A Study in Miscommunication

Chapter 1

—-John's POV—-

A part of me knew I was dreaming. But it wasn't enough. I'd wake up only after.

"Get back!" A shout. I didn't want to listen. They were injured, I had to help. Pain through my shoulder. The blood.

And...

I'll always blame myself for that.

It wasn't fair that was his last smile. At least I didn't have to watch him suffer this time. Watch myself try to fix him and fail. Over and over...

I used the blanket of darkness to excuse a few sobs.

There's no point in going back to sleep. I made my bed the military way and waited for the sun to rise.

I had an appointment with Ella today. I pulled out my laptop and opened it to my blog page after setting down an apple and my tea. She's going to ask if I was eating and the last time I ate. I could avoid the first question by answering the second. I knew the drill now. I ignored the gun. It's an option. An option I liked to have available. But I had something to do today, a reason to get out of the bedsit. So I'd let it be for now.

—-

She's going on about my blog again.

I try to deflect to no avail.

She points out that I'm a civilian again.

I don't want to be a civilian. I want to help people. I want to feel like I'm making a difference even if I'm not.

She says I need to recognize that things happen to me here and writing about it would help me do so.

I used to get email updates from my friends. People I had to played rugby with, people I went to Bart's with, army buddies and others. I couldn't take reading their stories and saying nothing in response. When they got too pushy asking about me I closed the email address.

Nothing happens to me. Not anymore.

I didn't sleep, I didn't eat, I went on walks where other people ignored me, I was invisible. Everyone I talk to doesn't understand. Those who've never been to war couldn't understand the way I see the world and those that have don't want to go back. The ones who have seen the war and want to be there are there. I can't just take them down to the pub for a pint. And, even if I could, all I'd see is pity.

I think I'd be able to get by if I could go back to being a surgeon. The job I've been working toward is laparoscopic and (now, preferably) bloodless surgery. After... Stop.

Working in a hospital would be very different but I think I could manage. At least I'd be helping people. But I was unfit. The intermittent tremor in my dominate hand made it so I'll never wield a scalpel again. I had a ton of relevant training to be an A&E doctor but the cane gets in the way. And, again, the hand. I could still be a general practitioner if not for my damn leg. No one would ever hire a doctor with a psychosomatic limp. There was something about PTSD written down in my file too I'd bet.

I remembered what I typed that morning on my blog, the words I erased and will never be posted. She told me my first post should be an introduction.

I am John H. Watson.

I was a doctor and a soldier. Now I am neither. I am no one.

That was far too depressing to post. No, if I posted that someone would feel the need to come check on me and they may find my gun. I probably wouldn't go to jail for having an illegal handgun; I'd end up somewhere else. Somewhere worse.