Chapter Text
They told him he had served his country well, that he had made England proud. That it was time for him to put down the rifle and get some rest. He had saved enough men, given enough of himself, and it was time to return to the real world. To civilian life.
What they failed to mention was that there was no way you could go back. They didn’t talk about the nightmares, the cold sweats, the flashbacks that could overwhelm you just as easily in a grocery store as in the privacy of your home, or the way your hands never quite stop shaking and you still see blood splatter and severed limbs and heartbroken stares whenever you close your eyes.
Honorable discharge. There wasn’t much honor that John Watson could see in being reduced to this, crashing on his older sister’s sofa while he sorted out his army pension, and whether or not he would be able to work again, after the bullet hole in his shoulder and with the phantom aches in his leg. Or how he would pay for therapy to combat the post-traumatic stress, which he was still not admitting to himself was really a problem. John was stronger than this. He was determined to be.
He’d promised Harry as soon as she had invited him to stay that he would find his own place, get out of the way as soon as possible. But she and Clara had actually seemed relieved to have him. The tension between them was obvious, and if he weren’t so concerned with what he was going to do with himself now, John might’ve been strongly worried that they were heading toward divorce. When they were apart it was quieter, but when all three Watsons were together in the house, there was a suppressed unease hanging over the couple that choked John nearly as badly as his memories and dark dreams did.
Eventually, John’s discharge documents were sorted out. They weren’t providing him with housing, or even enough monetary compensation to really count toward a sufficient living, but they were covering his medical costs, at least. Being sure of his treatment was enough to motivate John, and three months after returning to London, he began thinking about finding a job.
Harry was skeptical of the idea. “Most places in the city are going to say you’re not qualified, or they don’t want to deal with the hassle of former military,” she argued when he mentioned it at dinner on one of the rare nights they were all home. Clara shot her wife a dark look, clearly scolding her for her lack of encouragement, and Harry sighed, conceding the battle. “Fine. If you’re really serious, I’m sure you could find a pub or bar looking for someone, they almost always are. It would be stable, low-key work.”
John rolled his eyes, sipping his beer. “Har, I’m not going to be that sad-eyed gimp waiter who only gets a job because everyone feels sorry for him. I’ll find something. I still have my license, I could work in a doctor’s office, or...I don’t know. There’s bound to be something.”
His sister shrugged, ignoring Clara’s pleading looks for her to drop it. “Just don’t let it get you down if you’re not hired anywhere.” When John didn’t bother responding, the conversation ended, but later that night John could hear them through the walls, Harry’s voice rising in annoyance as Clara scolded her for not supporting his desire to work again. He sighed heavily and tuned them out, wondering if he could successfully find the means to move out before something snapped, and Clara was gone for good.
He did still have his medical license, and making use of all those years of school seemed like a good way to keep his spirits up. John applied at a few clinics, only to realize very rapidly that his qualifications were fairly specific--and in the case of most of the local surgeries needing help, far too intimidating. After the third time that an interview quickly became awkward, the young brunette doctor visibly daunted by his resume, John mentally checked medicine off of his fall-back career list, smiling tightly as she shook his hand and assured him unconvincingly that they’d be in touch.
After almost five months of attempting to lead a normal (boring) life, John was sitting at an outdoor cafe, browsing job ads in the paper and pointedly ignoring Harry’s complaint-heavy texts, when he heard someone call his name.
He looked up, and couldn’t help a small start at the sight of the man hesitantly approaching his table, before smiling eagerly when he was recognized. “Serg--Bill!” John greeted his former sergeant in surprise, half-standing to shake his hand as Murray reached him. Bill Murray had been his superior officer when he’d first been transferred to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but had retired shortly after John arrived, and moved back to London. “How are you?” he asked, genuinely delighted to reunite with his former comrade.
Bill was all smiles as he accepted John’s gesture inviting him to sit, nodding gratefully when the waitress offered to get him a coffee. “I’m grand, mate, all good here--how about yourself? I heard about you getting shot, I’m so sorry,” he said, his expression courteous rather than pitying, and John took a moment to appreciate the fact that a fellow soldier would know not to dwell on this subject too long as Bill went on, “You doing alright, mentally?”
John shrugged, knowing Bill would be able to read more in his body language than he’d manage to convey in stuttered words. “Some days are better than others. You know how it is.” He cleared his throat, changing the subject and smiling gratefully when Bill didn’t press the point. “What’re you up to these days?”
His friend grinned, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Oh, I’m in private security now. Head of Security for a local millionaire who keeps an estate just outside of the city. It’s well-paying, provides room and board, and surprisingly it’s actually decent work--I’m not just decoration in a uniform, you know? There’s lots of valuable property, I have to deal with attempted robberies, death threats against the boss, all sorts of weird and interesting stuff.”
John smiled a little enviously, jealous of the contentment in Bill’s voice. “Sounds like a good way to be when you’re no longer a soldier, and not really able to be a civilian again.”
A thoughtful look crossed Bill’s face, and he leaned forward intently. “You know, John, my boss has actually been saying that he’d like to hire someone else with qualifications similar to mine; someone who’s above the fresh-from-academy newbies that make up the security teams, who could work on level with me and answer directly to him.” When John said nothing, unsure where Bill was going with this, Bill chuckled. “Would you like me to recommend you to Mr. Magnussen for an interview?”
Surprise filled John’s voice. “Magnussen--isn’t that the bloke who owns all the newspapers?” When Bill nodded in confirmation, John raised his eyebrows curiously. “Huh. Well, sure, why not? Here’s my number,” he said, grabbing a napkin to jot it down. “Give me a call, I s’pose.”
They parted with a firm hug, Bill promising to ring him about getting a drink sometime even if Mr. Magnussen didn’t offer to hire John, and for once John went back to Harry and Clara’s actually smiling.
He told them about it over dinner, and to no one’s surprise Harry was immediately dubious. “I don’t think that’d be the sort of job you’d enjoy, Johnny--if it’ll like Murray described, it’ll just stress you out nonstop, and it won’t give you any peace from those nightmares.”
There was a long, awkward pause, with Clara giving her wife a scandalized look and John biting his cheek, having been under the impression that he’d been hiding his night terrors fairly well from his housemates. Harry’s voice became soft and tense. “I’m--sorry, John, I didn’t mean--”
Forcing himself to laugh, John shrugged her apology off. “It’s fine, Har. Really, in all likelihood, Bill won’t call--I doubt Magnussen would want a soldier with my damage history as a security guard.” He resumed eating, relieved when Harry and Clara seemed to choose to respect his discomfort, and said nothing more about it.
Inwardly, however, John’s stomach was squirming. If he was honest with himself, he did hope that Bill would call. The job had sounded like just the thing to get him back on his feet and active again, and more than anything, he wanted something to break the monotony of regular life.
* * *
Dinner was awful, of course. Meals together were always unbearable. Why did he ever expect it to be different? At best, it was cold and awkward, long stretches of silence broken by stilted conversation and irritable glances tossed back and forth across the darkly-lit table. And at worst, the evening would end with him on his knees, left with bruises and self-loathing and a fresh surge of resentment for his entire existence.
Then again, perhaps those were actually the less horrible nights. It was far easier to lock himself away inside of his own head, and hide when there was touching. When his companion was sufficiently distracted and satisfied with his behavior, and didn't mind just how broken he was inside. How broken he had made him.
He knew that he should use the word husband, even in the sanctuary of his own head, but he simply could not bring himself to. That was the one place that belonged solely to him, and Charles could not have that as well.