I was a Soldier! (and so was I!)

A constant niggling

Waking up emotionless is frequent now, grumbling as he has to reach for the cane he's learnt to loath and sets to his computer, catching sight of his sig before pushing that thought aside. It did no good for thoughts like that to enter his mind.

He continued then to open his blog, but with nothing to write he shut the laptop again and swigged at the last of his tea before setting off for the day.

He changed into a shirt, jumper and jeans and then shrugged on his jacket with a wince as his leg protested to his actions.

His day truly began when he got to Russell Square gardens and a familiar yet distant voice called his name out. The voice lost in the smog of a name he had hunted for, a name he still tried to find, even now, heading to the newspaper stands to check the obituaries and hunt for a name he didn't even know.

His life was currently like trying to solve a puzzle without a guide picture or trying to find a particular colour but only being given the clue that "it's bright" or "it's not black!"

It was pointless in every sense of the word but he would hit himself if he were to stop looking.

His thoughts were disturbed by a shout of his name, yet again distant but closer now.

"Watson!" And finally he decided to turn to see.

A round faced man with short hair and glasses perched upon his nose, his mid frame larger than John had recalled approached him and after a few moments talking it came to mind that John maybe needed to get on with his life.

"What about get yourself a flatmate or something?" Mike Stamford suggested.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" John asked as he adjusted his stick and shuffled his takeaway cup into his other hand. Clenching and unclenching his left hand.

"You know, your the second person to say that to me today" mike chuckled and John couldn't help but clench his jaw in confusion at the fact that mike was the person who brought up the idea in the first place before seeming pretending it was Johns idea all along.

John gave in however to his curiosity.

"Who was the first?"

That was the sentence that lead to a meeting in Barts hospital and the meeting of the mad man Sherlock Holmes.

It was when those eyes glanced at him there was instantly something niggling at his mind but the name rang no bells and he had never known a Sherlock. He'd never forget a Sherlock. That name was fat too unique but yet the contours of his face and high cheekbones nagged at his conscience.

John pushed the though aside.

"Sorry?"

"Afghanistan or iraq?" The voice replied irritably.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-?"

But before John could reply the man was speaking again, too fast to catch, in a voice that sounded familiar but with no reason as to why, probably another voice caught on the wind from a past life in London.

***

John found himself a day later at the door to a flat that would be much getting his pay to afford on a street that was too high class for him to ever just 'blend in' with a man with more knowledge compacted into his mind than anyone in a set radius.

The smile Sherlock sent him when he arrived at the flat door and Sherlock gracefully stood from a cab, rocking on his feet as though fighting the urge to bow before shaking Johns hand. His smile was wide, almost a grin and John almost questioned how sane the manl was before he too realised that the question would be hypocritical.

John then glances at the sign in bright red over the small cafe and Sherlock answers any questions he could have planned to ask.

"Mrs Hudson, are land lady" he says simply with a smile

"Mr Holmes" John greets.

"Sherlock please"

"Getting a special rate. Owes me a favour. A few years ago, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He knocks as he speaks, the door knocker seemingly small in his large hands.

"You stopped her husband being executed?" John asked in confusion.

"Oh no, I ensured it"

Sherlock heads to the door as it opens Mrs. Hudson is there beckoning them inside, Sherlock being pulled down into a hug before he can get too far but happy to give one back before he heads off up the stairs.

Sherlock waist for him and then once he too is at the landing let's them inside.

The rooms are above average standard and although the clutter, they are actually very modern and from what John can tell:

"Well this could be very nice, very nice indeed"

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleared out"

At the same time as,

"That's why I went ahead and moved straight in"

All while the constant niggling in Johns mind, 'why do I trust Sherlock Holmes above all other people and I've never met him before in my life?' And the thought lingers long into the night as Sherlock explains through his thought process, they do a spontaneous stakeout in Angelos, Sherlock gets kidnapped by a cabbie and up to the point where eventually Johns finds himself rushing home again as seeing Sherlock, weak as a kitten, still trying to be clever and a trigger is pulled and a bucket is fired and blood stains the carpet but all Sherlock can do is recoil and then hunt for the marksman with little luck.

John felt a protectiveness over him that he never felt before, a sort of instinctive feeling that makes him want-no, need- to take care of him and keep him alive, more so than anyone else.