Chapter Text
Welcome to sunny Melbourne, where we're about to kick off the first practice session of this 2014 Formula One season. And the big news today is, of course, the return of Brit John Watson. After a spectacular crash at the Belgian Grand Prix last year, no-one was sure if John would be back in a car any time soon, and yet here he is, defying all expectations. Now, we'll have to wait to see if six months away and a nasty injury has dampened any of the Brit's fighting spirit.
*
Two months earlier
John stared at the phone in his hand then took a deep breath and dialled, holding it to his ear. After only a few rings, a familiar voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Mike, hi. It's John."
"John! Great to hear from you. How are you doing?"
John hadn't spoken to his race engineer, Mike Stamford, in at least a few weeks, but he'd forgotten just how well Mike's general good humour worked wonders on his nerves.
"I'm good. Yeah. Great, actually."
"How's the shoulder coming along?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"That sounds like good news," Mike said, his smile evident in his tone.
"Yeah. I've just been given the all-clear by the physio. I'm ready to come back."
There was just a short pause before Mike answered. "You're sure?"
John let out a huff of breath. "Mike, I'm a racing driver. I don't know what to do with myself that isn't racing. I need to come back before I go mad."
Mike laughed. "Alright, but you know they'll want all your test results. And they'll probably want to run their own."
"I know."
"I'll talk to Lestrade. Are you in England?"
"Yeah."
"Great. Can you come down to HQ in the next few days?"
"I'll be there tomorrow," John said quickly, not even bothering to hide his eagerness, and Mike laughed again.
"I'll see you then. And John? I'm really glad to hear you're better."
"Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow. Bye."
John rang off, threw his phone down on his bed and rubbed his hands across his face, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He'd felt lost these past few months, trapped in self-pity and misery, watching the rest of the season from his bed - watching someone else lift the championship trophy that could have been his. Now, it was time to get back to where he belonged.
He rolled his shoulder, winced, and pushed himself to his feet. He made his way out of the overly-opulent bedroom, and padded over the laminate floor to the large, open-plan kitchen - another extravagance, and another reminder of how empty the place felt since Sarah had left. He forced the thought away - better things to think about now than that trainwreck - and went through the motions of making himself some dinner. He'd become surprisingly self-sufficient in the last few weeks, as soon as he'd been able to walk properly again, and it didn't take long to throw something together. He'd soon have to start paying much more attention to his diet, but for tonight he could let it go.
After dinner, he flopped down on the sofa, flicked the television on to fill the apartment with some sort of background noise, and opened up his laptop. After checking his emails and scrolling idly through his Facebook, he finally went looking for the latest F1 gossip. And there was plenty to be found - speculation about the cars for next year and who would be driving for what team. He saw his own name just the once - a passing reference to his accident last year - but he did not let that dampen his spirits. The F1 community could be surprisingly fickle if you weren't Michael Schumacher, but he'd be back soon, and his name would be on everyone's lips once more.
Finally, growing bored, he set the laptop aside and turned his attention to the television. They were showing the Senna film again on one of the movie channels, and he couldn't resist flicking to it. He'd watched it too many times to count, but if nothing else, it was a helpful reminder that he was still incredibly lucky to have survived.
*
He was losing control, the tyres spinning out, failing to find traction on the wet ground. The car twitched as he fought to keep it in line, fingers gripping the steering wheel so hard they were almost colourless, the car fighting back underneath him. Just when he thought he might be able to get it back under control, he hit a slick patch on the kerb and the car spun, nothing he could do to stop it.
In the space of a few seconds, he hit the wall, the nose crumpling in an instant and the impact ricocheting through his leg. The car bounced off the wall and spun again, hitting the wall side on, the bodywork crumpling around him, his shoulder crushed. The car spun one more time and then finally came to a stop, and it was only then that he saw he was sitting on the edge of the track, right on the racing line. He could see the frantic waving of yellow flags all around him, but the bend was concealing him from anyone coming up the hill.
As the familiar red nose of a Ferrari rounded the corner at over a hundred miles per hour, he cowered down in the cockpit and closed his eyes, thinking 'please God, let me live'.
*
John bolted awake, chest heaving, sweat sticking his shirt to his back and shoulders. He took several burning, painful breaths, his throat dry and sore. His hands were shaking violently and he curled them into fists, pressing them to his aching leg as he let out a choked cry. He glanced almost instinctively at the other side of the bed, and then turned away, angry with himself and still shaking. He clambered out of bed and staggered through to the living room on unsteady feet.
He got as far as the kitchen worktop, which he bent over, pressing his head to the cool surface. He swallowed, forcing back the tears, and let out an anguished, angry cry against the marble. His legs finally gave way and he turned, slipping to the floor, his head buried in his hands.