military formalities. He had never been too enamoured with rank, for example. At the beginning of his last tour he had actually been eligible for promotion to major but he had liked his posting, and that posting had been for a captain so a captain he remained. At the moment, however, by God, he missed his rank. The truth was John Watson was used to being accorded a certain level of courtesy, if not respect. Sergeants called him sir. His professional opinion was valued, rarely challenged and never scoffed at. He was just trying to help out here. He looked to Lestrade. The detective inspector seemed to trust Sherlock implicitly. Somehow, that trust now extended to him, as well. The DI nodded his approval so he stepped up to examine the body. Anderson, be damned.

John wasn't a pathologist but he knew for certain that the throat laceration was not the cause of death here. Beckwith flashed through his mind and he quickly pushed the image away. There had to be something else, another bleed somewhere. He began his examination at the top and worked his way down. He palpated her abdomen. Yes, there it was. Then he rolled her to examine her back to confirm the lividity. Right. He gave his findings. Apparently they were what Sherlock had expected because he smiled before launching off on his deductive tirade. Christ, how did he do that? It really was amazing. The police were experts, not nearly as dumb as Sherlock maintained, and they hadn't seen any of it. Brilliant.

John saw that Lestrade was equally impressed. Anderson, however, was not. He and Sherlock were at it again. John stood up wondering if he should do something but Lestrade intervened first. The DI was still curious and interested in his findings. He was asking John for more detail all while Anderson was still scornful. John wondered how he gotten into the middle of this. He then thought of Beckwith again. Of the round that had sliced through the young corporal's neck. Of his and Murray's vain attempts to stop the blood shooting from the kid's carotid artery in pulsating jets. Jesus, he really did not want to explain but Lestrade was looking at him expectantly. Christ, everyone was looking at him now. Right. He straightened. Glancing back at the DI he nodded once then spoke. He knew how to report.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Later that night, or early the next morning, to be precise, Sherlock was ensconced in his chair, deep into John's pathology text, when he heard the strangled cry followed by the sound of John bolting upright in bed. A Four.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Five days later, John found himself visiting the headquarters of the 21st Engineers in the company of Sally Donovan. Alexander Finch-Bancroft, his Sandhurst classmate, was the CO of Amy Trenhope's old unit. You couldn't make this stuff up, he thought as he and Sally headed down the M3. Before yesterday afternoon's phone call, John hadn't seen or talked with Finch-Bancroft in at least five years, probably longer. Xander Finch-Bancroft was tall and slightly gangly with an air of geek about him. XFB they had called him at Sandhurst. The meaning of the initials had varied with the context. In an academic setting, Xander, the graduate civil engineer, had been eXtremely F****** Brilliant. When too much alcohol and too few women were involved he had been eXtra F****** Big, with any number other incantations in between. John remembered being quite grateful that his classmates were never able to do much with JHW. That 'Three Continents' nonsense had been bad enough.

Xander had met Donovan and himself at reception and had extended them every courtesy even so far as making his aide and his staff sergeant available to them. John had never had any dealing with the Engineers but he found him self slipping easily into the familiar feel of the base. Blakely, Farrell and the other soldiers all called him captain and sir and he honestly hadn't even noticed. He was entirely at home here.

By the end of the day John was quite impressed by Sally Donovan. She handled herself well with the predominantly male soldiers efficiently and expertly interviewing all nine. There was no mistaking that this was her investigation and she knew what she was doing. John had a final word with Xander thanking him for Blakey's and Farrell's assistance then he and Donovan had been off. The traffic was not too heavy on their way back to the Yard and they made it there by 6 pm. Lestrade thanked John profusely for his help although he wasn't really sure he had contributed much of anything beyond the introductions. All in all, it had been a good day.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sally Donovan was one very good cop. At least John thought so. Less than two days after their trip to the 21st Engineers, Sally had identified the Amy Trenhope's "boyfriend" as an AWOL Canadian Special Ops soldier. She had even traced his entry into Britain under an alias. The next day the Met, following a series of Sherlock's deductions, caught up with the man in a grimy hovel. They were finally able to apprehend him after a three-hour stand-off.

"How long were you in for?" Sally had asked him casually, after the stand-off, while they waited for the scene to be cleaned up. John was surprised. He considered this substantial progress seeing as a week ago Sally barely said "Hello" to him. He answered and they continued with a friendly back and forth as they made their way out to the main street. Then Sally asked one more innocuous question,

"So why'd you give it up?"

He hadn't been expecting it and wasn't prepared to answer. Both Sherlock and Lestrade had stopped dead. How the devil did Lestrade know? He suddenly had that awkward, out of place feeling, again.

"Um, ready?" he said to Sherlock, ignoring Sally's question, and moved to hail a cab.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John was silently staring out the window of the cab, oblivious to the city sliding by. The detective was sitting back in his seat thinking, not quite sure of the appropriate course of action. Emotions were involved thanks to Donovan. The case was over and he was hungry but he thought it unlikely that John would be interested in food at present. He stole a side-wards glance at his flatmate,

"Donovan is an idiot," he declared adamantly. John answered in a flat voice, his eyes still fixed out the window.

"No, no she isn't. She really isn't. She just doesn't ... didn't ... know."

He turned and gave his flatmate a hint of a smile.

"Most people can't tell, you know. At least not right away. At least I don't think they can." His voice trailed off and he looked away again.

"That doesn't mean she's not an idiot. She spends far too much time with Anderson for it not to rub off," Sherlock continued now trying to make light.

John smiled weakly toward the window. Abruptly he blew out a deep breath and sat up straight admonishing himself. He needed to handle this better.

"Look, it's OK, really. I was fortunate. It's part of my life now. I'm fine. It's all ... fine."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened to a glare and he snorted sarcastically. The retort rolled effortlessly off his tongue,

"Is that what passes for therapy these days? Count your blessings and think happy thoughts? Really, John. Why you even bother with that meta-science nonsense is beyond me."

John slowly turned to face Sherlock. He stared at his new friend for a long time. At first Sherlock met his gaze smugly but gradually the detective's certainty wavered. John's expression was not one of shock, exasperation or anger. Sherlock was well acquainted with such reactions and could easily counter them. Instead John gaze was thoughtful, patient and knowing. Sherlock found he could not look away. He knew that John's reactions frequently deviated from expected norms but this was different. It was as if John knew of things that Sherlock did not.

As John regarded Sherlock he almost had to keep himself from smiling at detective's wildly inappropriate comment. He allowed himself some time to absorb the irony that his brilliant flatmate knew so much yet often understood so little. John suddenly flashed to those last desperate moments of consciousness in the evac helicopter and the sight of Bill Murray's face, eyes wide in fear, as he screamed John's name. He blinked several times to clear the memory. Then he looked at Sherlock again, considering the confusing and confounding new life he found himself in.

"I am fortunate, Sherlock. Very, very fortunate. I'm alive."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N – Eek. I'm not sure about this one. I hope it actually reads something like it sounds in my head. Basically, my idea here is that this is John's view of John and his transition.

Still not beta'd or Brit picked – I know, I really should...

I own not a thing.