Chapter Text
How did I end up here?
John wonders, as the last vestiges of sleep drift away and for a moment all he feels is peace, a blissful ignorance...a feeling that is quickly shattered by the memory of his dream, and a hollow aching sensation echoes throughout his body. He resists the urge to cry. He doesn’t cry. He won’t –can’t let himself. John Watson’s life may feel out of control to him, but he is –was a soldier, a doctor, and has seen death many times over...he can do this one thing and not let himself cry.
John lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. His hands clench beneath the flannel bed sheets in an effort to control the tears threatening to break free. An image from a long ago memory, yet still so close to his heart, is brought forward by the dream and resounds powerfully through his mind - curls, rain, copper, blood, pavement vacant eyes, shock - he quickly opens his eyes again, and the mirage of a man still so important to one John Watson flashes in front of his eyes before disappearing into oblivion...much like the man himself.
Now wide awake, John pushes himself into a sitting position and rests against his headboard. He angrily bangs his head against the wall, relishing that particular pain but cursing the one now throbbing with vengeance in his leg...as if it were saying “I am your only companion now”...as if I need the reminder.
John laughs bitterly. He glances down at his bare arm, barely illuminated by the beginnings of dawn. John only has two live soul marks (his father and Greg Lestrade, the latter a surprise that occurred shortly after meeting the DI, and just another connection between him and his deceased best-friend), crackling with a feeling akin to electricity under his skin. There are two other burned marks close to his inner elbow, they are all that are left of the soul mates he once had, though he doesn’t need a physical burn to remember the pain of their passing; his mother, and the man he met while on tour in Afghanistan, Bill. Living through their deaths hadn’t been easy, it never is when a soul mate dies, no matter what place they hold –friend, parent etc. A part of John has always felt mystified that neither he nor Sherlock developed a mark when they met. Sherlock never commented on that fact. Despite that, John doubts either of them had ever connected to another person the way they did with each other...an incredible feat, John knew, coming from the Detective.
Honestly, as bloody annoying as the bastard was, a more hidden part of John can admit that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he and Sherlock grew wings (and there’s a thought that adds more salt to his sore heart wound). But they never did.
There exists in this world soul marks (permanent fingerprint marks that appear anywhere on the body, unique to the individual, when one meets a soul mate, this could be anyone from a friend to family), soul wings (everyone is born with small nubbins between their shoulder blades, these are what can give everyone the opportunity to grow wings. Whether that’s as a child or an adult, it only happens once you meet your deep soul mate. The one person, who perfectly complements your soul, knows you on a level no one else can. This could also be a family member or a friend, but it is most commonly a person you have a romantic connection with) and soul magic...the latter is a side effect of the first two. Once you meet a soul mate, your souls automatically tap into each other, no one knows exactly why or how (it’s the way it always has been) but it opens a gateway that allows both individuals to perform mostly minor abilities (and some are only able to be performed in the presence of the other). This could be anything from empathic telepathy to being able to instantly heat up a cup of tea (one John acquired early on in life, due to his mother, and lived on even after her death, something that typically only happens with what is considered minor magic) with the touch of a finger. Soul wing abilities are the most powerful ones, the wings become the physical manifestation of the magic through which your soul works and connects (it is the same with the marks), and once that happens deep soul mates (of which there is only one per individual) often have full telepathy (only with each other), can do telekinesis, heal minor to major wounds or even short ranged flight.
All this came up often during The Work, John knows that the whole concept of soul marks, wings and magic has always...irked the Detective; he understands the basic concepts much like everyone else but it is a science that can’t be entirely quantified or logically explained. John had wondered if that was why Sherlock never talked about his own markings, but later he thought there must be another reason. In all the time they lived together, John never even saw Sherlock’s soul marks (though the Detective deduced exactly how many –burned and live –John possessed within minutes of meeting). Whenever John brought it up Sherlock either would sigh in boredom or ignore him altogether. Initially John chuckled when he thought they might be on his arse, something he has seen happen before during his many years as a doctor (and a proficient lover), but that theory quickly left John’s mind as he didn’t allow himself to follow that particular train of thought for long...no reason to after all, John always told himself.
He does know that at least Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are two soul mates of Sherlock’s, since they both told him though Sherlock himself has never explicitly confirmed so. Mrs. Hudson is the living proof that a mother doesn’t have to be related by blood, and Lestrade is the proof that soul mate or not you can still get an often uncontrollable urge to punch said soul mate; a trait both he and the DI often related with, and not just because he and the man were soul mates. John and Greg have an interesting relationship (though the two haven’t spoken for a few months), since the latter was both soul mates with the Detective and his loyal Blogger, very strong camaraderie and mutual understanding more than anything else.
John has absolutely no idea what the deal was with Sherlock and Mycroft. Given the odd and reclusive nature of the Holmes brothers, they could be anything.
And John wasn’t the only one surprised by the fact that Sherlock and he didn’t present as soul mates. Mycroft never alluded to any surprise though, any thought he might’ve had was well kept behind his stony facade.
John groans, abruptly cutting off his wandering mind...too bloody early for that.
At the thought he turns his head to glance at the clock on his nightstand: 6:00am.
As if the haunting dream and subsequent mind wandering weren’t indication enough, John can already tell this is going to be a particularly bad day.
Everyday for the past two years has felt like a battle, less urgent now than at first...but the battle has never ceased. Even when he left Baker Street a year after (the cloying reminders of his dead best friend and borderline claustrophobic nature of the place felt like they were killing him) and moved far from London (something he never thought he’d do) into a well kept cottage left to him in Sherlock’s will (the Detective had never mentioned the cottage before, so when John found out he was surprised and a little confused, Mycroft never explained it), the battle never stopped.
If you were to look at John Watson now, walking somewhat uneasily out of bed and into the loo adjoined to his bedroom, you would think a part of his soul had been ripped away. Soul mate or no, in his most vulnerable moments, John can admit to himself that is what it feels like, he should know.
Sherlock Holmes is gone, yet he continues to severely impact the life of John Watson still. John splashes his face with cold water, and allows a single tear to fall. No more. No more.
Though he tells himself this, the ache in his heart he can’t deny tells him there will be more and he is far from the stable healed man he’d like to be.
John turns around and looks out the single window in the loo, and takes a deep breath. Who would’ve thought that adrenaline, danger addicted, adoring of London, ex-soldier and Doctor John Watson would one day be grateful for the peaceful atmosphere of the Sussex countryside, and the boring lifestyle of a part-time country doctor.
Certainly not John Watson.
How did I end up here?
Meanwhile, in the distance a woman with bright red hair and cold focus watches the cottage, her navy blue jacket flapping delicately in the soft wind; her confidence and quiet anger absolute in her rigid stance within the field, shadowed by a tree, outside of the home of John Watson.
“I’m waiting, Sherlock Holmes.”She whispers, her words go unanswered and lost amongst the countryside.
However, not so far away, as if he heard, Sherlock Holmes has left his pseudo exile with his own brand of anger, motivated by fear he would never admit to (John, John, John...) fueling his speed towards John Watson.
It’s time to come back to life.