John Watson's bad days

John Watson's bad days

Preface

"Punch me in the face!" Sherlock told me and I didn't understand it. Why he would say something like that? Why does he want me to hit him?

"Punch you?" I repeated to make sure that I was well heard, and that my friend is serious about it.

"Yes, punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?" he said cheekily.

"I always hear "Punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," I muttered angrily, but my friend just glum rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for Godsakes," He groaned and then stretched out his arm to hit me. I didn't expect this, who would expect this, so I got it. Well, he wants to get nicely into the muzzle, so he will get, what he want.

"Thank you. That was... that was..." he thanked me for my well-aimed right hook. But I wasn't far from over, if I did, I wouldn't survive in war very long. I was upset. What the hell are in Sherlock's mind. I grabbed him around the neck. "I think we're done now, John!" he whined. Suffice! Yeah, sure!

"You ought to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier! I killed people!" I shouted angrily. Jesus, why?! Why are everybody forgetting for it, why they don't realize with whom they act? Must I have my uniform, in order to have respect and reverence?! To make people afraid, in order that they realized who I am?!

"You were a doctor!" my friend appealed to me. Doctor, so that's about it?! That's what people see in me? So when man said, that he was a military doctor, they thinks he was out of line, that he didn't hold the gun, that he saved more lives, than he took? So even my brilliant friend knows about the war nothing more than others.

"I had bad days!" Very, very bad days. Nightmares, from which there is no awakening.

When you looked at John Watson, what did you see? Did you see his ridiculous baggy sweaters, did you see ten cups of tea, which he drank per day, you could see his wide smile and his quiet nature, which managed to survive even impudence and inhumanity of Sherlock Holmes. You may have seen the good doctor, and maybe you knew that the man was in the army and he was shot. But know is one thing and understand, who actually stands before you, is something completely different. That's why people often asked "why". Why? Why John Watson spends his free time with such insensitive person? How he can endure with Sherlock? Why attracts him solve crimes, he didn't have already enough violence, excitement, adrenaline, danger, horror and pain? Doesn't he yearn for peace? And why the famous detective actually chose him, when he is such a harmless homemade teddy? It's just a sycophant, who exults over Sherlock's genius or not?

The answer was usually quite vague. It was only the outline of the real truth, which was hidden in the mist. John Watson is addicted to adrenaline and loves adventure. John Watson hates boredom. John Watson is fascinated by the genius of Sherlock. Maybe these two are a couple. Yes, it probably was not all a lie, but the basic fact was that John Watson wasn't the man, who seemed at first glance to be.

He was a kind man. He was Sherlock's moral guide, who didn't have anything like that. That wasn't the impression, the impression was that, he was defenseless sweet teddy bear. People always had a tendency to underestimate him. John Watson, before than he met with Sherlock, had had a lot of bad and cruel days. The days, which can of man change forever. He saw horrific, dark, stomach flipping things. He was a witness, and actively participated in them. Things that are pains of this world, he understood as bad and scary it can be fear, darkness in the heart, or hatred and what human is capable of. With that, he had reconciled and lived. But he didn't forget, he didn't want and he couldn't. When you've been through hell, you cannot just sit around and blab about apple pie. He hated it. He knew that many of those stupid conversations, are just to make conversation, chatter about nothing, that is an integral part of social bonds, and thus really important in their irrelevance. But after all it was a lot of banalities. Politeness wouldn't let him to warn the people to this fact and act like his brilliant friend. He understood that he would hurt someone by that, but listen, or participate in it, it was as if someone had pounded into his the skull.

But when he was with Sherlock he didn't have to worry about any empty conversations, or worrying about the banality. Sherlock's work had purpose. It was an adventure, suspense and it protected people. But neither his brilliant friend could see him in the right light.

Monday

There was a knock on the door. For a moment I thought, if I should pretend that I'm not at home, and I had to pretend, but I had no idea what to expect. I got up from the chair, I shuffled to the door and opened it.

"Harriet," I blurted out with surprise when I saw my uninvited guest.

"Hey, bro," She greeted and looked up at me through the veil of her hazel hair. "They know it," she announced and I realized that is something wrong with her. Her hair was disheveled, dirty clothes, her eyes bloodshot and she was a smell of alcohol. They know it. That was a sentence, which explained everything, absolutely everything. I knew for a long time, that my sister is a lesbian, and even that she has a girlfriend named Clara. She did everything to hide it, not for me, I don't care, but our parents are very religious. The sentence: "They know it", means that finally they discovered the truth and drove her from her home. "Can I stay here for a while, at least until than Clara returns from the business trip, or until than the atmosphere calms down at home?" she asked miserably.

"Harriet, you know that I love you. You're my sister and I would do almost anything for you, but I can't. I'm sorry," I shook my head with guilt and she angrily slammed in the door.

"What?! Excuse me! How can you?!" she shouted at me angrily and walked into my apartment before I could stop her.

Of course, she noticed already half the packed backpack. "You're going somewhere?!" She instantly got it.

"Sis, please find calm and listen," I started. On my command, she shuts her mouth into thin narrow lines, but she was scanning me by narrowed eyes. "They sent me to Afghanistan, I am leaving tomorrow…"

"What! Those leaving for the battlefront and you are telling me it only now. You are leaving tomorrow! When, the hell, are going to tell me?!" She stewed in anger. "Do you realize what you're doing. Go to the war front, that isn't like tales of heroism. Do you know, what this will mean for you... and for us? God, they can kill you, and then what, I will be alone…" Harriet hadn't words. "You're ... you did never want to tell me that?"

"No, you would tried to stop me," I confessed. She gasped and then angrily growled, began vulgarly cursing that everyone in the house had to hear her. "Forget it, you can do nothing with it. I'm just going there and that's the end of this conversation."

"You are just going there and that's the end of this conversation! You are just going there and be killed. That's the end of this conversation!" She screamed hysterically, but then she calmed down, which didn't bode well. "Do you expect that I will stop you?! I expect that I'll ask you to stay that I care about in your life?! But you know what, I don't care, fuck it. Do you want to kill yourself, fine! But now when you are leaving, this apartment is free, isn't it?!"

"You can't take it," I shook my head sadly, this was the last straw for my sister.

"Bastard," she hissed angrily shoved me a slap, and then, as quickly as she had appeared, so she disappeared. She didn't let me explain, that the apartment I've already sold, and therefore I can't help. She left me alone, baffled with guilt, guilt that I am responsible for that she began to mentally collapse, that since then she began to drink, and I consider that since then our relationship has never been and wouldn't be like before.

Tuesday

It wasn't just a bad day or bad week. Months were stretching behind themselves to infinity. My head ached from the sun and the heat, I was bathed in sweat, I had almost everywhere the hot desert sand, but that was the three things, what I am could still survive.

Green mushy blob of something fell into my mess kit. I grinned sourly on it, but I knew that I will eat it, because I will not get anything better. One would have thought that the soldiers on the battlefront get good food, but the opposite is true.

The lieutenant Summers bumped into me. Mess kit fell to the ground, how else than food side down. So it seems that finally I don't have to eat the green monster and I will stay on hunger. Great!

"Watch out, asshole, where you're going," he yelled at me as I could for it.

"Certainly sir, I'm sorry," I said, saluting, took my mess kit and went to washroom. There was no use arguing. That's how it goes in the army, respect for authority was based on bullshit and bullying subordinates. What could I do? I just would got intolerable punishment, such as cleaning latrines, that wasn't, what I needed. In addition, the lieutenant Summers hated doctors, specifically he particularly didn't like me. I had to let it go, to let others spit to me, no matter how much it irritated me, how much I hated it.

Wednesday

Bleeding... bleeding, I couldn't stop it.

"John," he rasped.

"It will be good, you just endure it and now..." I muttering, but in my heart I already knew, that there is no hope.

"John," he took the effort to pronounce my name again. It sounded like a plea and prayer concurrently. My eyes filled with tears and he took the last strength which he had, in order that he grabbed my hand and fixedly looked at me.

"Sorry," the lieutenant Summers said. He let go of my hand and closed his eyes forever. Here died my boss, the man who bullied me, a man who spent the last time of his life, to make an apology me and my first patient, who died under my hands.

Thursday

I noticed, that ten meters from me was a crowd of soldiers and villagers, who were arguing about something.

"You can't do it, they are innocent people," corporal fretted, he was a man with dark hair, round cheeks and a small nose, on which was perched a giant square glasses. His name was corporal Stamford.

"One of them is spy, who must be discarded, or it will turn against us. They aren't innocent, they protect spy and who protect spy is against us," captain with short blonde hair, blue eyes and hawkish facial features, countered.

"What's happening?" I said when I walked toward them.

"None of your business, doctor," the captain growled.

"Lieutenant," I corrected him immediately.

"He wants to kill them all," corporal Stamford complained. I frowned. Kill them all, kill civilians? He has to be kidding me?!

"That you can't. Not only from a moral point of view, but think of how a fuss it would do at home, if anyone found out, especially media," I told the captain and added to the side of Stamford.

"I can and will do, lieutenant. You aren't in my unit, take a leave. That you may not be interested at all. It will not be a problem, this is an acceptable loss, one who doesn't understand, shouldn't be in the army. They hiding spy, and if he run away, the consequences will be far worse. Kill them! That's an order," the captain barked.

"No!" I said, but it was too late. Other soldiers blindly to orders raised their weapons and under vigorous roar and the acrid smell of gunpowder they were shooting into them. Yellow dust with white sand lifted from the ground, as dead bodies tumbled down. Stairs were stained with blood. My stomach turned upside down and I crawled away. Somewhere safe where I could throw up.

Friday

I crouched behind a rock and focused. I squeezed the trigger and the gun fired. Man standing in the red evening sunshine fell to the ground. I looked around, and when I came to the conclusion, that there is relatively safe, I jumped to his feet and ran toward him. I quickly touched his neck. Dead. I nodded happily and then turned to dear man, who from my hiding place hasn't been seen.

I've assessed him by one look. His chest was rising and falling again. He was still breathing, but not for long. He got hit several bullets. Vest from us. I got just one idea. If I leave him here like this, and he will die an ugly and painful death. If I try to save him, it will be worse.

I'm not very proud for it, to be honest, it was sickening, but it was, what the man needed. I gripped the gun in my hand, I reached out with it towards him and fired again.

Saturday

Bomb was ticking. I bit my lip, it was too late to warn civilians and evacuate the area.

Bomb was ticking. It was too late to send them away. Send my people to safety. I knew, that I have no time.

Bomb was ticking.Ticked on the chest a suicide bomber was too late to send an expert on explosives, he wouldn't probably get to this madman, before madman pulled the trigger or killed hostages.

Bomb was ticking.Yes, the assassin had as hostage all civilians plus soldiers and also his daughter.

Bomb was ticking and woman screamed helplessly.

Bomb was ticking and solution nowhere in sight.

Bomb was ticking. In just a few seconds, everyone dies.

Bomb was ticking and time was running out.

Bomb was ticking. Darkened before my eyes.

Bomb was ticking.

There was silence.

There was a silence and then everyone started to hugging and congratulating me with joy and relief. They called me "hero". What kind of hero I am?

Sunday

Deafening salvo of machine guns intersected the air. I jumped behind ruined wall and waited, when I get the chance to retaliate.

"John, John, Captain!" someone started screaming at me. I didn't understand it. Why are they screaming? Why are they so dismay? It didn't sound, that somebody needed help, but you never know. I looked around and saw that everyone were staring at me... and that already one of them ran up to me and asked, what he should do. What to do? What to do with what? I got a very bad feeling.

I looked at the place, where he was pointing and where everyone was staring. Red liquid slowly seep into uniform and until now I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. They shot me. They shot me, shot a doctor and far and wide there was none other with this skill.