He put the pistol away in the drawer for the fifth time that night. His fingers itched against his thighs as he forced his mind to distraction. The dark room he rented grew dim in the fading afternoon light as the sun dipped behind the overgrown trees in the parking lot.

Three months. He'd been back for three months and Harry had only called him twice. One of those times was to return the boxes he had stored in her basement and the other was to invite him to a Christmas party. He only stayed for twenty minutes and he was sure no one noticed that he'd left.

There was no one left in London who cared that he'd returned. As he sat on the edge of the bed he attempted to imagine this next phase. His shoulder still ached and the painkillers did little to alleviate the constant pain. It was easier to use the cane than to everyone why he was always in agony. A man with a cane needed to explain very little.

His future seemed dull and dismal. There were job prospects out there but none that appealed to him. They were in clinics and offices treating middle-class housewives and their sniffling children. With his shoulder, being able to do surgeries would be a ways away since the mobility in his left arm. Now he was restricted to check-ups and prescription pads.

There was no more army, no more adventure. His life was relegated to the concrete streets and day-to-day errands with no hope of being needed or wanted by anyone the same way he was in Afghanistan.

He looked back at the drawer where he'd placed the pistol. It sat there taunting him day after day. John was aware that there was no one that would be upset if he were to die. Even after he was shot and in hospital for over two weeks there wasn't so much as a concerned email or phone call from his family even after they heard the news of his injuries. No, he was alone. There was no hope here in London.

All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn't even have the energy to walk back to the drawer and take out the weapon. It all seemed so fruitless.

Just as his head hit the pillow he heard a shot from outside his window. It was a shrill terrified scream. He immediately sat up and looked down to figure out what had happened. From his second floor vantage point he saw a young woman in her twenties struggling with a man in a trench coat. He pulled at her arm and attempted to force her into the alley between the hotel and the bank next door. There was no one on the street to help her. She was much smaller than the attacker and all her attempts at escaping just met with more aggressive moves by the man.

For a moment, a long moment, he didn't move. He stepped away from the window and sat back on his bed. This wasn't his fight. There was no reason to risk further injury to help a complete stranger.

As he sat, the adrenaline built up in his body. His heart beat hard against his chest and he felt his cheeks grow flush. There was no one out there to help. This may not be his battle but he was trained to fight in wars that were not his for years. He grabbed his cane and jumped to his feet.

At first he did not see the woman. She was no longer where he last witnessed her and there was no sign that she had ever been there in the first place. John walked closer to the alleyway that he'd guessed was their destination and then he heard the muffled sound of her shouting yet again.

He strode in long steps towards the alley and stood at its entrance. The woman was pinned against the wall and the man had her arms pressed tight against it. He'd already hit her in the face and she was barely conscious.

"Hey!" John shouted.

The man didn't appear to hear and continued with his attack. John stepped forward until he was inside the alley.

"Hey!" he shouted again.

This time the man stopped abruptly and stood frozen.

"What're you doing?"

His head slowly rotated until they faced eye to eye. The man had a reptilian smirk with bared teeth and a squinted glaring stare. For a moment they looked at each other but the man didn't say a word. He went back to his victim.

John moved forward with his cane smacking against the cement with each step. "Leave her alone," he said.

The man pulled at her blouse.

"You hear me?" John said.

The man abruptly let the woman go and she fell a foot down to the ground. She lay, slumped against the wall, as a bruise formed on her cheek. John didn't miss a beat.

"Get out," he said as he pointed to the street.

"Sod off," the man said. He was much taller than John and more muscular than he appeared.

"I will call the police. I'm giving you one chance, understand?"

He wasn't afraid, not in the least. He was aroused by the moment, the unpredictable danger of standing face-to-face with death and not knowing the outcome. John had come weaponless and injured and yet he stood.

The man lurched forward with his fist held out.

John took a step back to avoid the anticipated swipe. He moved a moment too slow as the first punch made direct impact with the side of his head. He felt the hard bones of the man's fingers dig into the muscles of his jaw. His ear throbbed as he shook off the shock of the pain. But he'd felt worse and fought harder. He stood back up and swung at the man.

He made direct impact with the underside of his chin and the man howled in pain as he cradled his jaw. "Shit," the man muttered.

John knew he had to act quickly. He grabbed his cane and swung it at the man's knees. The cane impacted with snap and a crack as the man fell to the ground. Another blow to the abdomen and the man groaned, as he lay incapacitated.

He held the cane up again and badly wanted to hit him again. The impact of a well-timed hit sent waves of pleasure through his body. But the woman moaned and looked up, dazed.

"You all right?" he asked as he brought the cane back down to the ground.

She was bruised and rattled but unharmed. "I think so," she said as she rubbed the side of her face.

"I'll call for an ambulance," he said.

John began to walk towards the street. His medical training commanded that he stay with her and maintain her well being but those wide-eyes of terror and confusion were too much. He couldn't see another innocent soul so afraid. He turned away and walked back towards the hotel as he spoke to the operator.

"…attacked, yes. I just walked by. Jameston and 4th."

As he got back up to his room he opened the door with a curious sense of energy that he hadn't had since Afghanistan. It ignited an odd sense of purpose in him that he couldn't articulate. In the moments with that man he wasn't thinking of the future and the hopeless treadmill of the rest of his life. He wanted more.

On the floor of his room there was a small white envelope that had been shoved under the door. He figured it was the bill or an eviction notice. All that was inside was a small piece of cardstock. It was simply 6 words written in non-descript handwriting:

8 Franklin St. Tomorrow. 5 pm.