Chapter Text
It had all been somewhat of a shock. Bullet to the shoulder. Shrapnel, infections, emergency operations. Physical rehabilitation on home soil. Seeing a therapist. Living on a military pension in a dismal bedsit in a state of disconnect. Little more appealed than limping down the street for the shopping, tinned food, or having a coffee in the park when the weather was pleasant. No one was interested in hiring an invalided army doctor with a weak shoulder and a bad knee. There was only so long that his supplemental funding would cover living expenses.
His therapist wanted him to keep a blog. He was fortunate enough to have a functioning computer. Harry had exceeded his expectations enough by gifting him a (regifted) phone. He never held his breath in anticipation that she might also contribute toward a laptop. An old model. Slightly out of date by the looks of it. Used — the previous owner forgot to clear their internet history of searches for local singles and easy chicken recipes — and still overpriced. Still, he conceded to the wishes of his therapist.
“Nothing.”
“Pointless. Nothing happens to me.”
Attempts to delete the blog. Passive aggressive comments toward his therapist. Half-hearted accounts of a night out at the pub with friends from Blackheath. Commenting on the news.
Just when he nearly abandoned the blog, an old acquaintance recognized him on the street. Offered to buy lunch. They recounted the glory days of studying at St Bart’s and avoided the details of John’s condition. He watched Mike Stamford’s eyes flick to his shoulder once — just the once — before respectfully avoiding his arm in general (and the clenching of his left hand against his thigh under the table). Mike told him of new medical procedures being taught to new students. How a young hopeful nearly fainted at the sight of unpackaged scalpels before a practice procedure. John laughed and flinched. Surprised at the mirthful sound coming from his own throat. Cleared his throat. Took a drink of water.
“How’re you doing, though,” Mike asked, breaking apart the crusts of his sandwich. “Staying in town until you have things sorted?”
“I can’t afford London on this pension,” John admitted.
“Couldn’t Harry help?”
“She’s done enough. Besides,” he continued, chasing down a mouthful of chips with more water, “I didn’t think I could bear to be anywhere else. Now I’m not so sure. London’s not the same when it’s not how I remembered.”
“Not even a flat share?” Mike added another packet of sugar to his coffee.
“Don’t have any income. I’d be an awful flatmate. Never keep up on the rent.”
At the small smile blooming across Mike’s mouth John should have known he would not be able to move conversation away from the subject.
“But you’re not opposed to renting?”
John squinted into his mug of tepid tea. “What’re you suggesting?”
That had been nearly six months ago.
After notifying his landlord and therapist and sister, John found himself packing his meagre belongings into a van (which seemed ready to break down at any moment’s notice, much to the mover’s dismay as he apologised profusely, face as red as his hair). One of Mike’s cousins had bought a cabin in Hampshire, intending to use it as a vacation home or rent it out during the summer. However, a more successful forest holiday chain — catering to the idyllic getaway without much of the actual rustic experience — established a location not far down the road. Without business, the cousin was forced to admit defeat. Set back in a beech wood forest, the landscape seemed as far from London as Afghanistan had been.
Far from the bustle of traffic and smog, the cabin was homey. Just off the main road and away from the sizable, financial tourist traps on the less densely wooded edge of the forest. Mike’s cousin was grateful, willing to negotiate a lower rent as John looked for available work. To his surprise there was a clinic less than ten minutes away in the nearby town. Understaffed. Underwhelming. Nowhere near as impressive as the surgery he considered applying to in London. He was overqualified but hired quickly.
Open from eight in the morning until six in the evening, closed on weekends, closed on holidays. Two receptionists and four doctors rotating to tend the members of the sleepy town. Pay was fair. Shifts were evenly distributed. Buses were timely. Lunches in the square were affordable. Coffee was consistently bitter and a tad on the scalding side. He was pleased to have found some fault with the town. Then winter came.
Roads iced over, there was a persistent fog, wind whistled against the windows of his cabin at night. He began taking an earlier bus — nearly an hour earlier — in order to compensate for decreased driving speeds. Commuters and travellers gave him odd looks as he limped up the steps, to a seat, and back off the bus in twenty minutes and one bus stop later. Every day. Three months. He caught a stubborn chest cold which limited him to bed rest for nearly a week and a half.
Caroline Graham and her daughter Marcie stopped by with stew and decongestants. They offered to make him tea (as he sat hunched over a mug, steam dewy against his throat) or at least wash his dishes. Before John could decline, quilted blanket slipping around his shoulders, a clatter on the porch startled Marcie. She rushed to the small kitchen window over the sink. Crept along the wall to peer past the drapes. Her mother beckoned her back, warning her to “stay away from the glass. If it’s a bird it might break the window.” John sighed heavily, which escalated into a rasping, wet cough. Slapping his sternum with an open palm.
“Well, I'm sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Caroline said, gathering Marcie to her side. “I don’t see anything and— Oh!”
Opening the front door, she crouched forward slightly. Marcie leaned across her back. Over her shoulder.
“Come see this!” Caroline called. “Nothing to worry about, but come see. It seems you have a visitor.”
John pried himself from the comfort of his couch (worn leather, seams carefully resewn along the armrests). Tugged the quilt tighter around his arms. Joining the pair in their rapturous observation, John felt a sound of surprise rise in his chest. Spattered across the wooden slats of the front porch were muddy footprints. Half-moons and round pads for the ball of a foot and five toes.
“Is that a bear?” Marcie’s small voice was reedy and frightened.
“No, love, there’re no bears around here. Look at the toes. Too long. No claws. Don’t know what it could be.”
John watched them leave. He crouched to look at the prints. Sent into another coughing fit by the cold air, he retreated back to his couch and his television. Told himself that the prints certainly did not look like, could not look like, definitely were not vaguely human in shape.
That had been nearly three months ago.