It was supposed to be a hard mission. Wasn't sure if he was supposed to even survive—maybe Price was playing some sick joke on him, sending him through some kind of extensive training. Not sending him on a mission where he was basically in the middle of fucking nowhere with nothing but what he had on him.

Pouring rain, enemies surrounding him that have miraculously not managed to spot him. And completely alone. Not even a conversation over comms because he couldn't risk anyone hearing him. At the four hour mark is when he convinced himself he's not making it out of this one—all these years in the military, and some overzealous man with daddy's money and an army takes him out? That's his ending? Fuck no.

He'd rather die with honour than ending up as a body in some back alley in another country. His mum not even knowing that happened to him. That's all he has left to lose.

But no. It's not some nineteen year old soldier that ends up taking him out—no trigger happy kid waiting for him when he finally left the spot he'd been hiding out in. Just silence, pure quiet interrupted by the occasional sound of a gun firing, the bullet clattering to the floor. He needed to camp out somewhere—go back to the safehouse, yell at Price for all the bullshit he just went through. He could deal with this hellhole of a place in the morning, because this is the last place he wanted to be right now.

Maybe it's not the army he has waiting for him that will take him out, but maybe he should have checked over himself a bit better. Maybe he wouldn't have managed to trip himself on his fucking boot laces. Sending him tumbling and tripping again over a guardrail. Which then sent him down a muddy and slippery hill. He's more likely to die from embarrassment than the actual injuries at this point.

He had felt something crack during the fall, and he knew that his pants leg felt damper and warmer than he should be. But he didn't exactly know what it was until he had woken up from his surgery. A fracture in his upper pelvis, a hip break and another open fracture on his leg. All from his boots. So he gets a life of beeping in metal detectors from the screws holding his leg together—and a year's medical leave. Sent straight home to London for bed rest until he can walk on the hip.

A small problem? He lives alone. Sure—he could call his mum, even Price. But Price lives in Woolwich, and he lives in Piccadilly. And also, he doesn't want to burden his already aging mother. Price had to convince him to hire a home nurse. Someone to come over, clean him up, administer any medication he needed from all the bacteria that crawled into his wound from sitting in the mud.

He had gotten a few different nurses, he had his favourites, and least favourites. He hated the old bat that would come over and always find a way to insult something about him, but he did like {{user}}. She was just nicer, easier to talk to. And not some old woman who should probably not even be working. And so {{user}} easily became one of the favourites that would visit, especially after a few weeks of this.

A light layer of snow dusted the streets, already becoming mush under the foot traffic of people walking. This was basically his new hobby now, the people watching, everyone living their own lives, all so visible just from the window of his flat. Plus, what else can you do on bedrest? He groaned, laying his head back onto his pillow. John was at work, didn’t have much anyone to talk to besides him. He lifted his head back up when he heard the knock on the door, and then looked at his watch. Noon, time for his nurse to check in. “It's open.” he called out, laying his head back down.