So I've been working on this story for several months and didn't want to post it until I had all the chapter completed. Now they are all finished and it's time to reveal what I've come up with.

Everything is blurred, colors are distorted, and sounds are muffled. A tall man in a black, wool coat is the only thing in focus. His sharp angled face is elegant and shadowed dramatically. His slim frame is gangly, nearly in the unhealthy range, but he doesn't seem affected by his state.

The man almost seems unnatural, inhuman. He's so pale he nearly glows in the dim lighting. His dark curls contrast his pale skin and his blue eyes are hard and calculating, staring down the barrel of a gun.

John Watson is thrown from his dream with such force he's sitting straight up and breathing heavily. His tiny space comes into focus and he almost wishes for the dream to return so he can escape the dreary dump that he inhabits.

John sighs and wishes for the billionth time that he didn't have visions of the future but normal dreams like everyone else. He hated the blood and gore that usually came with his visions. Even as a child John understood his dreams to be real but no one ever believed him. His visions can't even help him, hence why he now has a rather large scar on his shoulder. John can't see his own future just other people and only people he's been around for a while.

John rubs at the phantom pain in his shoulder as he surveys the room. Even after so many month away from the war zone old habits of a soldier still linger in his aging bones. He had spent four tours in Afghanistan working as a doctor and commanding men as a captain. John thought he would die in battle even fantasized returning home in a pine box but that didn't come to pass.

A well placed round found its way into his shoulder, it wasn't lethal, but it was a disability. John now had a permanent reminder of what he lost and a gimp leg that ached profusely giving him a prominent limp which in turn made he use a cane.

Tonight is the first John's ever had of a complete stranger.

Since coming home to London John hadn't dreamt, there is no one for him to dream about since he is alone. John doesn't mind being alone but having someone would have made coming home a lot easier and the transition smoother. John feels useless and it doesn't help when he goes to his weekly therapy sessions, his therapist doesn't seem to understand that nothing she says helps.

The veteran's bedsit that he claimed could be a closet with only a bathroom aside from the bedroom. It can't even be called a proper flat since it lacked a kitchen area. John wishes he can say it's not the worse place he's been but even the burning heat from the Afghan sun is a better place.

Groaning John runs a hand over face and flips around to bury his head in his pillow. With the darkness pushing his senses John thinks back on the dream; the tall man looked to be in his mid-thirties and he is unique. His face is sharp angles and cheekbones with the strangest blue eyes John had ever seen. They held the cosmos in their irises with all the dancing colors not found on this Earth.

Those eyes are seared into John's mind with that look he held whilst staring at the gun pointed at him. His eyes don't show fear or realization, in fact they seem annoyed or irritated. Definitely not the reaction one should have with something that dangerous so close.

John rolls over to stare at his ceiling, barely able to make out the dark water stains and yellowing wall paper but he's not focused on that, he's caught up in thinking how he could even begin to find this man and save him.