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Christ, how he hated airports.

John Watson limps his way with the other passengers, boarding the plane to Heathrow, after six months of being treated for a bullet wound in Kabul.

After boarding and settling to one of the economy seats, John waited for the sky's verdict.

Soon, the plane lurches into the sky making John's knuckles clutch both sides of his chair. Being an army doctor himself, he knew he was having a panic attack. He sat there eyes shut closed, heart beating crazy. His skin felt sticky with cold sweat, his throat dry.

PTSD.

Just like that, he's back in Afghanistan. Burning sun numbing the back of his neck, rough sand against his cheek, bullets passed by him, missing by inches until...

The plane lurches once again, this time for arrival, John almost whimpers.

And that's when he heard a voice coming from behind him, talking about... a murder case?

Rich, deep, voice of a man. Surprisingly, his thoughts clears as he focus to the voice. As if its owner knew what was happening.

A stretch of silence passes, when John realized he was now, alone. Mentally and physically tired, he stood up to leave.

Outside the airport, the only consulting detective smirks as he watches the former soldier hail a cab that'll take him to central London. Brilliant.