A/N: My only defense is that I really wanted to write this. It will be a very long story (I have a timeline going after season 4), with irregular updates because my inspiration comes on random times and for random parts of the story.

Anyway, John (or Joan, in this case) is my main character and main POV... until Sherlock comes to deduce stuff. I tried to adapt dialogues, but most of original lines are just too perfect, so there will be a lot of character development instead.

I've been reading in this fandom for years, so there might be some ideas that influenced my work without me noticing. I'll give credit whenever I manage to identify it, but please let me know if there is anything that bothers you.

I was sure there was much more to say about it, but I forgot. Sorry...

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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It always started in a white mist. Then she was running towards the fight. She never ran away from it, no, her team was there and she had to keep them safe, bring them home. Fire and blood, loud thumps of bodies hitting the dust, sharp chirps of splintered wood in the hot air. And Bill's voice calling her name in a blinding flash of phantom pain and numbing coldness.

She didn't remember waking up. The fight, the blood had been just there, at the tip of her fingers, she had to get to them, to help… and then she was behind grey walls, in a smothering silence of a sleepy dingy neighborhood, eyes burning with tears she didn't remember shedding.

How did this become her life?

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Joan H. Watson had always been the man of the house, the reliable one, the protector. Since high-school, she didn't bother to pretend to be anything else. She was herself, comfortable in her own skin and clothes, steady and strong. That's why she always presented herself as John. It always threw people off, but at least they didn't label her "a blond helpless girl" anymore. That's why it grated on her already shaky nerves to hear her psychotherapist address her by the given name:

"Joan, you're a soldier, and it's going take you a while to adjust to civilian life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

Well, that didn't sound patronizing at all. Joan sighed internally. Civilian life of a discharged female soldier. Yeah, everyone already pictured her in a flower-pattern dress in a suburb, a suit-wearing faceless husband and one point eight kids. It was so… void of interest. Just like every other day since her release. There was nothing, nothing at all for her to live for. "Nothing happens to me."

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The pain in her leg was excruciating, more so by the fact that it shouldn't even be hurting. It hurt more than her shoulder, for Christ's sake! The blue cloudless sky was clearly mocking her as she hobbled through the crowd to Russel Square. The thought of returning to the bedsit and get some rest for the leg was always followed by the familiar tug of longing for the gun sitting in the desk drawer and its silent promises. But she couldn't go there. She was a soldier, and as a soldier she will fight the bleak future bestowed upon her by a bullet.

"John! John Watson!"

She blinked slowly at the round man beaming at her.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." The memory of a much slimmer student handing around pints at the pub surfaced and brought a small smile. They had a tight little group, back then, and she had always felt at ease with them.

"Yes, sorry, Mike. Hello, hi."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat!"

"No." It didn't come out as convincing as she aimed for. The conversation went downhill from here anyway.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." She really didn't intend to say it that bluntly, but an hour of the so-called therapy got her on edge. Mike's smile faded so quickly, she felt immediately sorry for him.

However, the man was made of sturdier stuff than most. He didn't try to change the subject, nor give her a one-over full of pity.

"Right. We really need to catch up. Wait here" – he nodded at the nearest bench – "I'll get us some coffee. Milk, no sugar?" It was surprising he still remembered.

The coffee, which was quite good for a street vendor, didn't help the soldier to relax. Words didn't come any easier than in Ella's cushy office. She could feel Mike glancing worriedly at her, but couldn't bring herself to talk about… before.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" Smooth, Jay mocked a little voice in her head and was choked mercilessly for its troubles. It did stir the conversation to nostalgic reminiscences that kept them away from the elephant in the room (or the park, in this case) for a couple of minutes. Until it came to bite them back with gusto.

"So what about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked guilelessly. She played along.

"Can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." She cut herself off abruptly. The irritation from the last few weeks was bubbling under the surface, fueling the foul mood she was in since this morning. No need to subject the well-meaning erstwhile fellow-student to it. Coffee splashed on her thumb while her hand shook uncontrollably. Thankfully, it was already tepid, but it irked her even more. If Mike noticed, he didn't show it.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" Sure, Harry had been at the hospital, but it quickly devolved into meaningless bickering and old grudges coming back to play. These visits ended after a week. The only reminder of the sudden sibling-affection was the phone weighing down the pocket of her coat.

"I don't know…" Mike was honestly trying to help, but there wasn't much to be done. "Get a flatshare or something?" The idea shocked her out of the self-pitying session.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" Let's be real here, agreed the little voice. The soft chuckle from Stamford indicated he thought otherwise. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

Oh? "Who was the first?" The cryptic smile she got in guise of an answer didn't help any.

"I can introduce you. Let me check if he's still there." She sat back in silence while Mike dialed someone – a certain Molly – and confirmed that he was still in the lab, whoever the mysterious potential flatmate might be. If he was hanging out with lab personnel at Bart's, because that's where they were heading now, he might be another doctor. Or a med student. God, if he was a student, she'd refuse right away. Parties soaked in bad alcohol stopped being fun when she hit the quarter-century mark.

They chatted politely about the weather and the latest rugby match while strolling through the halls of the hospital. Trying to casually walk but miserably failing in Joan's case. They stopped by the office with "Dr M. Stamford" etched on a little label on its door, a stack of ungraded papers in the middle of the desk and sticky memos all over the computer screen. Joan waited patiently by the door while her friend changed into his lab coat.