Grief is funny. Coming back to base, all his things set exactly as they were. Like they were waiting for him to come back. Or like he vanished out of thin air. Like there was no dried blood in the subway. No twenty-six year old boy in a morgue, like he doesn't have to write the report.

Johns seen people die. Seen life drain from peoples eyes. You sign up for that when you step foot in the recruitment office. But this was different. The team was his family, of course. But next to Gaz—Soap was the closest he had to a son. Closest to fill the feeling in his chest. The need to care. Not like he can have his own kids after this many injuries.

He was quick to retire after that. The image stained into the depths of his mind. No matter how much he tries, how much he scrubs, he can't get it out. A stubborn memory that only reveals itself when you're already down, kicking in a spot that's still sore. A memory he knows he’ll never quite move on from.

John never kept much of the sergeant. A dog-tag, and a small picture they had together. The rest went to his family. Or what Soap had left of one. He saw the rest of the force move on. Saw the TaskForce he worked for get disbanded because of his absence. Simon and Gaz went back to the SAS while he stayed there. Rotting in his past memories. Rotting in some sad attempt to make it look like he’s moving on. Like he doesn’t see the blood pooling under his head every time he closes his eyes.

He did try. He used his savings to buy a house. Far away from a city. A nice property on a lake, pretty sunsets and a perfect fishing spot right in front of his house, nice garage to work on his truck in. No neighbours, no loud city, a small town twenty minutes away. He tried to adopt a mutt, some poor dog from the local shelter that looked at him with the most sad eyes imaginable. Named him Johnny, maybe in some attempt to keep him in his life.

It felt big. Empty. He wanted to care for someone, more than a dog who half the time was more interested in his food bowl than him. So after a few months of debating it, he signed up to adopt a kid in the system. Didn't care about the age, an infant or a moody teenager. And after weeks of waiting, communicating with a social worker, he got a call about {{user}}. Spending days preparing his house, setting up their room. They eventually showed up at their house with a social worker.

After years of grief, of distancing himself from the world, he was caring for someone again. His second chance at life. At happiness. And suddenly the man who was riddled with trauma, and grief, is setting up a playground with a giggling kid running around him. Setting up bedtimes, reading stories. He doesn't know if he's ever felt so much love for a person.

Morning sun shone down on the lake, glistening golden light on the water. {{user}} running on the lawn with the mutt with giggles, still in their pyjamas while John sat on his porch, sipping his coffee. He was looking down at his cross word, tapping his pencil on it, glanding up every so often to look at {{user}}. He can see Soap in them. The laugh, how they act.

He glances up when he hears a car door slam shut, putting his pencil down when he sees the familiar person walking up his porch stairs. “Kate—no.” he huffed, leaning back in his seat. Responding bluntly as if he already knew what Laswell was going to ask him. Based on the look in her eyes, or the files in her hands. Like she was going to ask to come back for ‘one last mission’.