odamakilock:

vanetti:

watsonshoneybee:

At John’s wedding Sholto asks about his therapist and John is like GREAT VERY HELPFUL GLOWING REVIEWS, John is obviously trying to convince Sholto to seek some kind of professional mental health treatment

So after John’s wedding Sholto finally does, because he almost let someone murder him at John Watson’s wedding

And after months and months of one-on-one Sholto finally joins a veteran’s support group, and that’s where he meets him, a man with quiet eyes and a prosthetic leg who insists on calling him Major out of respect

And they get to know each other and Sholto trusts him because he knows what it was like out there, and he doesn’t judge him for the bad days or the good days for that matter

And eventually Sholto works up the courage to invite him to dinner at his secluded country home and he comes and when he laughs his eyes crinkle and when it starts to get late and the fire starts to die Quiet Eyes admits that half the struggle of serving was not being able to serve openly, having to hide himself and the boyfriend back home who eventually left him because they had to keep it secret, and Sholto takes his hand and admits that there could’ve been something there, something with a captain he served with on base, but the captain was married now

And Quiet Eyes says sometimes the struggle isn’t having to lie about who you are in Afghanistan, sometimes the struggle is having to lie about who you are at home, and Sholto thinks about Sherlock Holmes and sitting there on his sofa in front of the fire he finally lets John go and leans over and kisses Quiet Eyes and doesn’t think about John while he does it at all

@marcelock

@watsonshoneybee

—

They both move awkwardly; a miss-match of limbs progressing, insect-like, down the hall to the meeting room; the step-step-click-step of feet and the brush and swing of three arms only. 

The man with one leg holds the door for him, Sholto placing a palm on the glass above his head to hold it open while he regains his balance and moves inside. They sit next to one another by silent agreement even though at this stage they’ve exchanged nothing more than a nod. 

They introduce themselves one at a time around the hub of the councillor, and they talk. Sholto doesn’t say much, though he listens, and that’s nearly as good. The man with one leg speaks only briefly, and only to offer support. He’s been here a while, Sholto thinks. Maybe he’s run out of things to say. 

Afterwards, balancing coffee cups on narrow surfaces around the room, the man says, “You’re a major, aren’t you?”

Sholto, who has only introduced himself as ‘James’, feels uncomfortable. “Technically,” he admits. 

“Then you are,” the man says simply, in a way that brooks no argument. It irks Sholto. 

“I don’t use it anymore.”

“May I?” 

Sholto touches his coffee to his lips and frowns; is this part of the group therapy? Owning your past and your identity or some such, or perhaps this is something the other man has been told to work on. He has no answers to the situation and in the end he doesn’t refuse. 

“Major,” the other man says before he leaves, offering him a hand. A heartbeat later, Sholto grasps it loosely. The man’s quiet sadness feels tangible between their palms and he regrets his earlier recalcitrance. 

“Next week,” he says. The man with one leg nods. 

“I’ll look forward to it.” 

—-

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