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John Hamish Watson was a man of many contradictions. He decided early on, in his youth, that he wanted to serve in the British army. The danger of service did nothing to put him off. His grandfather, Hamish, had fought in the Falklands and he was a hero. John wanted to be like him.
His parents tried to encourage other career paths (even the Territorial Army) but little John Watson was determined.
At age fourteen however, his world was turned upside down. His beloved granddad became very ill. John found himself spending hours after school in the intensive care unit of the local hospital. His parents tried to hide how serious it was but one of the doctors took John under her wing and let him help with smaller tasks when she could. He learnt all about the monitors, drips of antibiotics and anti-fungals, how to read the medical charts - everything he could to help his grandfather.
That summer he spent practically every day there. The nurses and doctors knew him by name. He found he had an interest in medicine; in helping people. He had steady hands, a keen eye and he didn't mind lending a hand when asked. He chose to do his work experience at the hospital's A&E department when he was fifteen, instead of a week's training at the local army barracks.
His grandfather would smile at him and sometimes recount old war stories for John to record in a notebook that he bought. John would smile back and dutifully write them down. He knew now that the hospital couldn't cure his granddad; they were surprised that he had survived this long. His immune system was too weak and, as a result, he couldn't defend himself from infections. They moved him to a private room a week before John turned sixteen. His parents threw a small party for him there at his request.
Harry didn't visit Hamish - not even for John's party. She said she couldn't face it and John knew deep down his sister was going off the rails. He would come back from the hospital late to find her passed out on the couch, smelling of booze and cigarettes. He heard her in the mornings, recovering badly from her hangovers - he thought she should have known better by now, at age 19. Nevertheless, before leaving for school he always left her some water and painkillers. He knew there was more going on but they never really talked anymore. Not like they used to.
It was around a fortnight after he turned sixteen that his grandfather passed away - peacefully, in his sleep. John sat in the now vacant room and recalled one of his last conversations with his granddad:
"John, why do you want to be a soldier?"
"I...Well, I want to serve my country. And fight. I'm not afraid of danger. And..."
"Yes, John?"
"I want to be a hero like you. Make a difference," John replied, looking up at his role model confidently. There was a long pause before the old man gave a weathered laugh. John frowned, confused at the response. He was being serious; it wasn't funny.
"You don't have to fight in a war to be a hero, son," the elderly man told him. "You can still make a difference here."
"I know. But I've always wanted to join the army," John insisted, "I've always wanted to fight for the greater good."
"You know, Johnny, there are some things I and other soldiers did in service that haunt us. Taking another's life is a hard thing, even for the greater good." He paused. "You like medicine, don't you? The nurses all say you have talent."
John just nodded.
"Well why not turn your hand to that? Save lives, rather than taking them?"
John didn't reply for a while, he hadn't really thought about studying medicine seriously. "I - can I think about it, granddad?"
"Of course, my boy. Take as long as you need." He smiled. "And John, know that I'll always be proud of you and love you. You are growing into a fine man. I know you'll be a good one too."
John felt the tears running down his cheeks as he sat in the room which still contained his grandfather's things. He lifted the journal and photo albums, along with the army dog tags, and left the hospital.
*
After finishing school, he read Medicine at King's College. He had a new focus. He would get his medical licence and join the Royal Medical Corp of the British Army. He could serve Queen and country while saving lives. He might not fight on the front lines like his decorated Grandfather once had, but he would be making a difference nonetheless.
He managed to serve abroad for two full terms before being shot. Non-fatal bullet through his left shoulder in Afghanistan. He felt able to stay and help; but they sent him home to London anyway.
He was a war veteran now, just like his grandfather. But he wasn't a hero, at least not in his eyes. He smuggled his gun back with him. Living in a changed London, on just his army pension, with a limp and PTSD. He wasn't sure there was a point to living anymore. He became suicidal. The only thing stopping him was his grandfather's memory and the notebooks filled with his experiences. John had one of his own from his service too. Though circumstances were different, his grandfather had trouble adjusting on returning from the war too, but then he had found John's grandmother. He had moved past the war and not given up. John knew he had to push through and reclaim his life. He wasn't giving up... But finding the motivation to live was the hard part.
He had no idea what he was getting himself into when an old friend introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. He had no idea of the turn his life was about to take. It was a world away from the Afghan sun, but it felt like the man lived in a war zone of his own. He suddenly found himself living again. In the strangest way, he was able to make a difference again.
That first night, when he took a life to save Sherlock's, he didn't regret the decision. In fact, he was sure it wouldn't be the last time he would have to. He was okay with that. Sherlock Holmes saved his life, gave him motivation again - without even trying.
*
Violin music played downstairs as he sat up in his room, writing his first proper blog entry. He had been eager to write up the first case since they got back from the Chinese that night. Now, a week later, he had finally found a few spare hours to do so. He didn't want to simply record it privately in a notebook. Sherlock Holmes was not a personal war story. He was a hero. A genius. John thought that the world needed to know this.
The blog soon became a hit; he recorded 1895 hits in just one day, before the counter malfunctioned that was. He was happy living with Sherlock. He had locum work at the hospital as well as the odd clinic shift. He and his flatmate were best friends, and then eventually, after a year or so, more than that. It progressed naturally enough, and even if it was an odd relationship, John wouldn't consider trading it for a wife and kids. Ever.
Sherlock Holmes was still an eccentric; he still put body parts in the fridge-freezer and he continued to mock the blog... But Sherlock also completed him and loved him; even though those exact words were seldom uttered. John was finally 'settled down' and enjoying his life completely.
So yes, Sherlock might claim heroes did not exist, but John knew his partner was wrong.
John Watson would forever be grateful to his two heroes. His grandfather, Hamish Watson, who helped him become a man with integrity, respect and a strong moral compass; and Sherlock Holmes, who saved his life and helped him find his way home again.