Chapter 1

A/N – In his sessions with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud. John doesn't actually say a whole lot.

John looked at his discharge orders yet again. He had known officially for almost three weeks and unofficially for much longer that he was being declared unfit for duty and would be discharged on 30 November. Retirement the colonel had called it, as he shook John's hand, like it was a good thing. Honourable discharge (medical causes) was what the piece of paper said. John's chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over. They hadn't even given him the option (not that he wanted it) of a clinical position or even an administrative post. It was all just ... over. John lay the discharge face down before continuing on to the next items in his separation packet, a voucher for MOD subsidized housing and a list of landlords in greater London who supposedly accepted the vouchers. He had circled the sixteenth name on the second page, Kishore Maddipoti. All thirty three previous names on the list had been duly called and struck off. John was to meet with Mr. Maddipoti today at 11 a.m. and should be prepared to pay the first week's rent plus security deposit in cash. John had googled the address. The building was on the edge of a dodgy neighbourhood and he strongly suspected the "one bedroom efficiency" would be little more than a bedsit. And all for the reduced rate of £190 a week, in advance, utilities and internet not included.

Today was December 2nd. Harry had dutifully, if somewhat grudgingly, offered to collect John from the outpatient housing near Queen's Hospital in Brighton, even saying he could stay at her place in Camden. John had declined assuring her that his transportation and housing were already set. Instead, he had parted with the £24.70, plus cab fare, and took the train from Brighton to Victoria Station and got a room in a budget tourist hotel. Less than two days into "retirement" and he was already out two hundred quid. At least the room came with unlimited local phone calls. He took the smart phone Harry had given him out of his back pocket. She had called and sent him several texts but he had yet to make a single call on it. Having to accept the phone was bad enough, he would not have his calls going onto Harry's bill. He would get himself some sort of mobile plan this week. Rejoin the 21st century. He had been deployed to Afghanistan for most of the last three and a half years. While there he had relied on e-mail. He wasn't even sure where his trusty old flip phone was? Probably it was in one of boxes he had stored at Harry's. John turned the new phone over in his hand and shook his head. Clara. She, much more so than Harry, had been his lifeline during those early weeks at Queen's. She was the one who had always seemed to be there when he woke, the one who had sat with him hours when he could barely move or talk or think straight. Harry had usually headed to the loo or out for a cigarette after about ten minutes in the presence of her gravely ill brother. He thought about Clara's last awkward visit to Brighton*, on the day after the colonel had informed him of his imminent retirement, and wondered whether he'd ever see her again. His sister was such an idiot.

John placed the housing list aside and turned to the next item in the package, a sheaf of pages explaining his sliding-scale, early-separation pension with partial (less than 50%) disability compensation. John did not need his A-level in maths to know that his age-graduated annuity alone would not be enough to live on, especially in London. He scanned his disability designation, less than fifty percent, and thought of the ludicrous list of disability descriptions in that category. Designations to which he had assigned other wounded soldiers without really appreciating the legal and financial connotations. Loss of vision in one eye where uncorrected sight in other eye is at least 20/100; loss of thumb and/or 2 or more digits on the same hand; permanent reduction in range of motion of one limb involving whole limb or multiple joints in same or different limb; loss of single hand/arm or foot/leg below elbow or knee, such that said elbow or knee was functional. John's mind flashed to Varick and the IED. He felt the Afghan summer heat and smelled the diesel smoke and heard the three shots†... He all but jumped out of his chair. Shoving the financial statement aside, he staggered until he got his cane under him, a sharp pain shooting through his right leg. He stood in place panting for a few seconds while he regained his control, then he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He could walk, damn it, and he bloody well would walk. Everyday. He wasn't a cripple, forty nine percent or otherwise, which was more than Varick could say. Several papers fluttered off the desk as John forcefully swung the door closed behind him. One landed face up on the chair. It was a referral to Dr. Ella Thompson, MBPsS, for psychological services.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Ella Thompson was running late. She had been running late all day. Cursed traffic. She had a new patient at 2 p.m. and usually liked to have at least a half an hour before the first meeting to prepare but, as it was, she was lucky to have half that. She flipped open the folder, another returning veteran. Nearly ten percent of her patients over the last five years were returning soldiers. Although she appreciated the referrals and her success rate was quite good, she always had the same sinking, inadequate feeling upon meeting a new one. Their struggles were often so great and their experiences genuinely horrific. Remembering a favorite saying of her old clinical psych professor, 'one does not need to have had a heart attack to be a cardiologist', she collected her thoughts and began reviewing the file.

This one was different. Most of her ex-military patients were returning enlisted personnel in their early- to mid-twenties. This one was older, an officer, a career soldier, and a doctor. A what? Ella reread that bit. A trauma surgeon, wounded by sniper fire while treating casualties from an IED in a forward area. Ella let out a slow breath while she digested this. Then she flipped forward in the file to see the extent of his injuries and his medical outcomes. The man had certainly had a rough go of it. She read through the preliminary evaluation from the staff psychologist at the hospital, moderate to severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and through persistent somatic complaints, profoundly dissociated and resistant to therapy yet exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others. Interesting. In most cases dissociation was a global shut down. The individual unplugged from themselves and from those around them. Maybe his hyper-awareness was because of his medical ... She started slightly at the sound of the intercom interrupting her thoughts and glanced at her watch, 1:59 p.m. Apparently her new patient was also prompt.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John scanned the office as he entered. The room was comfortably furnished, had large windows, tasteful wall hangings and was perfectly round. He enjoyed the novelty of that for a moment before turning his attention to Dr. Ella Thompson. His therapist, a tall attractive black woman, was walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, I'm Ella Thompson, a pleasure to meet you," she said with cordial professionalism.

John awkwardly shuffled his cane to shake her hand and issued a quiet reply, "John."

Ella smiled reassuringly as she continued. She knew her patients were often ill-at-ease during the first appointment.

"OK, John. Please call me Ella. Have a seat," she indicated the two chairs behind her. John moved to the chair nearest the door but stood next to it until Ella sat in the chair opposite.

Ella's first thought upon seeing John Watson was that she had never met anyone, in or out of uniform, who was so obviously a soldier. He was a bit on the short side, probably not quite as tall as her, but everything about him, his hair cut, his posture, his build, the expression set on his face, absolutely screamed military.

"Thank you," she said as she sat, acknowledging his courtesy. She noticed that after he sat he made direct eye contact. Unlike most of her new patients, he did not seem nervous or anxious. His eyes, which were a rather remarkable dark blue, were set like stone and his face was a neutral, expressionless mask. In fact, he seemed almost defiant. No, that wasn't quite right, or at least not all of it. Determined, that was it. This was difficult for him but he was determined to meet it head on.

"So, John, why are you here?" she opened clasping her hands in front of her. John blinked and looked puzzled.

"I have to. I got shot. It's required," he answered. Ella smiled at the honest, no-nonsense answer. She also noted that John did not seem to have difficulty acknowledging his injury. That was hopeful.

"I'm sorry, let me be more specific. What would you like to address during these sessions?"

He took a breath as if to speak but held it. His jaw clamped tight as he let the breath back out as if to purposely keep any errant words from escaping. He glanced toward the window for a moment. His mind was suddenly racing.

What did he want? The evaluation was mandatory for all wounded veterans, a minimum of 2 to 4 sessions usually, although there was no upper limit. His original inclination had been to suffer through the required sessions and be done with it. However, while John Watson certainly had a surfeit of pride, he had never been one to fool himself. Things were not going well. How many times had he earnestly recommended to his patients that they make full use of the psychological services?

He squared his shoulders and took another breath. This time he spoke,

"My leg hurts."

The session progressed slowly. John appeared to be trying but was both stoic and reticent by nature. Ella had to work for each and every response. She tried to get him to expand more on his leg pain, its severity and triggers. She asked if he had any other somatic complaints and had waited through nearly two minutes of silence before he glanced at his left hand and nodded once. She sensed that for each word he spoke whole paragraphs went unsaid. Ella knew implicitly that he was being truthful, but she also knew that each answer he revealed seemed to cost him. She made note of it, apparent deep-seated trust issues.

"You attach very negative connotations to therapy, don't you?" she stated bluntly after several more minutes. That got his attention. John straightened, his ear tips flushed red and he cleared his throat.

"No, um, no. It's just not something I ... it's just not how I was raised." He sat back into the chair and resumed idly traced the pattern on the arm of the the chair with his finger.

"OK, fair enough. Let's back up and talk about that, then. Where are your roots?" John looked slightly confused by the sudden change of tack.

"You're not originally from London, are you?" Ella clarified.

"No, I, um, grew up in Essex, um, outside Chelsea actually."

"Any attachments there? Family? Childhood memories?"

John thought of a picture he had squirreled away in his box. The picture was of Harry and him on a beach in Spain from the only summer holiday the Watson family ever took. John remembered his 11 year-old self being happy on that once-in-a-life-time visit to Spain. He and Harry, removed from their normal surroundings, had actually got on for the entire fortnight. Playing on the warm, sun-drenched beach. Exploring nearby villages on bike all by themselves. Successfully ordering ice cream or Coca Cola although neither of them spoke a word of Spanish. It was fun and John had taken it as a sign that everything was going to be OK, that his family would be normal from now on and that the fighting and trouble were all in the past. But, that wonderful holiday turned out to be just another lie. School had barely begun (he'd just started at the King Edward Grammar School, Dad was so proud) when the fighting started again. Mum was drinking, that much John knew, but the rest he hadn't understood at the time. Dad moved out shortly after Christmas and by the time summer holidays came around again Rupert had moved in. By the next Christmas John had learned many things, how to get himself off to school, how to get his own food, how to wash his own clothes, how to block out the chaos and concentrate on his homework, how to duck and how not to cry. Harry, who never did know when to shut up, was Rupert's favorite target but sometimes John couldn't be quiet enough. He never told anyone, though, not Miss Frazer, his favorite teacher, not Mr. Beacham, his rugby coach, not even his Dad. He didn't want to get Mum in trouble. And no one had noticed. Johnny Watson was always quiet. Never a trouble maker. His grades were good, not outstanding, but a boy with his background couldn't be expected to make top marks. Nobody noticed until John ended up in hospital with a concussion, and a broken arm. He and Harry had gone to live with their Dad, Rupert had gone to prison for 6 months, and Mum had cried that she was so sorry. John loved her, he really did, but never trusted her again.

"No. I, ah, haven't been back since I left secondary school," John said without inflection.

"And what about your parents? How is your relationship with your father?" Ella looked up from her notes.

John knew his dad was a good man. He had worked long hours in a factory job that he hated to support his family. In return, he had had high expectations for his children. There was no room for excuses in the Watson family. That both John and Harry would go to uni was always assumed, a given in his Dad's mind. He made sure John worked hard in school, constantly reminding him that he needed better grades if he was going to get a scholarship. Dad had also encouraged John to play sports, especially rugby, but also told him there was no point in playing unless he was good. Then, when John was 15, Dad got sick. John studied harder and made first fifteen in rugby and Dad went into remission. John was approaching 6th form and Dad encouraged him to go for as many A-levels as he could so John did. Then Dad relapsed so John studied even more, Dad got sicker and John played even harder, 2nd team league all-star. Then Dad had started talking to John about the army. The army could help him pay for uni. If he graduated from university, he would be an officer. Then John planned one beyond Dad. He wouldn't just go to uni, he'd go to medical school. Dad had liked that.

John's rugby team had made the tournament later that year. Dad came out to the pitch for the big game bundled in his winter coat even though the day was mild. Mr. Beacham hadn't seen Mr. Watson at any games for quite a while. He was shocked by the sight of the man. In fact most of the boys were staring at Watson's dad. Mr. Beacham didn't have to tell them what to do. John played every minute, he carried the ball more than any other player and scored more points than he ever had but the boys on the other side were bigger and more experienced. The team lost. John stayed on the pitch after all the other boys had left. He stood stone faced next to the frail old man who was his dad. Dad was dying and nothing 16 year-old John could do would stop that. He died on a Tuesday one week after John's seventeenth birthday. He had been just 37 years old.

"He's dead," John said flatly. Ella raise her eyebrows inquiring.

"Died when I was 17. Cancer," John explained expression unchanged.

"Oh, I see. And your mother?" John looked off to the side again and was quiet for a beat before answering.

John had loved his mum. When he was young she read him stories using all sorts of funny voices. She used to take Harry and him to the beach. She had taught them how to swim and how to ride a bike, let them help with the baking in the kitchen and always brought them to the fair each autumn. John's mum had tried her best. She really had but she was young and had never had the chance to learn who she was before she became pregnant at 17, was forced to marry and then became the mother of twins at 18. She had loved her children, and even her husband, at one time, but was ill-equipped to deal with the tedium and isolation that teenage parenthood and marriage brought, especially in the face of her father's crushing disapproval. At first, she only drank to help get herself through the bad days, then she drank to get through every day. Harry and Dad used to get angry when she was drunk. John had just resented it. Then, when he was twelve, everything came apart and Rupert happened.

After his dad's death, John moved back to live with his mum until the end of the school year. Two weeks after school ended John left for basic training. The army would be sending him to Bart's in the fall, just as he and Dad had planned. He never lived in his mum's house again.

As John got older he gained more and more empathy for his mum. During his time at Bart's he found himself thinking things like mum never got to go to uni, and at my age (21) Mum couldn't go on all-night pub crawls she had 3-year-old twins at home, and so on. He had tried to visit regularly, to accept the past and move on, to forgive, but he never really managed it. She had let Rupert into their house. And, then, in the end, she had gotten in the car with Steven (her latest boyfriend) that night. John had been deployed to a remote area in Sierra Leone at the time. It had taken two days for the news to reach him and three more days for him to get home, arriving in London just hours before the funeral (Harry had been furious with him). The terrible irony was that while Steven's blood alcohol had been nearly three times over the limit, Mum had be completely sober.

"Died in a car crash, six years ago," he said rotely, his voice remaining even and flat. Ella frowned a bit in sympathy. "My condolences," she said before making another note.

"Siblings?" she prompted.

"Just my sister, she lives up in Camden." Ella nodded.

"Are you close? Is she why you decided to come to London after your discharge?"

Harry Watson was a loud and brash as John was reserved and guarded. She demanded attention whenever she walked into a room and often behaved badly if she didn't get it. One would have thought, given their difficult home life, that Harry and John would have been close, but that was not the case. They were allies of necessity and little more. To deal with their tumultuous childhood and her own struggles with her sexuality, Harry had adopted and perfected a wild-child persona. Harry did whatever Harry pleased and the world be damned. After rebelling her way through the local comprehensive, she breezed through university despite her crazy life style, then moved on to make a splash in the corporate world. All the while John had dutifully worked his way through Bart's and spent his summers drilling with the army. Always the life of the party, Harry had lived the London club scene to the utmost, often binge drinking entire weekends away. John had worried about her, of course he had, but their relationship was such that she never would have listened so he never bothered to say anything. Beside, he resented her drinking even more than he resented their mum's.

But then, after years of partying, after Jane and Meaghan and Francis and CeeCee and Rita and Patricia (or was it Patricia then Rita?), Harriet had somehow found Clara. Clara, who was clever and accomplished and pretty and patient and cheeky and strong. John had immediately liked her and had also immediately been jealous. Not in a romantic sense, he had never thought of Clara that way. He was jealous because Harry ... of all people ... flighty, caustic, difficult drunkard, Harry ... had found someone wonderful to love who loved her right back. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never had a relationship that came anywhere close, and he had tried! He had enough trouble just making friends. Jealousy aside, John had always known that his sister didn't deserve Clara and that one day she would hurt her. That day had come and gone while he was in hospital, and he had been unaware. He thought about Clara's last visit and of the phone in his pocket. He was done with Harry for the moment.

"No." John said firmly. Thinking better of it, he tried to soften his response.

"It's just, um, I liked London while I was at Bart's. Thought I could look for a position here ... ah, I mean, eventually." John looked at his shoes and balled his left hand into a tight fist.

"How about other family? Friends?" Ella asked lightly already surmising his response.

"Ah, not really. None in the city, anyway. Most of my regiment is still deployed,"

"So most of your friends are also soldiers?" Ella had clasped her hands in front of her again. She was looking at him awaiting a response. John return her gaze head on.

He had been a soldier his entire adult life. Of course his friends were soldiers! He thought of kind Bill Murray and fun-loving Jasmine Singh, of quirky Artie Doyleand finally of fearless and fearsome James Sholto. He remembered having had breakfast with Sholto that morning as was their custom, a last moment of normalcy. Little had either of them known what the day would bring.

"Um, yeah," was what he said. Ella nodded appraisingly before speaking,

"John, I'm not prying aimlessly here. It's important that we identify your available support system. Feelings of isolation are very common among returning veterans, especially those who have seen combat. Many try to translate their war experiences into their new life but can't so they withdraw. It can be a devastatingly lonely period. The most import step in making a successful transition to civilian life is the renewing or developing of connections. Connections to family, to significant others, to friends and to the community at large, that can include employment, as well." Ella noticed that John looked away on the word employment again balling his left hand into a tight fist.

"Eventually," she tacked on gently. He gave her a thin approximation of a smile and she continued. "It takes effort, all the more so in your case, because you've relatively few local connections to start." She paused to gauge his reaction but he gave none. He still wore the same flat, dissociated mask.

"Another important step in the transition is the establishment of new daily patterns and routines. As you well know, military life is replete with regimentation. While many soldiers like to complain about it, most actually find some degree of comfort in the routine and miss it when it is suddenly removed." John gave a single, tight nod in agreement. He, himself, missed everything about being a soldier.

"You mentioned before that you've been making an effort to walk regularly, to strengthen your leg." John tensed at her mention of his leg but she moved off the subject without judgment or even a pause.

"I would suggest that you not only continue with that but also create other routines and scheduled activities. These can be either physical or intellectual pursuits. For example, journal writing has proven therapeutic benefits. Setting aside time each day to write provides many people with a meaningful way to work through their difficult thoughts." John was far too polite to roll his eyes at this recommendation but he looked highly skeptical nonetheless.

"And since you also need to broaden your base of connections, I think you should try using a more public format. A blog, for example." John's eyes widened. His first overt reaction since walking through the door.

"Sorry, a what?" he spluttered. Ella smiled warmly.

"A blog. There are any number of websites which you can use. Start by simply keeping a record of things that happen to you." Ella closed her notes and stood up signaling the end of the session. "Let's plan on meeting again next Tuesday. Cynthia can schedule it." John stood, nodding, and began moving toward the door. He stopped halfway, pivoting awkwardly on his cane.

"Seriously? You want me to keep a ... a blog?" he questioned, hoping against hope that he'd somehow got it wrong.

"Yes, I think you will find it very beneficial." Ella answered earnestly. John nodded vaguely and left the office.

/-/-/-/-/-/

A/N – This story will be a prequel (of sorts) to my story Adjusting. It started out as a chapter for that story and just kept growing so I split it off. Hopefully it will work out.

All the gobbledygook about John's pension and disability designation is totally made up. I'm sure the British Army treats its veteran's well. It was inspired by reading my company's disability insurance policy at my first job. The pamphlet literally went on for pages and pages about how much you got for an arm versus a hand versus multiple limbs. And of course, double indemnity for accidental death on company time. No kidding.

* † Although not necessary to follow this chapter, or the new story, you may want to read my stories Twelve Minutes, Sensitivity Training, Meeting Clara and Permission Denied to get a fuller picture of my head canon on John's injury and his relations with Harry and Clara.

I don't own any of these characters. I borrowed Artie Doyle from one of my favorite fics, An Innocent Man, by Fang's Fawn. You should go read it right now. Then send a review (a nice one, of course) to pester the author for more chapters, even though she updates MUCH more regularly than I do, because I can't wait ;-)

Comments, criticisms, corrections and reviews are eagerly sought. Not beta'd or Brit-picked.