A/N: Unedited, un-beta-ed, and un-Brit'picked. Shamelessly being published because of the new #sherlocklives trailer released by BBC-One today after Doctor Who. This is a reaction-fic to all of the suicidal!John-fics out there. I just can't see John doing something like that, even after Sherlock's "suicide." He's a bloody soldier, after all, and he's a lot tougher than we like to give him credit for.

This is kind of a different format that I'm used to using for a story. I imagined this entire scene in my mind like a film montage, as I am a film student, so the way that it's written (or "cut") is a bit jaunted and sporadic, representative of John's muddled and confused psyche post-Reichenbach. The memories, flashbacks and dreams have been centred, representative of their "central" position in John's mind… yeah, I've thought too much about this. Hopefully it came out alright - I haven't written something like this in a long time!

I'm hugely inspired by music, so please take a look at the Grooveshark playlist that I put together while writing this. It was very inspiring for my writing process, and hopefully y'all will enjoy the music, too… The link thing is way too complicated and weird (stupid FF), but it's SUPER SIMPLE. Just got to Grooveshark[d o t]com and type in "Sherlock - World Spins Madly On" in the search bar. It should be the first result - it's a playlist by "Macagascar," yours truly.

Cheers! Mac

"Medic!"

The pounding, mechanic rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire was right next to his head, so close that it hurt. The bullets pierced through the dusty reverie and pandemonium before cutting a jagged, pock-marked line across the outside of a drab, concrete building. There was a child screaming nearby. He heard her voice through the shouted orders and panicked transmissions into a satellite telephone and explosions and gunfire. It felt as though the very dirt was trembling, as if the world was falling away from beneath his feet.

"Incoming! Take cover!"

He ducked behind the sandbags and covered his ears as another mortar exploded nearby. He instinctively flinched when he felt hot debris and chunks concrete and brick hit his back and head.

"Dammit, Captain! MEDIC!"

"Continue suppressive fire, and patch it through to Alpha Squad! We need back up, now!" John barked, again allowing instinct to take over as he secured his medkit situated SA80 rifle into firing position with practiced, steady hands. Before the lieutenant could respond, John lurched to his feet in a fit of blind adrenaline and ran. He kept low, moved quickly, could feel the bullets flying inches above his head - but always kept on the look out for the telltale signs of injury. He didn't look on the ground, though. Somehow, he knew that he had to check the rooftops.

And then he heard a voice - rich, trembling, and dreadfully familiar.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

John skid to a halt as his heart pounded in his throat and the noises of battle abruptly faded away behind him. The hot Afghan sun pounded against his skin. It was so bright that it practically blinded him, but even through the light and heat he saw a vague silhouette on top of a rooftop nearby, standing above the narrow, twisting alleyway.

"Alright," he heard himself say, even when his mind was screaming at him, Move, dammit, move! He's going to - !

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," the man ordered, voice choked. "Please... please, will you do this for me?"

The silhouette took a step forward, towards the edge, and the world tilted sickeningly -

"No - don't -!"

It was only after he choked on his own breath that he realized the guttural, raw screams ringing through the night air were coming from him. Even after he'd struggled over to the toilet to throw up whatever he'd eaten earlier, and even after he slumped back into his pillows after hours of standing-sitting-limping-sitting-standing, he could not sleep.

He tried not to think about it, later. He never explained to Mrs. Hudson what the screams really meant, even after she'd bustled up to his room in her nightgown, looking so concerned that he nearly felt compelled to explain. He never tried to decipher what the dreams could mean, even though he knew he would have to face these newly arisen demons eventually. But, if he didn't think about... it would simply go away. At least, that's what he told himself.

For now, this would have to do.

There was always the question of the limp.

The need for adrenaline had been the superficial crust of his handicap. He knew it. His friend had known it, too. Enticing the injured doctor onto a wild escapade through the twisting, narrow alleys and dead-ends of Central London had not been the explanation, the conclusive autopsy into John Watson's muddled psyche. No, that - that - had been the means to an end - a result, the kind of thing that said friend had cared about most. A few heated seconds of complete and utter adrenaline and the rush of the chase had somehow been enough to get rid of that blasted psychosomatic cripple, to shake off months of pain and disability. But it hadn't been the answer.

And, there it was - the root of the matter. Why had there been a limp to begin with?

And why was it back?

Every morning was the same, comfortable and safe routine.

He would awake around the usual hour - 0700 - to an ombre sky peeking through his bed curtains. There was nothing but comfortable, peaceful silence, the kind that he'd grown to defamiliarise himself from over the last year or so. He'd sit up, stretch out creaking joints and muscles - taking special care to roll his stiff left shoulder - before grabbing the once discarded cane which had been carefully propped against his bedside table. He would change into a fresh pair of trousers, shirt and jumper, as if preparing for another busy day.

Comb the hair, tuck in the shirt, straighten the exhaustion out from your shoulders. Don't forget, Captain, you're a military man.

And then, with faltering steps and the occasional, pained wince, he'd somehow hobble his way down the narrow flight of rickety stairs. The darkened sitting room wasn't even granted a momentary glance as the doctor would slowly find his way through the kitchen, to the cupboard and the hob. And ten minutes later, he would ease himself into his sitting chair with a cup of hot tea in his hand, after placing another, steaming mug on the table in front of him, as if awaiting for someone to tear himself away from his thoughts, pick it up and take a tentative, quick sip.

I guess for an old dog, old habits die hard.

Everything in the two-bedroom flat was left untouched. Everything remained as it was the day that it had all happened. The dog-eared beekeeping books, the vials, the discarded newspapers, that damn skull; they were all in their proper place, as they should be, and as they probably would remain. He guessed - or, rather, knew - that it was unhealthy to keep living this way, as if in a perpetual museum of now unpossessed possessions. Rent wasn't an issue, at least for the time being; Mrs. Hudson had been more than accommodating in that regard. But, soon, something would have to give. He would either have to take his own things and find a new flat, or some stranger would come along and replace these now-familiar objects with his own belongings.

For now, however, he couldn't see that eventuality in sight. And he couldn't bear the thought of taking his flat - his home, his life - and putting it into cardboard boxes to be shipped off to some storage facility somewhere. So it remained, untouched and unsullied. And so did everything else. Just like it had after his return from the war, and just like the months and months that had followed... life had just stopped, even as the world spun madly around him.

So Dr. John H. Watson sat at his chair, with his cane by his side, sipping hot Twinings and staring off with darkened, stony eyes at a point across the room - his feet bare, two fingers pressed to his temple. Alone, in a strangely quiet flat.

And he did nothing.

"You've quit your job."

He blinked, returning to Earth, and looked up to peer through a haze of daydreaming and exhaustion towards the only other occupant in the room. Legs crossed, pen and paper in hand, gaze falsely worried and attentive... or was it false? If it was genuine concern, he thought, it would actually feel worse.

"There's nothing wrong with not wanting to work," he responded lightly.

"Just like there's nothing wrong with a psychosomatic limp."

A terse, wry smile that didn't meet his eyes. "Bit below the belt, that one."

Her lips twitched in some semblance of a returned grin at his expected, dry remark, before she glanced down smoothly at her notepad. It was conspicuously blank, but he knew it wouldn't be for long. Maybe he'd start reading the writing upside down again, before they would start talking about the weather for lack of anything else he was willing to speak of. Not for the first time, he did wonder why he'd come back, why he was "seeking help" from someone who obviously thought that he was just another mentally unstable cripple returned from a desert whose name she probably could never spell despite her many years of "education."

He resisted a sudden urge to roll his eyes (where was this irritation coming from?) and, instead, turned and looked out of the window at Greater London. The streets were empty and quiet here, everything a bit greener. A woman dashed by, head hidden underneath a large, black umbrella, and she bobbed and weaved about through other commuters, eager to return home after a long day of work in the heart of the city. It had started to rain, again. Blast. He'd forgotten his own umbrella... London was incredibly unpredictable with its weather, which was more of a comfort than anything else, now. Shame, that's what his life was amounting to - finding comfort in the unpredictability of mother nature. Hmph. Maybe the weather was a suitable topic -

"How do you preoccupy yourself?"

A distracted blink, and he suddenly found himself in the empty, echoing room once more. "Mm?"

"You, John," Ella said firmly, pointing at him with the end of her pen with another soft twitch of her lips. "How do you keep busy these days?"

He blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Such a harmless question, an easy one to answer with the truth... and what would be the harm, really?

"Just... the usual," he began. "I travel a bit -"

Except that he couldn't - or, rather, wouldn't. He didn't have a job, so he didn't have the money to travel with. He didn't want to move about anymore, anyway.

"- go to the Fitness Centre sometimes -"

Except that he didn't. She wasn't dumb, she saw the cane. Who didn't see the bloody cane?

"- read -"

Except for the newspapers and the tabloids and the flyers. Two months later, and they're still printing away about "The Fall." He hated how they capitalised it.

" - watch telly - "

Except for the new stations. Same problem as before, only someone was looking into his eyes and telling lies to his face, instead of through black and white letters. Talk shows and late-night comedy specials were even making a joke out of the entire debacle. That was worse.

" - meet up with some old friends -"

Except that no one met up with him anymore. Not Molly, not Sarah, not Murray, not even Stamford. Not even Greg - no, Lestrade. Not even Mycroft... not that he minded that last bit. And not that he tried to meet up with any of them.

" - pub," he finished with a tight, humourless smile. "What else do retired war veterans do, do you think?"

"I thought you were a doctor," she countered quickly.

"I'm both," he responded in equal quickness.

"You specifically said 'war veteran'."

His half-formed - probably childish - retort died, choking in his throat, and he shut his mouth quickly, looking away. His lips pursed and his jaw tightened - apparently a subconscious reaction to annoying or frustrating situations, a way to keep control of himself when otherwise predisposed to give into his angry streak. Somehow, he felt cornered, which didn't - shouldn't - make any sense. But it did, and the cynical part of his mind, honed sharp from years of service and subsequent years in the company of an equally cynical companion, resented it.

"What about your blog? You had quite the following not long ago."

This time, he couldn't help himself from rolling his eyes with an undisguised, almost disbelieving scoff, looking the opposite direction, towards the water-streaked window. He shook his head lightly, a dry sarcastic smile creasing a frighteningly tight smile.

"You know the kind of things that I wrote about," he said quietly. "People aren't interested anymore."

"I wouldn't say that -"

"There's nothing to write about," he cut her off, his voice rising to a level that he had not intended as his head whipped around to stare at her, as if daring her to continue. But she didn't seem to mind, didn't so much as flinch or raise her eyebrows. She just stared, that concern that he couldn't quite place still strong in her gaze.

He looked away again, back towards the rain. "Nothing happens to me, remember?"

When it had first appeared, it hadn't been much of a surprise. He was a doctor, after all. He knew what kind of psychological damage could be done to someone who'd seen the destruction of warfare. And the fact that it was his leg wasn't much of a shock, either, considering the circumstances of the actual injury.

They had been somewhere near Kabul. They'd been pinned down to begin with. And then there was an explosion - probably an IED, he'd never actually figured that much out. Chaos had broken out, as it always did... and through the white noise and melee, someone had shouted "Medic!" "Dammit, Captain! MEDIC!" Naturally, automatically, he'd come running over, dashing through the sulfuric smoke and over the twisted remains of their truck. It had been Jameson, and it had been Jameson's leg - shrapnel, near the femoral artery. John had dropped down to his knees with a skid, already trying to reassure the young man in his best "doctor's voice," and had only just covered the wound in sulfa powder and was ripping open a fresh packet of gauze, when bam! A loud gunshot, and suddenly he was thrown flat onto his back. No pain, no shout, just numbness. Shock. He hadn't said anything... he just laid there, limp, quiet, eyes wide, feeling the life spill from his chest like water from a faucet as his men ran over and tried their best to stop their leader from bleeding out right in front of their horrified eyes, and he'd thought of five words... only five words. Please, God. Let me live.

Private Jameson had lost the leg and Captain John H. "Three Continents" Watson was sent home with an honorable discharge, the first of many pension checks and a pat on the back. They even gave him a George Cross for his trouble.

And it was that simple. He had just gotten shot.

He used the back door, now. The media hadn't stopped camping in front of the flat for weeks after it all happened. Sometimes, the shouting and the lights and the endless parked cars were just too much, even if he couldn't see them behind the drawn curtains. It was only so long that he could remain in that flat, surrounded by all of those untouched things. There were only so many times that he could make so much tea and sit in so much silence.

The first time was early in the morning, before the sun had risen. He hobbled out of the back door as quietly as he could and was back from a quiet, chilly walk in Regent's Park before Mrs. Hudson had even risen from bed.

The second time was in the middle of the afternoon. Mrs. Hudson had left to "finish up some shopping, dear, do you need anything?" ("No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson."), and he survived nearly an hour before a news kiosk near Paddington Street Gardens had sent him reeling. He'd taken a cab back.

By the third time, it appeared that his ruse hadn't gone unnoticed. A certain someone left a thermos on the countertop near the door handle. Tea, one sugar, only a little milk, just as he preferred.

After a week, it became an unspoken routine, a quiet agreement. John would leave in the mornings, and there would always be a thermos of tea waiting for him. He'd never allow Mrs. Hudson to fill up his refrigerator ("Dear, how can you drink tea without your-?" "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson, really. Don't go through the trouble." "Oh, it's not trouble at all!") but would somehow find a restocked milk supply every Wednesday and Saturday afternoon, and he was secretly grateful. They never discussed it. For all intents and purposes, John was still the crippled recluse, and Mrs. Hudson was still his fussing, oblivious landlady. But they both knew better, even if they never spoke it aloud.

It was only after he returned one afternoon to hear muffled sobs coming from the downstairs bedroom that John began to bring back Mrs. Hudson's favorite pastries from the shoppe at the corner of Blandford and Manchester and leave them next to the empty thermos on the countertop. They wouldn't - couldn't - talk about what happened. Not yet.

For now, this would just have to do.

"You know, I haven't poisoned that coffee. Didn't even use sugar."

John couldn't help but throw an irritated glance his therapist's way, even as he tightened his grip on the steaming mug of dark brew between two mercifully still hands. Huh, still. Under stress are you, Watson? "I didn't even want coffee," he smoothly retorted.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean you don't need it," Ella responded in kind with a small smile. "I may not be your kind of doctor, but I'm not an idiot, and it you wouldn't need a genius to see that you are exhausted."

"I'm not -"

"John," she admonished quietly with a deadpan stare. John attempted to match her frustratingly knowing stare with a stony façade of of his own, but after a moment, released a frustrated burst of air and looked out of the rainy window again, trying to spot bobbing umbrellas to keep himself distracted. But they'd gone. It was getting late, after all. He didn't have to look over towards Ella to know that she was staring at him - patient, calm and deceivingly persuasive, cataloguing every minute expression and behaviour, probably to add onto his file. He had the sudden urge to tell her to "shut up," even though she hadn't said another word.

Shut up.

I didn't say anything!

You were thinking. It's annoying.

"Yes, alright. They're back," he quietly conceded through pursed lips. He looked through the rain-streaked window, determined not to cast so much as a second glance in her direction. He knew what he'd find in her expression.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw her cross her legs. "When was the last time that you had one?"

"A couple of weeks -"

"If you can't be honest with -"

"Alright, a few days ago -"

"John -"

"Fine, last night!" he snapped as he swung around to glare at his therapist, throwing all pretense to the wind. "Every night for the last bloody week! Satisfied?"

To her credit, Ella didn't even flinch or even blink. She leaned forward, clasping her hands together and asking in a level, smooth voice, "And the nightmares… that's why you're here?"

"I honestly don't know why I'm here anymore," he shot back curtly before he could help himself. Ella raised one eyebrow. John grit his teeth and stared determinedly down at his mug of coffee. The ceramic was startlingly hot. He was surprised he'd held it for this long, let alone left it undrunk. He was tired, and apparently he was the only one who was trying to deny that fact. Then again, who said that he wasn't fussed with being tired all of the time? What was so wrong with that? Plenty of people were tired.

"Have you thought about leaving for a bit?" Ella asked

"Where would I go?" he found himself responding quietly.

"It doesn't matter where you go, just as long as its away from London. The countryside is rather lovely this time of year, even with the rain."

The countryside had been nice, only six months ago. He'd hardly call a military conspiracy involving chemical hallucinogens, monstrous hounds and active mine fields a relaxing vacation, but that hadn't stopped him.

"It doesn't have to be permanent, John. Just for a few months."

Strangely, he recalled, that had been the last time he'd had coffee, as well. He'd never been much for it anyway, preferring his tea… neither had his flatmate, to be honest. So, when the latter had shown up during Lestrade's interrogation of the innkeepers with a freshly made cup of Taylors, he'd been more than a little bit surprised - more from the gesture than the actual drink.

What's this?

Coffee. I made coffee.

You never make coffee.

I just did. Don't you want it?

You don't have to keep apologising.

"Maybe longer if it helps. Get away from the city for a while. Perhaps the fresh air could do you some good."

Mm. I don't take sugar - he'd began, before a quick blink, exhale of breath and almost defeated jerk of the head had silenced him. He'd drank the coffee, even though he'd noticeably cringed. Nevermind that it had actually been drugged. He'd drank the damn thing anyway, right down to the dregs.

That's nice. That's good.

"I take sugar in my coffee," he said quietly, placing the mug down. "Sorry."

It was funny, but sometimes he forgot that it had been his shoulder and not the leg. There were some mornings, weeks after he'd returned from Afghanistan to his shanty flat in South London, where he'd wake up and find more stiffness in his knee than anywhere else, days when he'd sit in silence on his bed because it was simply too painful to walk across the room or go out and about - or, at least, his brain was telling him that it was. His shoulder - with the entrance and exit wound scars of twisted skin and tissue - didn't seem to matter so much. It was almost as if he couldn't keep the injuries straight anymore.

And, apparently, this was all supposed to make sense. Of course, John, of course your leg bothers you, after what happened. Jameson lost his leg. You were almost killed trying to save that leg. It's survivor's guilt, John. There's nothing that you could have done differently. Move on, readjust, and you'll be fine. But there was one crucial fact off about this particular observation, and that was that the limp had only appeared weeks later - weeks after he'd been discharged and had relocated to London to try and reintegrate himself into civilian life. Surely, if Jameson had been the reason, his leg would have started acting up earlier... no, no, it was a gradual change the first time around.

And this time was different. Because the morning after the service he'd woken up, and that damn leg had gone completely stiff again. Instantly, just like that. No war trauma or IEDs or dying Privates. Just an early rise in 221B, and he was back to square one. But it wasn't as if he didn't know why. He did.

He just hated himself for it.

One day, he stepped onto a bus. He hadn't the faintest idea why, but he'd somehow found himself automatically reaching for the rarely used Oyster Card habitually kept in his back pocket and hobbling his way onto a double decker at the stop near York Street. He didn't use the handicapped seat, even though a young gentleman stood up to give him his spot (rare for London). He stood for a while, unsure of why he was actually there. Forty minutes later, however, after watching the Thames and Parliament slide into view, he finally sat down.

It became his new routine. Instead of walking, he would ride the bus. He told himself that it wasn't because of his increasingly stiffening leg, but because he was growing a bit tired of seeing nothing but Marylebone for days on end. Riding the bus was a bit more mindless than walking. He'd find a spot on the top level - next to a window - and he'd stare off at London for hours. No one would bother him, no one ever recognized him. He was just another passenger on an endless commute.

And then he'd return home at the end of the day, put his thermos and Mrs. Hudson's pastries on the countertop, and return to the empty flat of untouched things. He'd make the same two mugs of tea with the fresh, Wednesday milk, and sit down in silence in the same chair.

And, again, he'd do nothing. Again, he knew it was unhealthy, that it wouldn't last for long... but, for now, this would have to do.

He should have known that "for long" was inevitable.

Ella's idea hadn't been a bad one. He'd almost been amicable to the idea... until he realized where exactly she was suggesting he go. It wasn't Dartmoor - in fact, it wasn't even English countryside.

"Edinburgh."

"John, I can't force you to do something that you wouldn't want to do. I'm merely making a suggest-"

"I'm not an invalid."

"Your sister went to a rehabilitation center, and she was able to overcome her drinking habits -"

A sudden flash of range, and he felt his shoulders stiffen, knew his eyes were flashing dangerously. "Don't put me in the same category as Harry, I'm nothing like her -"

" - and plenty of soldiers have gone to similar rehabilitation centers and have also been able to improve - to move on from the war and completely adjust to civilian life," Ella continued smoothly, giving him a level, steady stare. "You never went to a rehabilitation center, John. You only agreed to therapy with me because it was required of you in order to receive your Army pension. Why is that?"

He felt his lips purse in his familiar, annoyed fashion and he tilted his chin slightly, giving her a dry, sharp look. "I didn't have to."

"We both know that's a lie."

"I didn't want to."

"Yes, but why?"

"That wasn't the original question."

For the first time, a flash of annoyance crossed his therapist's face. Instead of feeling satisfied, however, John only felt angrier. "I think we both know what I'm really asking," Ella chided. "John... why don't you want to get better?"

Though he hated the man, John had to admit that Mycroft was right about one thing, at least - while he didn't miss the death and the loss, he did miss the war. He missed the fear of death, the feel of the gun in his hands, the terror that had pulsated through his body every time his unit was pinned down in an ambush. He missed the frantic, sharp breaths he'd taken every time he'd stumbled from behind whatever god-forsaken rock he'd hidden behind to press mercifully still hands against a gaping bleeding wound and peer into terrified, fading eyes. He missed that fear that suffocated him, the possibility of a firefight, the pounding blood in his veins every time an empty mag clicked! in his ear and he scrambled for his pack to reload. Every time he threw himself into the line of fire... and every time he fired back, every time his shot made it's mark... it would come back.

Every time London became a battleground instead of just another city, that same thrill would reappear.

He was on the 153. It was an overcast, chilly day, and he'd already refilled his thermos with tea twice, if not to drink than to keep his ungloved fingers warm. It had been another danger night, something that he hadn't talked about or mentioned or even thought about when he'd decided to take the long route back to the flat. It'd been automatic.

He was just thinking about what pastries he would get Mrs. Hudson today, when it had happened.

"Hey, you," an annoying, loud voice had snapped through his daydreaming reverie. John had ignored it at first. 'You' could be referring to any number of people, and the bus system had its fair share of tramps. Simply ignore them, John reasoned, and they're not there. The problem doesn't exist unless you acknowledge i -

"Oi! You're John Watson!"

"There's nothing wrong with me."

"John - "

"No, no, no, you listen," he snapped, and suddenly the Captain was back - authoritative, assertive, voice low and controlled, but only barely controlling his anger. " There is nothing wrong with me, you understand? ... do you know what it's like, war? Do you know what it's like to watch someone that you know die right in front of you? To watch some of your brothers die in front of you? No, you don't. You just don't, and that's not a bad thing, in fact I envy you. But when you say that I should be trying to 'get better' after what's happened, that's... completely beyond the point. It's trying to fix a problem that you'll never fully comprehend, trying to diagnose a 'disorder' that doesn't exist. I'm a soldier, Emma. A bloody soldier. Not only that, but I'm a doctor, and a damn good one. I've seen things that most people don't even want to... imagine imagining. I'm no stranger to death."

"Then what's so different this time?" she responded quietly, gently. "Why today?"

He couldn't be that man - he couldn't be the soldier anymore. He had to be ashamed of the war, ashamed of what he'd done. He had to be ashamed that he'd enjoyed the army, enjoyed the war and the adrenaline and danger and life-threatening action that had followed. And telling that to people - having to explain that he missed the blood and the sweat and the conflict - was just too much. It would be impossible. He was not that man. He couldn't be. So, he used his cane. People never pity a veteran with a case of bloodlust, a murderer with a cause. But, a man with a cane? Now that's someone that anyone can pity. That's a person that no one will question.

John felt a pang of panic as he caught sight of the man who'd called his name out - some teenage prat with a mobile in his hand and a surprised sneer on his face.

"Yeah, John Watson," he continued loudly. "The blogger for that fake!"

John almost caught himself responding with a "No, I'm sorry, I think you're mistaken," but quickly stopped himself. He turned towards the window, grip tightening around his cane, and tried to pretend that he wasn't a part of the conversation - that he was still daydreaming as Barbican sped by -

Don't say anything, he told himself, even as he felt his leg stiffen and his trembling left hand begin to still. Don't say anything -

"Do you want to hear me say it?" he found himself asking.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

John felt a cynical smile creep onto his face. "Do you read the newspapers?"

"Sometimes."

"Mm, and you watch telly," John responded with a little scoff, gesturing at her with one hand. "You know why I'm here. I'm here becau-"

Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. The sentence died on his lips before he realized what the words were that he was trying to say. He hadn't meant to be so open, to really say it without a second thought. It had just happened. He grunted, trying to get rid of the sudden block in his throat, and looked down at his lap. He tried to remember how to function, tried to remember how to hide.

He tried not to think about it, because if he didn't then it didn't exist.

Ella was not so easily persuaded. "... what happened, John?"

A lot had happened to John, and there were many parts of him that he wished were different. But his friend had never questioned him, had never even empathized, had never wanted to change him or how he felt or what he'd seen and what he was. That sharp mind, that calculating brain, had seen the darkness within him and had accepted it as fact. He'd never tried to fix it. He fueled it with that one moment of adrenaline and the promise of more to come. Because the world's only Consulting Detective had been a dangerous man with a dangerous hobby. He had been a mutual benefactor in bloody riddle after bloody riddle.

But, now, said benefactor was gone, buried beneath a marble slab in a barren, chilly graveyard.

And here was John Watson, limping again. Ashamed. Hiding.

"You trying to hide something from us, Watson?"

People were staring now, beginning to look in his direction and - with a pang of horror - he saw flashes of recognition in their expressions. If the open newspapers in their hands weren't enough to send him reeling in panic, those unfamiliar, slightly horrified faces were.

"Oi! I'm talking to you!"

"Excuse me," he muttered brusquely to the shocked, elderly woman next to him as he stood up and tried to sidestep her. His eyes caught sight of the stairs leading down to the lower level. Automatically, he felt his hand reach out and press the closest 'STOP' button, and a voice filtered over the audio system, signaling a "requested departure," but he didn't know where to. He didn't care - he just needed to get far away from these faces, these suddenly uncomfortable people, and the mutterings and questions that were suddenly being directed his way.

"What happened to your leg?" the teenage boy was goading. "You take a fall, too - ?"

"- update your blog recently, Doctor -?"

"John Watson? The John Watson? I'm with The Daily Mail and -"

"No, sorry," he heard himself replying loudly, limping his way to the stairs, trying to push past the loud, female reporter, and the other commuters who had stood and sidled on over to get a better look at the commotion. "Sorry, no, I need to get off here -"

He'd needed a friend, even though he hadn't realised it. The world's only Consulting Detective had shown up at precisely the right moment, only hours before John had planned on shoving a Browning into his mouth and pulling the trigger. He'd been more than just his flatmate - he'd been the friend, and John had been that person in return.

But no more. No... John Watson couldn't be that man. He couldn't be the blogger, the loyal sidekick. That wouldn't - couldn't - be allowed. No one questions the veteran who was fooled by someone that he had also called a friend. No one... they just pity him. Poor Dr. John Watson, the war veteran - fooled by the "great" Consulting Detective. What a shame.

He fell for it, just like the rest of us.

"Sher..."

"You need to get it out," Ella soothed.

He tried to nod in agreement, but it didn't help. Nothing would ever help. Nothing would just do anymore.

The bus pulled away before John could think to even see where he'd been left off, and he started to limp - no, desperately stumble - away from the stop, pushing and flying through crowds of shocked, affronted bystanders, trying to escape - trying to hide -

And then he found himself in the last place that he could possibly ever want to be.

Somehow, he hadn't known to look towards the rooftop at first.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

John skid to a halt as his heart pounded in his throat and the noises of a busy, afternoon London abruptly faded away behind him. The chilly air brushed against his skin, the white sky was so bright that it practically blinded him, but even through the light and heat he saw a clear silhouette on top of the rooftop, standing above Giltspur St.

"Alright," he heard himself say, even when his mind was screaming at him, Move, dammit, move! He's going to - !

He didn't look the rooftop, at first. He didn't look at the notes left from fans and non-believers, or try to decipher the messages left behind in the dirt-covered windows. Instead, he looked to the ground, to the smooth concrete where his friend had made his final stop. It was smooth and unremarkable, not surprisingly. There wasn't a stain, either, which wasn't surprising, too, if you thought about it logically. No one would want to see that kind of thing.

It was as if it had never happened.

But, no matter how long he tried to pretend that it hadn't, either... it had happened.

And he hadn't been able to stop it.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," his best friend ordered, voice choked. "Please... please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" he heard himself ask into the mobile. But, somehow, he knew. Why else would he be standing on top of St. Bartholemew's Hospital? Why else would he - of all people - be crying?

He returned in a cab and fled up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's "Good evening, dear, do you want a cuppa?" He sat in an empty flat, and tried to do absolutely nothing. The dog-eared beekeeping books, the vials, the discarded newspapers, that damn skull; they were all in their proper place, as they should be... and as they probably would remain.

He guessed - or, rather, he knew - that it was unhealthy to keep living this way, as if in a perpetual museum of now unpossessed possessions.

So, he didn't do "nothing" anymore.

He grabbed his cane, stumbled to his feet, and began destroying everything in sight.

"This phone call," the man responded quietly, some semblance of control - of calm acceptance - creeping into his voice. "It's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

He lashed out without discrimination. The books, the vials, the flasks… by the time that he was through with them, they were reduced to nothing more than shreds of paper and shattered - probably toxic - glass. He ripped the case notes from the wall, destroyed maps and shreds of hidden evidence from murders that had been solved months ago. He tore the Cluedo board from the wall and flung the knife across the room, where it lodged itself into the smiley face that had been sprayed onto the wall - the smiley face that he tore down with desperate, clawing fingers -

And John could hardly believe his response, his last words to the man who'd accepted who John was without question, his bloody benefactor, his best friend… the man who'd saved his life.

"Leave a note when?"

He didn't stop - could not stop - until he turned to the skull on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. He tried to throw it. Bloody hell, he tried to throw it... but he couldn't. It slid from his fingers as he fell to the ground and slumped against the wall and stared at the destruction laid in front of him.

The only untouched relics of a past he'd tried to ignore were the two tea mugs, left precisely where he'd left them that morning. One empty... and one that would, forevermore, remain full.

"Goodbye, John."

"No - don't -!"

The man took a step forward, off the edge, and the world tilted sickeningly. And for a moment... John did nothing.

He couldn't hide anymore.

"My best friend... Sherlock Holmes… is dead."

"SHERLOOOCK!"

And John watched him fall.

How do you say goodbye to someone who killed themselves? How do you find closure? The answer is, really, very simple. You don't. You can't. There is nothing you can do, no reconciliation. It is, as John has come to realize, different than losing Jameson's leg, or being unable to save Privates Smith, Douglas and Brown, or losing full mobility in his left shoulder and nights of dreamless slumber. They - the men of Bravo - had all known what they'd signed up for. They all knew what could happen when they slung their rifles over their backs and stepped off of the transport into the hot, Afghan sun. But, in London, with Sherlock by his side... that thought had never crossed his mind.

It is different to lose your best friend right in front of you, and especially so when you have no idea why and you never will. When you were so alone for so long. When the person who had saved you leapt from a building and left you alone, again. When they took their life willingly, and when you're left to pick up the wreckage they left behind.

When someone kills themselves, you can never understand why they did what they did, and you never will. You can only try and find peace with yourself. And that, John realises, is much easier said than done.

John had been trying to find that peace in the two weeks since Sherlock's funeral. He'd been trying to find that peace when he'd destroyed half of 221B in a blind fit of rage. He'd been trying to find that peace on the endless bus rides and mindless walks and automatic tea-making. He'd been trying to find that peace in the silence, and in the shame and in the hiding and in the nothingness of his once purposeful existence. But there was no peace to find.

He had never been more alone.

Alone is all I have, alone protects me.

No, friends protect people.

You were alone, and I was your friend... I should have protected you.

"And who's going to protect me," he quietly mused aloud to the wreckage, "now that I'm alone?"

He hadn't gotten an answer. He didn't expect to. Yet, somehow, that silence spoke volumes. It somehow gave him some semblance of the vague resolution he'd been searching for. He'd been waiting for people to tell him the answer for a while, now, but no one had... so, he did, instead.

I'll just have to protect myself.

The next morning was the same, comfortable and safe routine.

He awoke around the usual - 0700 - to an ombre sky peeking through his bed curtains. There was nothing but comfortable, peaceful silence, the kind that he'd grown to defamiliarize himself from over the last year or so. He sat up, stretch out creaking joints and muscles - taking special care to roll his stiff left shoulder - before grabbing the once discarded cane which had been carefully propped against his bedside table. He changed into a fresh pair of trousers, shirt and jumper, as if preparing for another busy day.

Comb the hair, tuck in the shirt, straighten the exhaustion out from your shoulders. Don't forget, Captain, you're a military man.

And then, with faltering steps and the occasional, pained wince, he somehow hobbled down the narrow flight of rickety stairs. The darkened, destroyed, sitting room wasn't even granted a momentary glance as the doctor slowly found his way through the kitchen, to the cupboard and the hob.

Ten minutes later, he eased himself into his favourite chair... with a singular cup of tea.

One step at a time. Even for an old dog, I suppose, old habits can die hard.

Two hours later, he stood up and walked out of the front door to rush downstairs and wake his landlady. Three hours after that - and after packing what little had been unbroken from the night before into cardboard boxes - he stood outside of Speedy's Cafe with Mrs. Hudson by his side, and got into a cab to go to the cemetery. It had been two weeks since he'd paid a visit, after all.

He left the cane - and the limp - behind.

There was no peace to be found anywhere, or with anyone or anything. In some circumstances, there really was nothing. He didn't use a cane and limp to protect himself anymore, though. He didn't use it as a crutch to disguise whatever it had been that he'd been hiding from others - and himself - for all of these weeks and endless, nightmare-filled nights. Instead, he used his memories and his steel resolve. He used what little he knew and what little he could hold onto. Even his burgeoning anger was better than the nothing.

He was alone - so terribly alone, even more so than he had been when he'd returned from Afghanistan - and he was broken. So, so broken. He couldn't return to the flat for a while, couldn't "adjust to civilian life," couldn't pretend that everything that had happened over the last eighteen months had been nothing but a beautifully dangerous dream. He couldn't hide behind a limp. He couldn't ignore everything and expect it to disappear just because he paid it no heed. He couldn't control the world as it spun madly around him.

But, dammit, he would never be ashamed of who he had been, and who he was: Sherlock Holmes's best and only friend, and one of the few people who still, and always would, believe in him.

That one singular fact somehow made this madly spinning world... stop. Just for a moment.

And for now... for now, that would just have to do.

For Caitlyn. I don't understand why you chose to leave the world so soon, and I'm still trying to find my own peace from the absence you've left behind this past year… but know that you are sorely missed, and that you will always be in my heart. Love, always - Mac