Daylight

Part 1

     John looked across the white, sand dunes with a sigh.  The Autumn equinox brought with it a full moon that bathed the White Sands national monument in a silvery glow.  The park stayed open until midnight on summer nights with a full moon.  The pale orb hanging in the sky offered almost as much illumination as the sun as it reflected off the crystalline dunes.  John had arrived in New Mexico six months prior to this evening just after his army friend, Trevor, had set him up with new identity papers and an American passport. 

     Trevor owed him a life debt that John had never thought he’d have to cash in on.  On the day John received his bullet wound in Afghanistan, Trevor had been the man John had taken the bullet for.  Trevor would have died had it not been for John’s refusal to continue working on his life-threatening injury even though they were taking brutal, enemy fire.  John, bent over Trevor’s shock-shaken body, continued working on a gushing leg wound even though bullets flew over his head.  He ignored his own safety and continued saving Trevor’s life until a sniper’s bullet shattered through the doctor’s shoulder.  Even through considerable pain, John finished administering life-saving first aid to Trevor before passing out from his own wound.  Trevor had never forgotten Dr. John Watson’s bravery and heroism that day. 

     After they’d both recovered, he’d given John a solemn handshake and said, “If you ever need anything from me, Doc, anything…. You let me know.  I got connections….” He let the word hang there.  “I can get you whatever you need.  I’m just sayn’, Doc, anything!” And, John believed him.  He’d heard stories of what Trevor could acquire. 

     “Thanks, Trev,” John said smiling.  “I’ll be sure to tell you if I do,” and let the matter drop.  Until the day he left Sherlock, he hadn’t had an occasion to ever think of Trevor’s offer.  But, now the “anything” he needed was help getting away from Mycroft Holmes.  As long as he stayed in the UK, he’d never be safe from the man who held a “minor” position in the British government.

     He’d run into Trevor while working on a case a year after he met Sherlock.  After catching up in the nearest pub, he found out the man had been discharged and living in London.  He’d turned mercenary, something John suspected even when they’d served together, and now offered his services to the highest bidder.  He’d had a small, militant crew he ran with.  The best thing about Trevor was that Sherlock had never met him.

     He’d contacted Trevor the day he ran from 221 Baker Street.  True to his word, Trevor had not only set him up with a brand new identity, but even helped him acquire some much needed cash to finance his sudden emigration to the States.   His new ID papers said he was now a 36 year-old named Jonathan Tennant.  Trevor assured him that his forgeries were so well-done, he’d be able to get through airport security in both countries easily.

     “Just got to work on that accent, mate.  Maybe try for something bland and Midwestern, nothing too fancy like a Minnesota or North Dakota accent, you’d never be able to pull that off,” Trevor told John after laughing and handing him the small bundle. “This is a new life, Doc.  I hope it gets you out of whatever jam you’re in.”

     “I’m grateful,” John had told him.  As far as his life-debt went, they were square. 

     During the week he’d been underground and waiting for his new papers, Trevor had even been able to get him some paying work.  Since doctors in hospitals were required to report gunshot wounds to the police, John got some extra cash patching up some of Trevor’s acquaintances who had been in an obvious gunfight.  He’d repaired some ugly stab wounds and even treated a severe case of strep throat.  “Almost don’t want to lose you, Doc,” Trevor said devilishly.  “You’d be a great asset to our little operation.”

     John already felt uneasy accepting Trevor’s help and didn’t want to think too hard about who he’d just patched up.  Knowing Trevor, his men hadn’t come by their wounds honestly.  But, John couldn’t afford to be too picky now.  He’d take what help he could get even if it meant doing some shady things.   If he didn’t get out of Mycroft’s territory soon, he had no idea what retaliation he’d suffer for what he’d done to Sherlock.  Mycroft would be furious with him.  John didn’t know if Moriarty would actually use the collar he’d placed around Sherlock’s neck or just leave him handcuffed to the chair.  He’d honestly been so busy worrying about his own escape, he’d only been able to think briefly about his former best friend.  Mycroft, on the other hand, would think of nothing else.

     After he left Trevor’s little gang, he taken the Eurostar across the channel to Paris and from there he’d flown to Canada.  Getting through customs into the US had gone smoothly and within another week, John breathed in his first air as a US citizen. 

     He’d gone to Portland, Oregon first.  He arrived just as the season’s hard rains began to beat down on the city’s streets.  He had enough money to live on for a while so he rented a one-room efficiency apartment by the month, reminiscent of his own bed-sit in London.  He’d enjoyed the enthusiastic pitter-patter of precipitation at first.  He had no idea rain came is so many varieties.  During his first few days it spritzed, then drizzled and finally down poured.  The rain didn’t let up.  He thought he might actually grow webs between his fingers before long so he pulled up stakes and moved to the Southwest.  He landed in New Mexico.

     He’d been living in Alamogordo, New Mexico now for almost six months.  He’d been amused by state’s motto: The Land of Enchantment stamped on all the yellow and red license plates, and John had been enchanted by this romantic desert.  The small town had two clinics and small hospital.  Trevor had been clever enough to include a medical degree from a Canadian University in John’s papers so he’d be able to work in the states in his chosen profession.  He’d been lucky to get an evening shift at an urgent care facility that needed swing shift doctors.  The hours were rotten, but John was grateful for the work. 

     Even with the terrible hours, the complete lack of experience living in a foreign country, and a severe lack of money, John couldn’t have been happier in his new situation.  Here, he’d met Tara, a 31 year old English teacher at the Alamogordo Middle School, and he just might be in love.  They’d met when she brought her five year old son, Tommy into urgent care for a sore throat.  The little boy had taken to John with the fierce tenacity and utter devotion that only small children can bestow on complete strangers they take a shine to.  Tommy had asked him question after question as only five-year-olds know how to do and John smiled.  One of the questions had been, “Dr. John, are you married?” 

     “No,” he’d responded bemused.  He’d gotten the hang of an American accent rather quickly.

      “Do you have a girlfriend?” the boy pressed innocently.  John wondered where this was going when he saw Tommy’s mother, Tara blushing furiously.  Tara was a lovely, slim woman in her early thirties.  She had ultra-long, straight blonde hair that fell just above her hipbones and a light brown, even tan usually associated with beach combers.  John thought her strikingly beautiful. 

     “Tommy,” his mother scolded gently.  “Don’t ask personal questions like that.”

     John laughed a little and finished examining the adorable, tow-headed child.  He pronounced his diagnosis to his mother.  She was actually rather happy to know antibiotics would take care of the infection and her son would soon be well.  She’d smiled gratefully at John and shook his hand warmly thanking him for his time.  Tommy took the opportunity to announce to room that if Dr. John wanted to come over to dinner, his mom made very good mashed potatoes. 

     That made John laugh outright.  “Is that so?” he ventured.

     “Yes,” she said blushing even more furiously.  “I lost my husband in Afghanistan two years ago,” she admitted.  “Tommy misses having a guy around.”

     John started at that.  “Well,” he said not knowing how to continue the conversation. 

     “I’d love to go out for coffee sometime.  If you get time off from here, that is?” Tara asked hopefully.  John made it a point never to date his patients, but in a town this small he wasn't sure what his options might be. And just like that, they were dating.  With no Sherlock to interfere, they got along rather well.  For John, the two years he’d spent solving crimes with Sherlock were fast fading from his memory.