…Somewhere in Afghanistan 2009…

"Well Watson, what do you plan to do? I know. Everyone will know soon enough. It's despicable."

"The only thing that's despicable Branson, is you." John's face settled into an angry line.

"Give it to me or I tell. Sholto won't stand for this, you know. You'll suffer consequences."

"You won't get what you want. You can threaten me all you like. I'm not giving you anything and damn you if you think you saying anything matters. I am a medical doctor and I will not lose my integrity." Branson leaned over the stretcher between them, nearly touching his forehead to John's.

"Is your integrity really worth your dignity?" John slammed his hand on the stretcher, denting the paper pulled taut over it.

"Yes, it is." His smile gleamed angrily in the glare of the surgical light overhead. He thrust his hand off the stretcher rolling it into Branson's groin. The infantry man doubled over with a growl.

"You'll regret this, Watson, don't think you won't!" John chuckled as he strolled out of the room, leaving Branson in a pained lump next to the stretcher.

...

"Your shoulder is healed Doctor Watson, why would you be discharged?"

"Can't you see," Watson scoffed, "My hand, it shakes, I…I can't do surgery with a trembling hand." He tried to look strong. "And I'm afraid the gun shot in my shoulder has adversely affected my leg, causing a limp. It seems I'm just not suited to be an army doctor any longer, sir."

James Sholto thought it over for a full minute before dropping his head and rubbing his brow between his forefinger and thumb. "It pains me to say this, but I'm afraid you're right Watson, I can't have you attending injured soldiers if you will risk harming them further. After all, the worst thing we could possibly end up with is more dead soldiers in this hellish war.

"Thank you, sir." Watson pushed himself up out of the chair in the commander's office leaning mostly on his unaffected leg as he reached for his cane.

"And Watson." Sholto began to add. John turned now with his cane already doing the extra work that his leg could no longer do. "Take it easy when you're out. Don't get into any trouble."

"Of course, sir." John straitened up as much as he could while saluting his commander. Sholto stood as well, mirroring his salute.

"Farewell, John Watson."

…

1 year later, London, England

…

"For the last time, I DO NOT HAVE TRUST ISSUES."

"Doctor Watson, you continually read what I am writing in my notes when we're talking, you have trouble sleeping and keep a loaded pistol in your side drawer, tell me again what do you think is wrong with your leg?"

"It's a nerve issue coalescing from the gunshot in the shoulder. The nerve was destroyed and has affected the usefulness of my leg."

"John, you are a medical doctor. You know that doesn't happen. It is just what you are using to cope. Why won't you trust me when I tell you that it is a psychosomatic limp?!"

"Have we reached the point where we just yell at each other now? I've told you many times and I will continue to tell you, IT IS NERVE DAMAGE!"

"Doctor Watson." The therapist looked at John with her head tilted and pity pouring over her features. "I can't help you if you don't trust me."

John looked up and made a small harrumph sound turning his lips down into a frown. He took a sharp breath in then yanked himself out of the chair. Turning to look down at the therapist sitting shocked beside him, he whispered, "Then I guess you can't help me." Wobbling off the rug, his feet hit the hard floors and she could hear the clatter of his cane as he limped his way out the door.