Chapter Text
Prologue:
This is hopeless.
John watched his computer screen with bleary, unfocused eyes. The images of two women in the throes of orgasmic rapture did nothing for the dear Doctor Watson. Their hands were slick as they petted each other, moaning a rapturous cacophony of elation. Hands and mouths were touching and tasting, feeling and seeking out all the secrets each body may have been withholding.
If he was normal, if he was right, he would be wanking furiously to the video that played such tantalizing images before him. John, however, was sitting at his computer, one hand resting on the mouse, the other waiting patiently on his inner thigh for a reaction from his body. None came.
John pursed his lips and bunched together his brow, concentrating, trying desperately to remember how it used to happen so easily. Stimulus, response. He gripped himself, massaged, tried to get the blood to flow. Nothing. John set his jaw and clicked on a different video.
A girl, no- a woman, easily in her thirties was wearing a schoolgirl uniform and had her hair tied back in pigtails. It was desperate. He clicked to another. And another. And another. He tried pumping at himself, squeezing, even shaking the damn thing just to get a reaction. Nothing.
It had been nearly two months since his last erection. It was never something John had worried about before the war. They were regular, annoying even, and had at one time been a daily reminder of his virility. Not anymore. John was slumped in his chair with despair resting on his shoulders. As a doctor he knew what was happening, he had heard and even had given all the normal platitudes of erectile dysfunction. It happens to a lot of guys. Don’t stress out about it, it will only make it worse. It’ll pass.
He cleared his browser history and closed his laptop. He’d try again tomorrow.
Chapter One.
He hated his flat. He hated his cane. He hated his shoulder. He hated his life.
It was early morning when John Watson awoke to his dingy one room apartment. He was used to early mornings. He was used to waking up with a purpose. Now when he would wake for the day, John laid in his bed for hours on end. Not caring to bathe or eat or shower or come in contact with the human race. His little twin bed was safe. It was a cocoon of sorts from the stares and the questions. If he never stood up, he would never limp. If he never left the depressing little flat, he would never have to enter the more depressing, more confusing world outside.
He rolled to one side, and looked across the dim room toward the kitchenette. It seemed so far away. After a few minutes, or maybe hours, John finally crossed the room, cane in hand, and began preparing breakfast. Well, a breakfast of sorts. His usual cup of tea and an apple was all he could be bothered to prepare. It was enough to wake himself up and to keep himself alive. And that was all he could do, all he cared to do, just survive one more day.
In two hours he had an appointment with his therapist. He sighed, tossed away the mostly uneaten apple. He took a shower and dressed for the day with a malaise he’d never before felt. Another sweater, the same pair of pants. It would do.
“How have you been John?”
“All right.”
She tapped her pen on her knee, waiting for a better answer.
“Ahem, I’ve been all right, ya know? Get up, eat, sleep. I’m getting along.”
“And that’s enough for you?”
John gave a tight, smile. No.
“Tell me about your morning. What did you do when you woke up?”
He narrowed his eyes trying to see her angle from this line of questioning. “I woke up. I laid in bed. Made breakfast. Normal stuff. Normal, people stuff.”
“What were you thinking about?”
Afghanistan. My limp. My useless existence. “I was thinking about getting a job in medicine again,” he said while fidgeting with his cane.
She leaned back, studying him, her hands were curled up under her chin in thought. “That’s what you were thinking about last week. Do you think about that a lot? Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?”
Fuck. He had said that last week. Amateur mistake. “I just... think about it a lot, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you trust me?” She was changing tactics on him.
“I don’t trust anyone. Getting shot kind of does that to people.”
“I won’t shoot you, John.”
“So to speak,” he agreed, glaring at her with his head quirked to one side, challenging her.
She was leaned forward again, elbows perched on her knees. “I am here to talk with you, John. To listen to you and give you some insight, but the only way I can do that is if you are honest with me. Telling me rehearsed answers is not doing anything but wasting your time. I want to help you, John.”
He breathed in stiffly. He was a soldier, he was trained out of emotional outbursts. It was hard for him to come to terms with his new life himself, let alone speak out loud to a near stranger about it. “I was thinking...” he trailed off. I can’t believe I am doing this...
He cleared his throat and decided it was best to get it over with. When the words came, they were rushed and emotionless. He thought he sounded like a person reading from a textbook in front of the entire class. “I was thinking about how nothing that I do matters anymore. I was thinking about how I used to be a doctor, and a Captain, and an athlete, and that all of it was a waste of my time and my life. I was thinking about what I would have done differently and all the things I will never be able to do again.” He swallowed roughly. “Then I ate an apple.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
John raked his hand across his face. It was going to be a long session.
The walk back from her office was about the only exercise John saw anymore. It was familiar and not a tremendously long walk from his flat. He would take a cab when he could afford it and sometimes when he couldn’t afford it, if he was having a bad enough day. He used to hate cabs. He thought they were expensive and a lazy way to get around. The tube was out of the question now, with all the people and their sympathetic looks and offers of assistance. He would refuse their pity politely all the while cursing them in his mind. They would try to help him down the stairs or offer him their seats in the cars. He had been one of those people once. Now he detested them.
Sometimes he would go out of his way after his therapy sessions, on the good days. He would stroll past Saint Bart’s on occasion, or stop at a cafe he had frequented as a young man. Happy memories of pretty girls and rambunctious friends would flood him in those places, erasing the gloom of his mood and the click of his cane.
He had even run into some people he had known before the war. A girl at the cafe who still called him Johnny had given him a coffee on the house and sat with him. She flirted, like old times. Asked him if he still had the uniform. Had told him how she always had a thing for men in uniforms. He promised he’d come back to see her.
“I’d like that,” she had said smiling.
John had smiled too, ever charming, “I would say I’d take you dancing...”
She giggled.
It had been nice. He considered seeing her again, fulfilling that promise, but there was more wrong with him than a bum leg and a stiff shoulder.
He decided to take the cab. He just wanted to be home.
The bedsit was quiet, it was always quiet. To a man who had seen more than his fair share of excitement, John imagined it was supposed to be comforting, some simple place with four silent walls that were free from danger. Simple. Quiet. Comfortable. John could almost laugh at how wrong the place felt to him, how foreign and miserable. He had spent much of his adult life hoofing an four stone pack through a desert full of enemies. Home was not a quiet place in the outskirts of London, it was a battlefield.
He fell roughly into his desk chair and opened up his laptop. A few keystrokes and he was online. Right, bank account. He checked his funds to find that he had nearly three pounds fifty to get him through the next two days. Thankfully, he was current on his rent, and had at least a few not-quite-rotten apples left. He could survive. He huffed out a laugh of disbelief. Three pounds, fifty.
Eighty seven pound, seventy five pence. That was his worth. Every friday like clockwork, his pittance was given from the organization that had taken his life from him. At one point in time, his career with the Fusiliers was everything to him. He woke up, proud and patient, knowing that Private Watson would someday become Second Lieutenant Watson, then later Captain Watson. He had given years to them. Years. Time he would never recoup, memories he could never erase, and wounds, it seemed, that would never heal.
He had wanted to be a soldier like his father, a lifer. He supposed he was in a sense. He had spent his childhood playing soldier with his mates from the neighborhood. He studied war histories and strategies of the the military when not occupied with getting his doctorate. He had gone to battle. Had been deployed twice, in fact. And though he breathed, he knew his life, the life he had loved, was over. He had wanted to retire from the military a respected officer, old and proud, not invalided, young, and broken. He had worked, lived, and breathed the Fifth Fusiliers, and what did it get him?
His computer screen was glaringly bright as he read the numbers again. Three pound fifty pence was not even enough for a sodding sandwich and chips. His existence thus far had been dedicated to the military, and he couldn’t even buy a fucking hot lunch.
He limped over to the bed and curled in on himself. He was just going to sleep. Two days wasn’t so terribly far away.
A few hours, a bout of crying, and a fitful nap later, John awoke to the message alert tone on his mobile. Clara.
8:04 Clara: Harry is being a twat, and I miss you. Can I come by?
John looked around, the beige bedsit was tidy only because he owned next to nothing and hardly moved out of the bed.
8:05 John: I warn you, twattiness runs in the family.
8:06 Clara: I’m on my way. Need anything?
Money. A job. A functioning body.
8:06 John: Nothing comes to mind. See you in a bit.
He sent the last text with a grim sort of smile. He loved Clara, she was his sister’s wife, and was probably the best thing about his sister. She was funny, smart, and very sweet. He resented Harry for landing this wonderful woman, while John floundered in the dating world. Flings he could manage, relationships, well, they weren’t really his area.
He straightened up the covers on his bed and his rumpled clothes and started a kettle. It didn’t take long for her to arrive.
“John boy!” She said, near reverential.
“Hey there, Clara Bear-a,” he said with a quiet grin. They had greeted each other that way for years now, and no matter his mood, just saying those words made him feel instantly better. His Clara Beara. She looked stunning, as usual. She was wearing a simple gray suit that was tailored to her petite form exquisitely. Sister in law, John. Back off.
She dropped the couple of bags she had been carrying and took him into a warm hug. “It’s so nice to know you are just a text message away, instead of half the world.” He didn’t respond, just held her closely for a moment, enjoying the feel of actual, human contact while it lasted. She leaned back and took his face in her hands. “You are a sight for sore eyes, sir.”
“Just, for your own sake, don’t look too closely,” he teased. She kissed his cheek and bent down to retrieve the bags she had dropped. “What is all this anyway? I told you not to bring anything.”
She had an impish smile on her lips, “Actually, you said you couldn’t think of anything you needed, not that you didn’t need anything. And anyway, I wanted food and I didn’t know what you had.” She opened the refrigerator door to reveal a mostly molded over piece of cheese and a sad bag of apples. “Oh, and I guess it’s a good thing I did.”
He reddened and pawed at the back of his neck bashfully, “Yeah, I haven’t been to the shop lately. Sorry.”
Clara flipped her hair over her shoulder and winked at John, telling him with just that little gesture that it was okay. She pulled out a few things from the Tesco bags to put in the fridge. Eggs, jam, and milk in the refrigerator, and a carton of ice cream in the freezer. “For later.”
“You didn’t have to do that. Really.”
She started stocking his cupboard next. “And you didn’t have to let me come over, so we’re even, okay?” Tea, biscuits, bread, pasta. She was a god send.
“So what has she done this time?” John walked over to the counter and began pouring out two steaming cups of tea. He fidgeted with the handles and his cane, cursing under his breath when he spilled a bit on his hand. Clara was patient, and thankfully didn’t offer any sympathetic gestures to help him. He resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to make two trips. He grabbed her cup first and hobbled over to her, trying not to spill any more. Ah, the joys of learning your limits.
She took the cup and sat down on his neatly made bed with the sleeve of biscuits she’d brought over. “Oh the usual Harry bullshit. Lying, drinking, making me feel guilty about it...” Clara’s eyes were unfocused as she dipped an edge of biscuit into her teacup. “I just needed to get away.”
He sat at his desk chair with his cuppa. “Sounds like Harry, all right.”
“I don’t know what do about her.”
John didn’t either.
Clara sighed and downed the rest of her tea in one gulp. “I don’t want to think about it anymore. I needed a distraction and good company, and what good does it do to just bring her up all the time?” Her face brightened considerably when she continued, pushing thoughts of Harry to the back of her mind. “Tell me something about you. What have you been doing since you’ve gotten back?”
John’s cup stilled mid-air before he rested it back down on the desk. “Oh, I... well, nothing much.” He offered her a tight smile.
“Any girlfriends?” She bounced her eyebrows.
John shook his head.
“Boyfriends?” She tried lightening the mood.
“Ah ha, um, no. No, but thank you,” he raised his cup in cheers, “for giving me something to bring up at my next appointment.” He gulped down the hot liquid a little too quickly.
“Appointment?” Clara laughed a little, confused. “What kind of an appointment would you...? Oh.” Realization hit her, and thankfully she felt abashed enough to stop talking. John could feel his hand tremble a bit and flexed it around the teacup as much as he could. “Right, none of my business, sorry.”
“No, it’s fine. I--” He concentrated at putting the cup down and started massaging the tremor out of his hand. “I’m seeing a therapist. Only way to keep my disability pension. It’s not that I need to see her, you know. It’s just, the physical therapy didn’t help my leg and I can’t work with it like it is. So... I just, need the money is all.” He had never told anyone about his therapist before, or his needing money. Doctors were supposed to be rich, weren’t they?
“Oh...” the room was silent then. Neither of them knowing what exactly to say or do. “Well, is she any good?”
John gestured to the cane leaning on the desk. “You tell me.” She laughed a little, pleased that the tension was slowly vacating. “No, she’s fine. She’s nice. Not all bad to look at for three hours a week.”
“Oh? Is she single?” Clara teased.
John couldn’t help but look up at that, concern etched in his features. “Are you?”
Clara’s eyes dropped to her empty tea cup, “Sorry, that was supposed to be funny. I forget that she’s your sister...”
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s not good,” she conceded. “When you introduced me to her, Harry was a different person. I fell in love with her straight away.”
“I remember. That’s when I stopped bringing pretty girls ‘round for holidays.” He meant for it to be funny, but it sounded bitter in his ears.
“She was just so exciting, she was magnetic, and I just... I fell for it. For everything. And you were so good to me. You were so caring and gentle and I should have given us more time-” her voice was wavering tears glistening behind her eyes.
“Hey now, none of that.” He leaned forward and stroked a thumb over her knee. It was meant to be comforting. “Don’t think like that. You love Harry, remember? You fell in love with her the first time you saw her. It wasn’t like that for us.”
She flung her head back, trying to keep the tears off her cheeks. “I wish I would have fallen in love with you.”
“Me too,” his thumb was still rubbing across her knee, meaning something more now.
She shuddered and moved away from his hand. “Maybe I should go.” She swiped a hand under her eyes to catch any stray tears. “Harry’ll worry.” Clara stood up, and put her purse strap over her shoulder resolutely.
John stood up then too, leaning a little too heavily on the cane, wishing he wasn’t. He dug in his trouser pocket. “Let me at least pay you for the shopping.”
“No. That’s not necessary, John. Really.”
“I don’t want charity.” She made to speak again but he interrupted, “I’m paying you, I insist.” He dug out what few coins he had left in his pocket. It wasn’t nearly enough to cover the food she’d brought. He poked it around with his other hand, cane tucked under his arm. He felt less than human. “It’s, well... I’m a little shy, but here.” He held out the eighty seven pence to her with pleading eyes, don’t make me beg. She was good enough to take it without a hesitation and without counting it.
“Thank you, John... Listen, I,” she paused for just a second, continuing with her eyes closed, “I won’t say anything to Harry about you going to therapy.”
The smile he offered in thanks didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I figure that’s your business, you know?”
He nodded, embarrassed, but ever polite.
“And I won’t tell her about the cane or anything.”
His brow twitched at the word cane.
She looked him over wistfully. “What a pair we make, John Watson. When did we get to be such messes?” She shook her head with a wry smile. “I came over here to cheer you up, and keep me from thinking about Harry. Instead I put my foot in my mouth and conspire to lie to my wife. I guess I’m not very good at this.”
John smiled warmly back at her. “Well, you’re not wrong.”
She swatted him on the shoulder at that. “Wanker.”
He hummed a laugh.
“You really should come visit us sometime. I’m sure Harry would want to see you. I’d like to see you more.”
John shook his head. He had zero interest in seeing his drunk of a sister who was married to the girl of his dreams. “She knows where to find me. Not that she would. Not unless she had something to gain from it,” he said, a little too clipped.
She sighed, “That’s Harriet.”
“That’s Harriet,” he agreed.
They hugged one last time before she left. John lingered a little longer than a brother-in-law probably should.
With two cups in the sink and the lights switched off the for the night, John made it to bed with a groan. He went through the motions of stretching his leg out like the physical therapist had recommended, and laid back against the pillows with one thought in his mind.
Clara.
God was she a sight. Curvy, brunette, petite, and gorgeous.
John closed his eyes. He remembered how she felt in those hugs, the way her hair had flown over a shoulder when she winked at him, the tight fitting trousers that clung to her when she was putting groceries away. She had been in his bed even. Well, sitting on his bed, but John had made due with much less than that in the past.
There was a stirring behind his navel. A clench and a pulse of desire. Clara. They had gone out a time or two in college. They shared a few plates of food, a few mostly innocent kisses. John had even managed a proper feel of her once, the night before he’d introduced her to Harry. He redirected his thoughts to when they were together, he grasped his fledgling erection tightly, willing it to stay. He thought about how her lips had felt on his cheek, and how they would feel against the head of his cock instead. Another victorious pulse of blood firmed him further.
Oh thank God, it’s working.
John licked his palm with a thick smear of saliva and replaced it as quickly as he could. He gave a few steady, firm pumps over the hard, fleshy iron under his fist. He thought about Clara on his bed. He thought about her legs being wrapped around him. He thought about the way his hand would trail up her thigh.
His hand. A flash of the war, his hand pressed firmly over a thigh gushing blood from a bullet wound.
No, no, not now...
He tried again. Clara. Lips. Thighs. Moaning.
Soldiers, men so young, moaning on the battlefield, flesh torn, bones exposed, the quick rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire.
He growled in frustration, pushing those thoughts as far away from Clara as he could. Her hair, that dark long hair! He grasped a hold of the thought like a drowning man to a raft. Her hair would tickle his chest as she rode him. Her head and neck curled forward before being thrown back in guttural rapture.
He remembered peeling off a helmet from an infantryman. His scalp had come off with a slurp and all that was left on his head was a skull and a halo of blood soaked hair. He remembered the horrified scream and his own gasps of revulsion.
John was crying then, quaking with sobs. His erection had flagged, had become a memory more distant than those of the war.