Chapter Text
John Hamish Watson was born with a mass of unformed soul-stuff in his hand and a caul over his head.
That the soul-stuff was unformed was no uncommon thing. Very few babies were born with a sigil, a soul-form sign of their true calling already formed in their hands. Those so born were considered blessed by the general population, although a few psychologists murmured uncomfortable things about what it must be like, having your life’s path set out for you before you were even aware of the world. But few people paid any attention to those professional doubts, particularly since the best-known examples of those born with a sigil already formed were hereditary royalty, and who could believe terrible things about being born a prince or princess?
The important thing was that John had a nice bit of soul-stuff in his hands, brightly apparent to his mother, and dimly visible at the moment of his birth even to those present who were not related to him by blood. The wave of relief and joy around the room was palpable, just as strong as when John had issued his first cry. For even rarer than babies with soul-stuff already formed were those unfortunate, occasional babies who were born with no soul-stuff visible at all. It was widely believed that in the best-case scenario, such babies were doomed to die in infancy, untimely cot-deaths with no visible cause. Rarely spoken of, but widely understood in certain circles, was the likelihood that not all those deaths were accidental, for terrible things were told of those worst-cases, those that lived beyond childhood. Some of history’s worst villains were said to have been born without soul-stuff, killers and sociopaths whose very lack was (or should have been) apparent to their close relatives from the moment of their birth. Of course no one could prove that these rumours were true. Soul-stuff disappeared at death no matter what its sigil form in life, and since soul-forms were intangible and rarely witnessed by any but the closest companions or family, there could be no conclusive proof. But nearly everyone believed those dark tales just the same, no matter what doctors and philosophers wrote on the subject.
No, the unusual thing about John’s birth was the caul. Despite the phenomena being well understood, medically speaking, superstitions persisted about caul children. Some said that it was an unlucky sign, that children so born would never have their soul-stuff settle into a single sigil form, that their true vocation would remain forever hidden from them. Some claimed the opposite; that caul children were exceptional, flexible, lucky, able to fit in anywhere and overcome any obstacles. Still others believed that a caul, particularly a clear one stretched over the upper part of the face, indicated the gift of soul-sight, the ability to see other people’s soul-forms regardless of relation or attempted concealment. A double-edged gift, that one. One often faked by charlatans, but known to truly exist.
John’s grandmother, a Highland Scotchwoman and trained nurse present for the birth of her first grandson, simply smiled and wiped the squalling infant clean. “Poppycock,” she said later, dismissing the hesitantly-voiced family concerns as an anachronism of a more superstitious past. “Johnny’s a healthy babe, and a caul is just a scrap of amnion. He’ll be what he’ll be, and he’ll do just fine.”
And if her bright green eyes – eyes unlike those found in any other member of the family – gleamed a little more brightly when she said so, no one dared say anything about it. Nan was a force to be reckoned with, a woman who’d seen war and peace, life and death, and never hesitated to speak her mind. It was best not to cross her, even if you didn’t believe the rumour that she had the second sight.
In his later years, hearing the stories told about her, John often wished he’d had the chance to know her better.