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Walking towards You

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It's not a secret that John has trouble sleeping at night. It isn't that he doesn't want sleep because who doesn't? It's just that the nightmares kick in and that ruins the good night sleep he would've had. The sounds of gun fire and your brothers and sisters in arms screaming would keep even the most battle hardened soldier afraid to close their eyes. The tremor in his hand has only gotten worse since he's gotten back into good old England and his limp slows him down and he's pretty sure it's slowly driving him mad but what can you do? Besides talk to your therapist who thinks they're helping but after the appointment you still go home and debate about sticking your old and trusted gun into your mouth and pulling the trigger because what else does a washed up and injured army doctor have to live for? To fill the sleepless nights, he starts going for walks. It works out perfectly. He's slow with his limp. Slow enough to walk the whole night away. His favorite place to walk is the park. It's peaceful and with the calming sounds of the ducks and familiarity with the noises of his beloved city, his mind is finally able to block out the gun fire and screams. Sometimes, he even forgets the pain in his shoulder and damned leg. His favorite spot is a bench close enough that he can see the water. On some nights, the moon reflects off the water and makes the cool liquid sparkle like shattered diamonds or like the stars. He sometimes misses the desert; the war because at least then he had a purpose. At least thousands of miles from home, he had a reason to live. Now, he can't be a surgeon. The tremour in his hand has yet to calm and his limp only gets worse. He doesn't believe that the limp is all in his head because it fucking hurts like it's real and so incredibly there. Now, John Hamish Watson is an army captain who doesn't believe in things like fate and destiny. He often doesn't believe in God. But when he was laying there, bleeding out in the desert, he said "god, please let me live". Sometimes, he wishes he hadn't. No, Captain John Hamish Watson isn't that fickle and childish. It wasn't fate or destiny that brought him and Mike Stanford together. It wasn't fate that lead him into following Mike to meet an odd fellow who just so happened to be looking for a roommate. It wasn't either that led him to the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes. John Watson isn't gay. He really isn't. It's just that he can appreciate a good looking man or woman without feeling guilty about it. He likes what he likes and that's that, thank you very much. And Sherlock Holmes is bloody gorgeous. All tall, lean muscle with prominent cheekbones, a riot of dark chocolate curls and eyes that hold another fucking universe within the swirling greens, yellows, blues and greys of his irises. John Watson is not gay but god, he would do many, many things to the man sitting across from him. If said man wasn't married to his work, that is. In truth, he's honestly not surprised by how on the second day of just meeting the mad genius, "consulting detective, only one in the world" he kills a man for him. It's no surprise that he knows he'd do it again. His palm still itches slightly as his new roommate approaches and peers down at him with those eyes. Calculating and analysing everything about him. It's unnerving but not unwelcome. He feels as though someone is finally seeing him. "Good shot." "Yes. Must've been. Right through that window." He knows to clean the gun powder from his hand but he still smirks eternally at the aloof man's fretting. It's charming to say the least. "Are you okay?" "Yes, of course, why?" "Well you have just killed a man." He doesn't tell him he'd do it again. Too soon for such commitment. "He wasn't a very nice man." "... No. No I suppose he wasn't." "Quite frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." He rejoices in the quiet chuckle. He feels like he's one the lottery. "Because you're an idiot." He speaks it with endearment and the smile he receives in return is stunning and causes a sense of warmth deep in his bones. "Dinner?" "Starving." He doesn't believe in Destiny or Fate. But, John Watson will forever thank whatever or whoever led him to Sherlock Holmes. His gun no longer presses into his mouth. His tremor is no longer terrible. His limp is gone. He's finally happy that God or whoever let him live. He's finally becoming okay.