It was after the third time that James realized he really needed to tell someone. The third time he woke up, not remembering exactly where he was or how he got there. Having the feeling he was on a mission and waking up with his Walther in his grip, aiming at nothing. He finally sat before the psychologist at MI-6 and would get the words he assumed he would hear.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
James would get a prescription from the psychiatrist, sighing softly as he looked at the paper. Twice a day… And now, now he had to go to a therapist once a week. Great. Just… Great. Bond wasn’t prepared for how much this frustrated him and he felt the irritation build in his gut, like an stomach ache. He ached for a mission but with this new development, they suggested even more time away.
For James, the nightmare was beginning with the fact that he would have to face reality. Face retirement… For James, the end of everything familiar was nigh.