fragmentary.

[docwithablog]

Title: Fragmentary
Canon Point: Post-TGG, pre-ASIB. PSL canon.
___________

Post-traumatic stress disorder.

Well, this is funny. I suppose. I can’t begin to count the amount of soldiers I’ve sent home with this tag, so suddenly being in that category: servicemen suffering… Shit, Major, I keep comparing myself to others I know, who lost a limb or returned to homelessness -- and I think that I’ve got nothing to complain about, you know? I’ve got a limp, yes, psychosomatic, my therapist insists, but I’ve also got both my legs, I’ve got three, actually, what with this conveniently prescribed walking stick I picked up earlier today. I’ve got accommodation at the barracks until I find somewhere else to live, I’m bloody lucky!

Nevertheless, I haven’t turned in my service weapon. It’s in my drawer. Just lying there.

Like a fail-safe.


-*-


We’d be a right picture, if I moved in with you, wouldn’t we? Your old mansion, lovely girls to serve us during the day, a huge bedroom in the west wing. One bed, two old army buddies keeping warm at night. It’s a lovely picture, too, Sholto, but I’ve got to decline. London’s my -- Come on, you know how it was. London’s the one damn thing about England that I fought for and always, always waited to be reunited with. I can’t move to the countryside and pretend I’m not a city-boy at heart. I’d miss the beat.

Even a good shag can’t cure that. It never did.


-*-


Yeah, I’ve found somewhere to stay. Baker Street, actually. I know, sounds expensive, but I got a flatshare with an -- interesting fellow who only keeps me awake every third night now, playing the violin. He’s quite good at it, too, but no one wants to be introduced to Bach or whomever at four in the morning, I can tell you that much.

Remind me to relay our first meeting to you, it was quite -- an eventful one, I guess. Something definitely happened. Oh, and don’t ask me how, but my limp’s gone, the old walking stick’s been delegated to the back of the closet, while the gun’s still in my drawer.

Safe-keeping.


-*-


The thing about Sherlock is that you just got to be ready for worst case scenario every bloody minute. If you don’t get a case where someone’s actual face has been glued on to another’s, you have to deal with a thirty-something year old crybaby who’s thirsting for action and adventure and work. I’ve begun categorically cooking for the both of us, seeing as he just won’t eat if I don’t and with his build, that would probably lead to a corporal vanishing act before the end of the week. Poof, he’d be gone.

Can’t have that, can we? I’m a medical man, I’ve got responsibilities and oaths and what have you.

Admittedly, at other times, I’m pretty much waiting for him to get lost, though.


-*-


I assume you want to know that you were right and I just had the best fuck of my life, yeah?

No offense.