docwithablog | the beginning of an era.

Title: The Beginning of an Era
Canon Point: Post-ASIP, pre-TBB. PSL canon.
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His Unit Welfare Officer (UWO) is Andrew Llyod (Captain) whom he worked with in Kandahar and who’s been following his case ever since he landed on British soil more than six months ago. They’re in the man’s office, currently, running through the last tests to fill out John’s discharge papers to the Medical Board. Andrew’s just had him on the treadmill for the third time, running him through a medium to tough workout and as he steps down, sweaty and overheated, heart well over 110 bpm (thank you very much for that, Andrew), John grabs the towel that the doctor’s laid out for him, drying his neck and the back of his head quickly, briskly.

“It is quite remarkable,” says Andrew, crouching to touch John’s right leg, feeling out his knee and administering a couple of hard pokes to the muscles in his thigh to watch their reaction just underneath the hem of John’s shorts. John grimaces. It’s not like there’s ever been any actual, physical condition, they both know that. The pain wasn’t real, it wasn’t bloody there.

“I know,” he replies, bending his knee a couple of times, doing a row of little kicks to rid himself of the feeling of the other man’s fingers, deliberately aggrevating his nervous system. Andrew gets up again and looks him up and down once, before turning back towards his desk and making a few notes on the final page which is as far as they’ve come now. In another two weeks, probably, Captain John Watson will officially be out of the military. Veteran. Retired.

End of an era.

“What the hell’s happened, John,” Andrew then wants to know, pushing the papers aside and inviting John to sit down across from him on the always uncomfortable patient’s chair. “Last time you were here, I had to prescribe you a walking stick.” John eases into the seat gingerly, raising both eyebrows at the other man and scoffing slightly, inclining his head to the side a little. First one way, then the other.

“Trust me, we don’t have the time, Andrew. It’s a long story and you probably wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you,” John replies. He thinks about Baker Street, about Sherlock, about the walking stick which is currently one out of exactly four things decorating his upstairs bedroom. The rest of his stuff, which honestly isn’t much, he’s lived to be deployed for the past five years, will arrive at his new address tomorrow.

“Okay, okay, it’s that alternative,” Andrew laughs and collects his papers in his file, putting it away in his drawer with the meticulous care that’s always characterised him. John watches his own name disappear into a stack of others’, veterans, retired personnel. “Your pension was pre-approved after your return, of course, but you should receive your compensation within the next two months. Can’t guarantee the size of it, you know how the system works, but it’ll be there.”

John just nods. Oh, he knows. He’s had more soldiers than he cares to count through this process while on duty.

“What are you going to do now,” Andrew continues, finally pulling out the big, tear-jerking guns. John shrugs.

“I’m not sure.” Andrew hands him his uniform which he takes, craddles the clothes to his chest for a moment while the other man shows him towards the door. Supposedly he’ll do a quick change of wardrobe in the bathroom down the hallway and then be off the base in exactly ten minutes, if he leaves on the march. The British Army has never been anything if not efficient as fuck. “Maybe I’ll take up writing.”

Andrew barks out a surprised laugh, in response to which there's a hard tug at the corner of John’s mouth.

“Talk about the beginning of an era,” the other man says.

“You mean, it isn’t already here,” replies John and salutes him before the door closes in his face and he continues down the abandoned hallway on his own.