A/N: As always, I do not own, nor do I profit from (but damn I wish I profited from!). Enjoy!

It was so silent.

Always so silent.

But wasn't it supposed to be? Peace and quiet. Wasn't that always what they'd all dreamt about? Wouldn't they talk about it for hours, because there was no real peace and quiet to be had, so it was all right to fill up the background noise with conversation, to laugh and groan and wax poetic about peace and quiet? Wouldn't he think of it while being dragged out of bed to emergency surgery? In the midst of gunfire? Listening to the vehicles rumble past, or rumble along, if he was in one of them? Overhearing others' constant conversations?

Peace and quiet.

Should that be the same as silence?

Rest. Recover. Rest.

But life was not supposed to be like an ICU ward. Not supposed to suffer from heavy, imposed silences.

But everyone was quiet here. Trapped, as though walking through fog. Not real fog, not proper London fog that could descend without warning and envelope the senses but which felt real, almost alive, winding through streets and alleys as though it had plans, a destination, a purpose.

He had none of these things.

Sometimes, the silence woke him up at night.

He'd not expected that.

How could this happen? How could it be that nothing would wake him up, suddenly aware of the complete lack of sound? No gunfire. No explosions. No one crying his name, urgently needing him. No sudden curses from those still working cutting through the night.

Just sudden silence.

It was unnerving.

Sometimes laughter woke him.

And he'd half sit up, pushing himself up with his good right arm, listening, listening so hard, convinced that this time it was really there.

Waiting for more laughter. Holding his breath, in case he breathed too loudly to hear it.

It never came.

"What the very first thing you're going to do when you get home? The very first?"

John groaned, but there was laughter in it.

"Why do we keep doing this?" Tricia asked, leaning forward, arms propped on her knees, sitting cross-legged in the rickety wooden chair.

"Because it's almost as good," Jamie said, from his position sitting on the hard floor. "Almost as good. Can't you just taste it? Smell it? See it? Hear it?"

"Jamie's going to get out his bagpipe and kilt and wander about the Highlands," John commented.

"Bugger off!" Jamie said, laughing, taking a swig of his gin, then extending his arm, shaking the cup at John who shifted with a grunt and grabbed the battered blue tin mug, filling it almost to the brim with more gin.

"Oi! Some of us have work in the morning!"

"We all do," Tricia pointed out, raising her mug in acknowledgement, before taking a sip of her own drink.

"I don't even own a kilt," Jamie protested, leaning forward to reclaim his mug from John, who put the bottle back on the floor beside him. He shifted back to his original position on the wooden crate, feet propped against the wall, back leaning against the shelving behind him. He rested the heel of one boot against the toe of the other, tugging vaguely, absently on the rubber sole of his right foot.

"You should," John said. "You've got sexy calves."

Tricia laughed, downing another sip, and waggled her eyebrows at Jamie, who scowled.

"He's a doctor," Tricia pointed out. "This is a professional medical opinion."

"I don't know. I bet he's trying to shag me. Might make you jealous."

Tricia laughed and John chuckled – Jamie was one of the rare few that believed they weren't a couple. With some good reason.

"You can have him," Tricia said and Jamie laughed, shaking his head.

"Come on, then, the very first thing!"

John leaned his head back against the shelving. How many times had they had this conversation? Too many to count. But he never wanted to stop having it. It kept the distant someday real, made them all remember there was more out there, home: London, Edinburgh, England, Scotland, the United Kingdom.

Contentiously united, he thought, But still.

"Tea," Tricia replied promptly. "A real, proper cuppa. And scones. Not the flat dry cardboard they call scones here. Not from a bloody package. With real clotted cream. And raspberry jam. From the prince's orchard in Wales."

"Ooh, I like that stuff," Jamie said, brown eyes twinkling. "My mum swears by it."

"Even though Charles is English?" John asked.

Jamie looked for something to chuck, checking his own mug, which was too full, and snagging Tricia's, which she's just emptied, pitching it at John. John laughed, ducking, and the mug hit the concrete wall, bouncing harmlessly to the floor.

"Hey, now!" Tricia protested. "John, refill it while it's there, would you?"

John did, passing it back with more decorum.

"My mum is English," Jamie sniffed.

"Shut up, the both of you, I'm not finished," Tricia said. "Then, I'm going to ride the tube. All day. Just round and round. Then, then, the next day, I'm going to get on one of those tourist double-decker buses and go around the city and learn everything I never knew about my home. See the Tower, Big Ben, Buckingham Palace. Go on the London Eye. Go on one of those touristy river cruises. Then, have more bloody tea."

"I'd settle for a good shower and a cold beer," John replied.

Tricia rolled her eyes.

"Lord, you're boring," she admonished. "Jamie, please be more interesting."

"Haggis?" John suggested.

"Steak and kidney pie?" Jamie shot back. "You bloody Englishmen, you think Edinburgh is so uncultured, because we're slightly north of you. We're not bloody Glasgow, you know. Please." He began ticking off a list on his fingers. "Hot shower. Longest, hottest shower in the history of the planet. Then the best of the worst pub food I can find. The whole British experience. If it's not deep fried in a pound of oil or butter, I don't want it. And Guinness. Several pints of Guinness. Followed by Scotch, real Scotch, made in Scotland, by Scottish people, served in a Scottish pub, surrounded by – well, in Edinburgh, probably as many bloody English as Scots, but still. That's what. Then, sleeping for seventy-two blissful hours in silence without anyone waking me up bitching about how one of the bloody trucks isn't working or, oh, is it bad that we drove over these five-inch spikes? The tyres don't seem to have any more air in them. Is this a problem? Can you fix it? In ten minutes?"

John and Tricia laughed.

"At least it's not 'look, I've cut myself on a nail, am I going to die?' 'Can you x-ray my ankle? I think I've sprained it.' 'Doctor, what's this weird rash? What do you mean, have I been wearing sunblock? I don't need sunblock! I never burn!'" Tricia commented. "Your vehicles don't talk back."

"No, but their drivers do," Jamie replied, flashing her a grin. John smiled privately to himself, refilling his mug with the horrible gin that passed as their main source of alcohol in these parts. He'd be glad to get back to England and have a real beer – he hadn't been kidding about that. It was right at the top of his list of priorities when he stepped foot on British soil again, when his tour was done.

"And you can anaesthetise your patients," Jamie pointed out.

"Not unless we want them to die," John replied, pointing a finger at the other man. "That's what anaesthesiologists are for. That's why they go to school for – what? Decades?"

"Probably seems like it," Tricia said. She paused, draining the rest of her gin again, then passing her mug off to John to refill.

"What am I, the bloody bartender? You both need to start tipping me."

She waved a hand, dismissing this.

"Then I'm taking a trip to northern Wales."

John was surprised, Jamie looked interested. In more ways than one! John thought, repressing a snort and a grin.

"What? Why?" Jamie asked.

"To climb Snowdon. I fancy one of those little stickers that says 'I climbed Snowdon!' It's an accomplishment."

"You're serving in Afghanistan," John pointed out.

"Yes, but our little shops here don't sell 'I served in Afghanistan!' stickers for some reason. I want a sticker for something I've done."

John wondered how much they'd had to drink. The bottle was getting quite close to empty.

"Can't you take the train up Snowdon?" Jamie asked.

Tricia sniffed.

"If you're a lazy wuss," she replied.

"You," John said, pointing an accusing finger at her, "Have been hanging round with far too many Americans."

Tricia stuck her tongue out at him by way of witty retort and Jamie laughed, grinning broadly at John.

"She's got you there, John," Jamie commented.

"Next time you need something tied off in surgery, I won't help you," John retorted.

"You never do anything anyway," Tricia replied and John made a face at her and Jamie laughed.

"Save us all from lazy surgeons," he commented, pushing himself to his feet, teetering unsteadily. Both doctors laughed but reached for him, and he shook his head.

"Fine, fine," he said. "But I'd best be turning in. Some of us aren't doctors and don't get to sleep in. I've got, mm," he checked his watch, frowning at the face, trying to read it properly, "Four hours until I get up."

"Medically, you shouldn't even go to bed then," Tricia pointed out.

"Ha!" he said. "I want a second opinion."

"It's true," John replied.

"You two are obviously in league. Gentleman and lady," he bowed extravagantly to Tricia, who started to laugh when he had to grab a shelf to keep himself from falling over. Jamie righted himself, trying to reassert some semblance of dignity, which was difficult in the face of Tricia's giggling.

"I shall see you both tomorrow. Bright and early. Good night!"

John and Tricia raised their gin mugs at him.

"Good night!" they echoed.

Jamie walked out of the small supply room in which they'd holed up, not quite stumbling, but definitely far less steady than he could have been. John waited until the door had shut again, then waggled his eyebrows at Tricia.

"Oh, shut up," she muttered, going red in her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose. John laughed, tapping his right foot against the concrete wall.

"No, come on, you should do it!" he said. "Listen, if you pair up with him, everyone will feel really sorry for me, because they'll assume you've split with me and taken up with a new man and I might get some hardship leave!"

"Oh, brilliant, John!" Tricia snapped with a grin. "Then everyone will think I'm the nastiest bitch ever."

"Nah, you've got nothing on Cathy," John replied and Tricia snorted, trying not to spray her gin across the room at him, pressing her palm hard against her lips.

"Don't do that!" she protested.

"Don't do what?" John asked innocently.

"Anything!" Tricia retorted with a grin, her blue eyes dancing.

John held out his mug toward her.

"To doing nothing, then," he replied with a grin of his own.

Tricia leant forward, clinking her battered blue tin mug with his.

"To doing nothing," she repeated.

The last time he saw her after that, she was hugging him good-bye, hurriedly, awkwardly, trying to avoid his left shoulder, trying to hold back tears, assuring him she'd call within a week, assuring him he'd be fine, promising she would be as well, then she was gone, he was gone, the airplane peeling away from the ground, the morphine peeling him away from consciousness.

He never saw Jamie again.

They'd sent his body home before John was even fully aware of what had happened to himself, to the other man. The funeral had been in Edinburgh, too far for him to travel while he was still recuperating, still needing pain medication, still half disbelieving he was back in England.

He thought of the things Jamie had wanted to do when he got home.

He'd never do of them.

He sat in the silence of his tiny flat.

During the day, at least, he couldn't hear the echoes of laughter from that night. That last night.

He stared at his phone, at the text message from Tricia.

Have a two-day leave in three days. Will ring then. Love, -T.

She had things to do until then. He had three days. Three days in which nothing would happen.

John blinked.

At least nothing could keep happening to him. It couldn't happen to Jamie.

He tried to convince himself this was better.

Love, -T.

They never talked about the possibility of what might have been. He wondered if Jamie had ever known. He wondered what could have happened. He wondered how Tricia could have saved his life, done surgery, knowing who had died.

If she'd even known then.

John sighed, pushing the phone away from him.

It didn't matter anymore.

The silence pressed in, turbines of tedium droning in the background.

He glanced around, as if this would change anything. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound.

John grasped his cane, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace, with a flash of pain.

He'd go for a walk. It wasn't climbing Snowdon, but at least it wasn't sitting in silence. He took a deep breath and limped toward the door.

"John? John Watson?"

John had gone three steps before he realized someone was saying his name. He turned, frowning at the unfamiliar man, pudgy, about forty, who seemed to recognize him. The man gave a friendly smile.

"Mike Stamford?" the other man said, by way of reminder. "We were at Bart's together."