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.