Who:John Watson and Kat Warbler What:stuff and things? When:Today! Where:The medbay and then who knows where? Warnings: IDK!
Since the kidnapping John hadn't taken hardly a single bit of time to himself. He didn't want to sit and mull over what could have been. The fact was it hadn't been, so why should he take time when he was otherwise uninjured? Occasionally he caught Dr.Moore or Sherlock staring him down but he shrugged it off and went back to his tasks at hand. Sherlock had been down in the medbay more recently. John felt bad, he knew it was because of him. Sherlock didn't know how to properly convey his worries so he was hovering and poking. John didn't protest, it could have been much worse. Sherlock could have tried to force him back to their flat but he didn't. John would take the poking and just smile warily as it happened.
Sherlock had gone for the day though, John was pretty sure he was now alone in the medbay. There were no patients, only an unnerving silence and the ticking of a wall clock to keep him company. He'd stocked and restocked everything at least twice trying to prove just how "fine" he was from the kidnapping. He didn't need a break, he didn't need to slow down. He was physically uninjured. He could take care of everything and do it just as efficiently as he could before. Kidnapping was nothing new. So why then did he still find his mind fluttering back to it at times? Why did the need for his cane worsen. He'd asked for it several times but even now Sherlock wasn't about to give it to him. It wasn't fair.
None of it was. The injury in the war hadn't been either. He still had flashbacks from time to time but mostly kept them to himself. Only did Sherlock ever notice when he woke in the middle of the night with a cold sweat and to pace or have tea to calm his nerves. He wasn't very vocal about his feelings. It wasn't proper. It wasn't proper to be held in a cage with Irene either. He was tired and full of stress. He retreated to the stove where he placed a pot of hot water on for tea and rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache coming on and hoped to cut it off at the pass.
Sitting down in a nearby chair heavily, he rested his head against the back of it and closed his eyes in an attempt to relax. It didn't last long before the onslaught of war flashbacks played in his mind like a broken record. The sound of guns ringing through the air echoed like a distant nightmare. He could feel his pistol hand tighten and tried to move it to no avail. The pot on the stove whistled loudly and John's eyes snapped open. He took in a breath and stood with a slight limp in his step to remove the kettle and pour a cup of tea.