bloody soldier

[captwctsns]

░▒▓█ 𝚄𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚗, 𝙰 𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚍 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝙱𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚐𝚎, 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢. █▓▒░

Independant. Private. Selective.   ♜ Dr. John Watson ♜

[captwctsns]

♜ My Peak John Watson:

A year into a romantic relationship with Sherlock, more confident and at peace with himself than he’s ever been, physically fit as he had been as a soldier and feeling good, silvery hair, unshaven and a little scruffy, smiling and laughing, nearly starting a fight in a pub because someone decided to talk shit about Sherlock, smug grin as he tells the bloke off and turns away, spinning right back ground and clocking the bastard in the face when he steps over the line

Dropping right onto the sofa back at the flat, window open, grinning at Sherlock in the dim light with a “come hither” look, content to just fall asleep with this ridiculous man strewn over him all gangly limbs and dark curls in his face

Cursing and complaining the next morning because why the fuck did they fall asleep on the couch, now his back’s out for the whole day, christ  ♜

[captwctsns]

“                                  After the torchlight red on sweaty faces                         After the frosty silence in the gardens                         After the agony in stony places                         The shouting and the crying                         Prison and palace and reverberation                         Of thunder of spring over distant mountains                         He who was living is now dead                         We who were living are now dying                         With a little patience.                                             ”

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

“What would I have to talk about?” Yes, he’s being dismissive, because he’s decided now that John has talked about his issues, he doesn’t have to talk about his own. He knows the man can tell he’s CHANGED since coming back but it’s an INSTANT REACTION to pretend like he doesn’t have anything weighing him down.

As if he can’t feel any sort of weight or trauma. It usually works on people but John isn’t just somebody who could be considered a bit of a friend. John is his flatmate and his best friend, who sees through him when no one else does.

Maybe he should talk about it. Maybe he shouldn’t. He doesn’t really know. Opening up those wounds after keeping it inside so much? He doesn’t know where to begin or even HOW, he’s not used to talking about his feelings, after all. 

What feelings? What was he feeling? Truth be told, he doesn’t know how to pinpoint what he’s feeling most of the time, so how does he talk about something like this?

     John didn’t push. He knew Sherlock, and he knew that asking him to open up about what’d happened during his time away would be like backing a wounded animal into a corner. He’d only lash out, snip at him until John gave it up. So, he was patient, just smiled and turned back to the kettle as it clicked and finished boiling. 

     “Nothing at all,” he replied. His silence spoke more  - the offer still stood. Should Sherlock ever feel like he wanted to talk, John would listen. Just because John had decided to open up, even if it was for just one story, it didn’t mean that Sherlock had any obligation to do the same. 

     Finishing up the tea, the way each of them liked it, John carried the cups into the living room, and set Sherlock’s on the side table next to his chair, before returning to his own red armchair and taking a seat. 

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

There’s a comfortable silence that falls over them. John has said all there is to say about his trauma and Sherlock won’t bring it up any further. John seems done with the conversation and that is just fine with him.

The glance to the decanter does not go unnoticed, though. He’s half-tempted to get up and put it out of John’s sight but he refrains from doing so. John’s a grown man and he doesn’t need him removing it. He’s certainly not drunk and instead of drinking, he’s gone to make tea. Good.

 “…..You can always talk to me, John. I hope you know that.”

     “I know, Sherlock.”

     John speaks quietly, his voice barely a level above the soft hiss and click of the kettle as it turns on. With his back still turned to Sherlock, he rummages through the cupboard, taking down a tin of Darjeeling and two cups. As he sets everything on the counter, he find that there is nothing else to occupy his time until the kettle boils. His shoulders ease a bit, dropping just slightly as he finally turned around and gazes back at Sherlock. 

     His expression is unreadable for a moment, as he leans back against the counter and looks over his flatmate. The wheels are turning in his head, formulating his words carefully. 

     “And... I hope you know that you can talk to me, if need be, too. I know we’ve all got... well, our own baggage to carry. Just know that I’m... here to listen. Again, if need be.” 

[captwctsns]

dcntcommitsuicide·:

     Admittedly, he thought by the time he’d get to the restaurant, John wouldn’t be there.

     Not like he expected the bloke to stand him up, no. More like he had been afraid John would end up leaving without waiting for him if he took too long to get there. So the moment he finished with work, he rushed to their meeting place, not wanting to miss the chance of having a chat with an old mate.

     And to think it had been so hard to get a hold of John Watson lately too.

     But he was there, and relief washed over him. Good. He hadn’t left yet. He found himself returning the smile etched on John’s features. God, how long had it been since he last saw him? Days? Weeks? Months? Christ, it felt like it had been ages ago.

     “John. Hey.” His grin turned a little sheepish. “Sorry, did I make you wait too long?”

     It was all the customary pleasantries. Rehearsed, but no less genuine, as they shook hands and took seats across from each other. It was normal, something that John hadn’t felt in ages. Once again, he thought, it shouldn’t have hurt this much. 

     “No, no, not at all,” John said as he settled into his seat. “I just sat down and ordered a drink. Got here a little early, anyway.”

     Said drink was currently sitting a quarter empty on a coaster in front of him, condescension dripping down the cold glass in the warm sun. It might have been half empty by now, bu John had been pacing himself. Emma, his therapist, had been really on him about his drinking since he’d started going to his sessions again. Easier said than done. 

     “What’ve you been up to?” 

[granada-brett-crumbs]

’Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. —The Man with the Twisted Lip

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

Fix him?

That is what therapists are for. Not that Sherlock believes in therapy, he really DOESN’T, but it isn’t his job to fix John Watson. That has never been his job and it has never been his goal. Besides, that is not what John needs.

“Why would I ever try to fix you? You don’t need fixing, John. You’re just fine the way you are.” There’s a pause where he nods at John in understanding, though. “You’re welcome.”

The answer is so fundamentally Sherlock, so dismissive and sweet at the same time, that John can’t help the soft smile that overtakes his mouth. He shakes his head, thinking to himself that this isn’t what he’d heard when he’d first come home from the war, and how much he needed to hear it now. It was just... good to have someone that listened to him and didn’t try to say anything to make him feel better about it, didn’t attempt to alleviate his guilt with false assumptions about what could and couldn’t have happened. 

John is quiet for a long moment. He looks up at Sherlock again, catching his gaze in a tender look, before pushing up out of his chair with a grunt. He pauses, glancing at the decanter, before continuing on his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

[captwctsns]

It’s Munday and I’m waiting for my store to close so I can go the fuck home

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

John’s laughing and at first it CATCHES HIM OFF GAURD because he doesn’t know WHY. Had he said something funny? What had he said that made John laugh? His silent questions are pushed away when the blogger speaks up again.

At least John looks a little more at ease. It must have helped A LITTLE. Maybe it took some sort of weight off of him. Didn’t make it hurt any less but at least he could BREATHE EASIER.

Thank you.

Thank you? Why was John thanking him? 

“You don’t need to think me, John. I know what trauma is like.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

John settles back with a sigh, eyeing the decanter on the side table and deciding that, at least for now, he’s had enough for the night. He knows that Sherlock understands trauma. John may not be a genius, but he can see clear as day that Sherlock’s been through hell and back, especially since his return from the “grave”. They don’t talk about it. Maybe they should, but they don’t. 

“I mean... thank you for just listening. For not trying to fix me just because I told you about a bad thing that happened...”

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

John’s not fine and he’s known that from the start. You don’t talk about this sort of thing and BE FINE. This sort of thing messes with you. Mental scars are perhaps the WORST of them all. John has been through plenty of mental scarring, he’s sure of it.

And as John speaks it only confirms it. That must have been HORRIBLE. He can’t even imagine what that must have been like - watching everyone around you DIE. Being a doctor and being HELPLESS to help any of them. 

He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to comfort John, he’s NOT GOOD AT THIS but at least John has gotten it off his chest. That’s good, right? “…..I’m sorry, John.” And he is, HE REALLY IS. He wished he could do something TO HELP. 

Drinking scotch wouldn’t help for long. Being an addict, Sherlock KNOWS THAT. When he’d done drugs, though, it wasn’t to escape trauma. Now, there are times where he finds himself craving it but he RESISTS. “….Do you feel better, at least? After talking about it?” God, he’s probably not making John feel any better despite trying to choose his words carefully and be KIND. 

John surprises himself. He laughs. 

It’s a quiet sort, as he shakes his head and glances down at the fireplace. He hasn’t gone mad or anything (though maybe, in reality, that happened years ago), he isn’t manic from the pain and the memories. Isn’t even drunk, though he kind of wishes he was. It’s Sherlock’s question that has him chuckling at himself. 

“No,” he answers as he looks up and smiles at Sherlock. “Not at all, if I’m being honest.” 

He doesn’t feel better, that’s not the right word. He really isn’t sure what to feel, talking about the incident for the first time in years. It was fucking horrible, and retelling it was hard, to the point that he nearly couldn’t get it all out, but now that it is out, breathing air, it’s... well, it’s sort of easier to breathe. John doesn’t feel better, but he feels just a little lighter. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Sherlock, that’s not the point,” he says softly as he leans forward in his chair. “But, ehm.... yeah, thank you.” 

[thenoman-sland]

It was worth a wound—it was worth many wounds—to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask (…) For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain.

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

Oh. Not lost in memories then. “Sorry - I thought. Nevermind.” Still, he doesn’t move from where he’s kneeled. Not yet. Eyes that are usually so UNREADABLE are full of concern and UNDERSTANDING. It’s perhaps the most human he’s actually been IN A WHILE.

“….” Another moment passes where Sherlock doesn’t move. He’s looking at him, studying him, and when he concludes that John is INDEED FINE, he moves to stand up and move back to his seat.

John can take his time. It isn’t as if Sherlock plans on going to sleep anytime soon. Not when he sleeps SO LITTLE. Maybe he should tell John about his own trauma? About things, he has experienced? Would that help him?

No, this is about John, he doesn’t want to take away from anything, he doesn’t want to divert the whole thing and give John a reason to focus on something else. “…Sorry….take your time, John.”

John’s hand is shaking when he lifts the glass to his lips. The Scotch sloshes around with the ice and nearly spills over the sides. He finishes the drink in one go, downs it all and swallows hard. It’s not even that much, not even enough to make him unbalanced - still probably not the best idea, but he’s a grown man and he’s allowed to make his own poor decisions. John swallows hard. His hand his still trembling a bit when he sets the glass down on the side table. 

So, maybe not as fine as he let on. 

He’s embarrassed now, because as much as he tries to deny it... he did sort of lose himself there. Not in any dramatic way, nothing cinematic. It was just a moment. 

It’s several tense minutes, filled only with the crackling of the fire, before John speaks again. 

 “There was an ambush. Explosives set into the cliffs. The rocks that came down crushed the front of the car and blocked off the pass, and a cell came from out of nowhere. I can barely even remember it, but somehow he managed to use a few of the rocks and the car as cover - the driver was already dead. two of the lads were shot before they could get to us, and three of us were pinned down. Never saw what happened to the other six. One of them, Corporal Gulliver, she tried to get back to the front seat of the car to get the radio, call for help. They caught her in the chest.”

“The rock-slide had made everything unstable. It was just me and a new Private. He’d been caught in the rocks, half crushed, and I was trying to stop the bleeding in his leg under the fire, but... another explosion went off. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in the field hospital, totally fine save for few cuts and bruises, being told that everyone else was either dead when we were found, or died of their wounds later on.”

[rominatrix]

[captwctsns]

`•.,¸¸,.•´¯ 𝙷𝚘𝚐𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎 ¯`•.,¸¸,.•´

John Hamish Watson is a Teacher of Defense Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Out of the many, many, roles that he has filled in his life, this… yes, this one fits him quite well at the end of the day. 

But it wasn’t an easy path to get here.

Keep reading

[captwctsns]

scciopath·:

He’s silent as he listens. Though, he does eye the scotch. Was drinking really the best thing for John to be doing while talking about this? Probably not but it’s keeping him calm and right now, John isn’t to the point where he’s DRUNK.

He keeps any and all thoughts to himself. That is until John trails off mid-sentence and stares down into his glass like he’s NOT THERE. Like he’s lost in some memory. it’s no secret that John might have PTSD, he’s had his suspicions, so INSTANTLY Sherlock is worried he’s lost in a memory.

“John?” No answer. “John?” Another call with no answer and Sherlock’s quick to jump up and move to John, kneeling down in front of him. “John.” This time it’s spoken FIRMER. “Come back to me. Don’t go there. Don’t let yourself go there.” Because letting yourself go there was HORRIBLE, he’s been there himself - after the events of what happened when he was taking down Moriarty’s web - after the TORTURE. He’s been there, not that John actually knows that.

“Come back to me, John.”

The infuriating thing is that John knows where he is. He’s in 221b Baker Street, sat in his favourite chair. It’s nearly two in the morning, there’s a light fog outside, and a broken traffic light on the corner down the street is flashing a distant red glow onto the edges of the window pane. 

But just for that short moment, a passing of not even thirty seconds, John just doesn’t hear Sherlock speaking to him. He isn’t lost in his memories, he isn’t being pulled back into the War - he knows what that feels like, it’s happened before and it likely will again. He’s just so absorbed in his own thoughts, hypnotized by the amber liquid in his glass, that he doesn’t hear Sherlock or notice him moving until the man is kneeling right in front of him. 

When John looks up and suddenly sees Sherlock so close, he startles a bit, cursing under his breath. “Christ,” he hisses, reaching up to scrub his hand over his face. “I’m fine, I’m - fuck, I’m alright, just...” he rattles out before finally just inhaling sharply through his nose and groaning. "Give me a minute." 

He wants to finish. He needs to. 

[seandmountain]

Who knew?