albany street barracks. part 2.

Day 9, Davies calls on him to help out with a sergeant who’s dislocated his shoulder during field training (got caught on the strap of his rifle, the strap getting caught on the branch of a tree) and while the man looks paler than death, watching John entering the room rather nervously, Davies briefs him in one simple sentence.

“You need to hold his upper body while I tug.”

John nods, shrugging out of his scrubs and rolling up his sleeves before moving over to the sergeant. His pupils are shot, probably in quite a lot of pain.

“What’s your name, Sarge?”

“Armstrong, sir,” replies the guy in a shaky, slightly breathless voice. Yeah, definitely in pain.

“I’m Captain Watson, Armstrong -- and I’m gonna hug you tight now while Captain Davies rotates your shoulder back into its socket, understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s going to hurt, so if you want, you can have Peter Rabbit and not embarrass yourself too much.”

Armstrong looks towards Davies a bit worriedly. “Peter Rabbit?”

“Here,” Davies says and shoves the old, thoroughly holed plush bunny in the sergeant’s face. It’s quite obvious that he’s not the first to make use of the thing. “Bite down on this.”

Armstrong looks terrified, but does as he’s told, opening his mouth and biting down slowly around the leg of the teddy.

He still makes an awful amount of sound once John’s wrapped his arms around his chest from behind, holding him still while Davies wrestles his arm into place, but all in all the procedure is a success and only takes ten excruciating seconds to complete.

They don’t tell anyone, of course, how the sergeant passed out halfway through. After all, the sudden slackness of muscle only made the last couple of jerks easier.


-*-


Every day when he walks home from work, because he walks -- during rush hour traffic, the 22 minutes it takes by foot beats being stuck in jams on a crowded bus, plus it’s good exercise, John halfway expects Khan to have shown his face in the meantime, either at Baker Street or underway, showing off his very mysterious, very MI6-but-not-MI6 thing of finding John wherever John happens to be.

And every day, he arrives home alone, finding the flat empty.

It’s been nine days now, since their date.


-*-


Mottershead eventually shows up for a follow-up consultation, looking infinitely less shameful and infinitely more happy than last time they met. John raises an eyebrow at him, both of them smiling slightly, though neither mentions Hayden with a word at first, because only good arses deserve the press, yes?

“Pissing regularly again,” John asks while drawing a vial of blood, Mottershead nodding. “And no more flu symptoms?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

John suspects his blood sample will be clean as a whistle this time. Besides, he’s noticed that Mottershead has been by a few times for free condoms as well. All good signs.

Slapping a piece of cotton onto the inside of the boy’s elbow and taping it over, Mottershead bends his arm himself this time and follows John with his gaze as he moves over to put his blood work equipment away. Used needle in the bucket, tape in the drawer, then he washes his hands, quickly and efficiently, knowing Mottershead is dying to ask.

“Yes, Private?”

“That thing you did to Hayden, sir --”

John opens his mouth to comment that it was nothing, no need to thank him, since he was working outside protocol and could have easily fucked up this very new, very perfect opportunity for himself in the process, but Mottershead interrupts him:

“Are you gay?”

I am --, John could have said, -- waiting for the proper address, Private. Instead he turns towards the boy who’s sitting with his beret in his lap, fingers diggings into the fabric harshly. Their eyes meet. John can tell that what he’s really asking is: are you family?

“I’m not gay, no,” he replies slowly, carefully, noticing the way the boy’s shoulders slump and his fingers loosen their grip. A second, two, then John adds: “I do, however, date men, so you do the math, Private.”

Mottershead’s face lights up in a smile.


-*-


When he gets home in the afternoon these days, he has begun feeling God awfully tired, sometimes falling asleep in his chair before dinner, that sort of fatigue -- bearing down on his bones, but it feels like payoff. You’ve done good, soldier, rest now.


-*-


They need his assistance in Block H, a major has fainted and is now experiencing intermittent cramps.

Block H is two miles away and although he’s jogging all the way, it’ll take him 15 minutes to get there.

He runs into Mottershead on the way. Literally.

“Sorry, sir,” says the boy and helps him to his feet, picking up his bag with some reverence. John is gasping for air and waving his hand at him to say, no matter, you carry on with -- whatever, running laps, being on your way, wherever you’re going… “Want me to carry your things, sir?”

“Come on, I don’t look that old,” John gets out between breaths.

“No, sir, but you do look that windy.”

John laughs, half-choking, then nods and signals for the private to fall into step next to him. They walk the rest of the way, because John took the fall to his knee, didn’t he and that will need a look at, later. He calls Block H, tells them he’s 7 minutes away -- and to call an ambulance if it gets worse.

“Sir, I’ve been wondering something,” Mottershead says eventually. They’re four minutes from Block H.

“You better be quick about it, then,” warns John.

“Were you and Mr Holmes --”

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Mottershead responds after a prolonged silence. They’re three minutes from Block H.

“I’m not,” John tells him and turns the next corner, Block H straight ahead.


-*-


It’s been a month since their date, Khan’s and his and he’s heard nothing, the man hasn’t stopped by, he hasn’t left word, a phone call, anything. John is beginning to wonder whether he’s destined to wait on bloody ghosts.