Sergeant Johnny Mactavish, a fine man and soldier before the accident. That’s what everyone affectionately called it, the day still clear in John’s mind. He’d had horrible nightmares of the incident replaying in his mind, making him restless. It often woke his spouse, having to soothe them and assure them he was fine.

He had been in the hospital when he was pronounced deceased, it was unavoidable, the bullet hitting exactly the right place in his skull.

Of course it was John’s duty to inform Johnny’s family, making the trip to Scotland to do it in person. His gut wrenched, seeing Johnny’s mother now sobbing on her knees, cursing herself for ever letting him go.

Once he returned home to you he was a wreck, his hair messy and his eyes were clearly red.

The actual funeral was two months later, naturally held in Johnny’s hometown. The entirety of the taskforce were invited, every one of them showing up, along with you, there to support John, who was due to deliver a eulogy. The taskforce were enlisted as pallbearers, carrying the casket into the room where it would rest until he was cremated.

John sat in the second row, you beside him, holding his hand as the service began. A few people spoke before it was his turn, his hand slowly slipping out of yours as he got up, keeping his head low before he got to the podium, taking a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, laying it flat so he could read it.

“Thank you, everyone, I’m Captain John Price, Johnny worked under me as my sergeant for just about five years, only just having a promotion to captain before he passed. He was a good man, funny, often reckless, but he was resilient through it all. I can’t count the amount of hits I'd seen him take before he’d surrender, he was nothing short of a hero. Me, and the whole of 141 will miss him, so much, it truly won’t be the same without him and that mohawk. We love you mate.”

The crowd let out a small chuckle at this comment of Johnny’s mohawk, still settling as he sat down beside you, gripping your hand fiercely.