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the first time it happened, John was too young to even remember or notice anything had happened.
The first time John remembered, he was seven years old. He had gone out for a nightly walk around his neighborhood, always the adventurous lad he was. He had started getting bored, so John walked back home and went to fish his mom's keys from his pocket.
There were no keys.
Oh. Maybe he forgot to take keys with him, and forgot to lock the door behind him! He just has to try the knob!
But, the door didn't open. He kept trying, but no matter how much he tries he couldn't open it.
He was locked outside.
He locked himself out of his home, and he didn't want to wake his mom up, afraid of the punishment he'll get if she found out about his nightly activities.
So, he just kept trying as quietly as he can. He tried the door, his bedroom's window, his sister's window, anything and everything that could be opened he tried.
But soon it became too cold, and he became too tired, and his dad will be back from the pub soon anyway. Sure, that'll make him more mad than usual, but that's better than mom knowing about John's walks
So, what if he just. Lied on this fluffy snow and just let his eyes shut for a while.
Just a short while.
Suddenly, something so sharp hit him in his chest. John didn't have time to open his eyes, he didn't have time to breath, the second he felt the pain, it disappeared.
Next thing he knew, there were the piercing cries of a baby. He opened his eyes, confused as to why there was a baby in his room, but everything was blurry. He couldn't see anything and he couldn't move a muscle, not even his neck! And people were touching him and the screaming kept getting louder-
It took him a good, long while to fully realize what had happened. That he, John Hamish Watson woke up as a baby.
A newborn baby.
He wasn't sure that was supposed to happen. Maybe his mom knows why this happened?
But he's a baby, He can't talk yet, but that won't stop little John! He'll practice until he can talk and walk like before and better!
..Alright, maybe better than before doesn't make that much sense, but that doesn't matter.
So, he kept trying. He kept moving around like a worm, trying to get up, trying to get his mouth to do what he wanted it to do, but it was like his body doesn't understand him! He just needs to get up! He's done it a million times before! It Shouldn't be that hard!
But John was never a quitter, one of the things mom liked to brag about before. "He just doesn't know when to quit" She always said, So John will not be quitting anytime soon! Not until he can talk to his mama again! And maybe convince her to give him anything else other than milk. Yuck.
And his mom was so happy with him! He wasn't a grumpy baby like Harry once was, but babbling and giggling at the sight of his mama! And oh so energetic squirming around like the cutest little worm. And his dad is so nice! He doesn't go to the pub as much and when he comes back he’s not angry or sad!
And so a month went by. One month where John was the happiness of his family, where his grandparents visited every week to coo at him, three months where little Johnny was a little angel who loved all this attention that was suddenly gifted to him, and quietly asking himself why it wasn't there last time!
One whole month is all it took for little John to say his first coherent word.
And once the first word was said, it was like a can of worms just opened. He can talk and understand what he's saying! And sure, some words slur together and he can't say the sss or his rrr clearly, but!!! He can understand!!
He was so proud of himself! He wanted to go show mama and dad and maybe they'll help him practice more! And they'll call his gramma and grampa and mama's friends and everyone will be happy!
But his mom was in the other room, and John was stuck in his crib, and he still can't stand up and let himself down
The sound of loud, thumping footsteps made caught John's attention, and he saw his sister come into their room.
Oh! Maybe Harry can help him get down! Not take him to mom's room, John isn't sure she can carry him without dropping him. Just lower him to the floor.
"Hawwy! Hawwy!" He squealed and grabbed in her direction until she went to him
"Jo-jo? D'you want uppshies?" Harry came and lowered the crib before picking him up in a very wrong way! Even John knew babies shouldn't be hugged like that!
He kept squirming and pointing at the floor
"Down! Down!" Harry frowned and pouted at his movements
"Down? On the floow?" She asked before plopping him on the floor in a very not gentle way.
"Fank you!" John smiled at her, showing her his toothless gums before squirming on the floor, trying to sweep his way to his mom's door.
Harry pat his head before rummaging around in their toy box.
And so, John was off on his adventurous journey to his mama's room. Will he get out of it alive? Will his mama be pick him up and tell him how amazing and smart he is? Will she agree to give him choco milk instead of plain old milk? John will find out, once he reaches the castle that holds his mama!
No, no. That doesn't sound right. But that doesn't matter! All that matters is that he reaches the door!
And then finally, finally, after evading the many obstacles laid before him, John reached his mom's door. With strong, chubby fists, he banged on the door and screeched with glee, unable to contain his excitement and and just wanting his mom to open the door already!
His mom opened the door, and John looked up at her and squealed!
"Mama! Mama! I can dalk! Mama I can Dalk!" John screamed and giggled and he had the strong urge to clap but he still can't sit so he can't really clap properly but that doesn't matter! He'll learn and show mama and she'll look at him like-
Mama is not smiling.
She's looking at him like something is wrong. Her eyes are opened so wide, and her hands are clasped in front of her mouth like she wants to , like she's holding back her screams.
Mama is not happy.
She is afraid.
Later, his dad will come looking at him with a smile that wasn't right. He'll pick him up with a laugh that sounded so so wrong
"Hey, buddy" He would enter the room so slowly.
Like he doesn't want to be there
“Your mom must've hit her head or something, you won't believe what she's saying!”
“Dada?” John would ask, and his dad's smile would slip from his face.
“Why ij mama shcare-,” and it has to be a mistake. it has to have been an accident, his dad didn’t mean to drop him his dad didn’t mean to he'll catch him he has to he's better this time he's-
Sharp pain hit John's chest, and he wakes up to the familiar screaming of a baby
John's life would then have a trend that it usually follows.
John would wake up as a baby, he'd learn from his past mistakes and will only attempt speaking when his mother prompts him to, will only attempt crawling (6 months), standing (8 months), and walking (9 months) when his mother wants him to.
He'd go to school, and no matter how hard he tried to blend in, how hard he tried to act like just another child, all the kids would know that something's just, wrong with him. maybe this has something to do with the fact that he's mentally at least 13 years old when he's in kindergarten (emphasis on the at least, since he isn't sure whether the mentality transfers to his baby body or just the knowledge, or whether he should combine the years he lived or not)
And he'll always slip up. one way or another, the teachers would always notice him being above his grade, and once they even have a hunch, it is game over. There's no reason to even lie because no matter what they just won't care. They just want to say that they had helped shape a prodigy! And refusing to be that prodigy would just make them treat John unfairly, so its easier to just give up.
Anyway, best case scenario is that they'll put him one grade above (Usually they give him a test. the problem with that test is that John doesn't know which question belongs to which grade, so most of the time he ends up two or three grades above)
worst case they'll put him in Harriet's classroom
There'll be bullying no matter where he goes, and there's nothing he can do about it. By the time bullying becomes an actual problem he cannot fight back (teachers never take his side, he's supposed to be smarter than to start fights) he cannot tell the teachers (they're just jealous of you! Don't let them get to you, you'll soon be out of here anyways with those grades!) and he cannot tell anyone at home (Harriet will say he deserves it, father should never be bothered, as he's always either drunk or nursing a hangover, and his mom is just a shell of herself, can barely handle doing some of the housework before she breaks down thanks to a certain alcoholic bastard. Oh, is he being insensitive? How about they stop being the worst parents John could've ever imagined and start doing their damn job! Even John, a teenager, can parent better than them any day of the week!)
College years are the best. no one bothers him as long he doesn't bother anyone, and Harriet is usually mature enough to stop bothering him too.
...He does die the most at college, though. Either getting mugged (Happens a bit too much for his liking) or a drunken accident (People really shouldn't drive while they're drunk) or, surprisingly, from exhaustion (It happened once, and it was during exam season. He is not in the wrong here)
It took him a couple dozen times to get to fourth year of uni (He could've done 10 lifetimes ago, he was so close, but his bastard of a father decided to snap the day before his fourth Year!)
And then, on the first day of fourth year, a pamphlet was handed to him.
He could sign up to go to be in the army. He could sign up to go to the war, either in Iran or Afghanistan. He'd most likely be an army doctor, never to see real action, but still, he'd go to war.
John threw the pamphlet away, thinking that maybe he'll revisit that option in another lifetime.
Later, He's being flown with other people his age and double his age to Afghanistan. He was situated at the CSH to be a nurse and help stitch up wounds, stop blood loss, and occasionally help soldiers and guards catch a few z's before they're needed again. He was away from the action, only seeing the aftermath while he stays in this safe little bubble and barks orders at nearby soldiers to help when everyone else is too busy.
And then someone broke in.
Someone. Broke in. One person broke in.
Someone was actually able to bypass all the people with guns that are supposed to stand guard and alert, and broke into the medical tents with a gun, a motherfucking AK 47 to shoot up the staff.
For the fleetest second, John asked where all the guards are
Bullets started flying
Things were falling on the floor, glass and metal and plastic and everything being shot at and destroyed, doctors were crying and nurses were screaming and people begging for their lives saying god, god please let me live-
John took his gun and shot him.
His neck was painted a deep, deep red he's so so familiar with but is discovering anew, his pupils became as small as a pinprick and his chest stopped moving.
John has just killed someone
And he's never felt so alive.
A few seconds went by before he slowly, with shaking hands put the gun down, and then looked back to help treat those who got injured from this lunatic's outburst (wHO shoots up a medical tent?!)
He stops giving soldiers a place to rest (Henry will have to limp for a while, Amelia and Oliver are discharged, no longer fit to work on a battlefield, and Sally's tremors has not subsided three months later. She's afraid they'll never go away)
A week later, John requests to be sent to the front lines
A hell of a training later, and he was sent to the front lines with his own set of guns and a prayer to his back.
He's never died so much before, but he's never felt so alive.
And every time he woke up to the screaming of infant little him, “no more,” he'd tell himself. “No more”
But on his fourth year of med school, he'd be handed a pamphlet. He'd throw it in the bin and go have a drink with Mike. He'd go to his room and forget he ever held this piece of paper.
“no more,” he'd remind himself. “No. More”
And the next day he'd wake up and sign up to go to the army, requesting to be sent to the front lines. They call him crazy, call him suicidal, but they send him anyways. Not a lot of people request to be combat medics.
“He no longer dies in his childhood years,” he tells himself. “The training must be helping keeping him alive“
“It's just because of guilt” his mind whispers after he had to burry yet another friend soldier “A lot more could've died if he wasn't there, a lot could be prevented if he just went one more time”
”Maybe I’m just an adrenaline drunkie“ He'd find himself whispering after months of reoccurring nightmares.
"It, it helped make his childhood more peaceful" he admits to himself quietly as he watches the sun rising yet another day.
And then one day, he gets shot in the shoulder. He does not die.
And then a month later he's back in London. As a thirty-five-year-old
John was in a trance, riding on waves of euphoria and bliss at coming here finally as an adult, with no idea what to do and nothing planned further than tomorrow.
It felt so freeing
a week later, it felt so empty
The pension was so small it could barely hold his hole-in-the-wall apartment, his limp was grating on his nerves the more he walked, his psychiatrist was like booking an hour to listen to nails on a chalkboard.
It felt so suffocating.
But he'll try to see this through. He'll try, and if it got too stifling, there's always his out hidden in the last of his nightstand drawers
and two months later, he meets Mike Stamford while he's out on a walk.
That's the most animated he's acted since he got back. Maybe he could just talk to people? Socialize more, maybe?
But Mike kept looking at his cane, leg, shoulder like his wound would fucking materialize out of thin air. And oh, the look full of sympathy and moving oh so awkwardly and his laugh being too strained and second-guessing every laugh every question and whether he should've say that or not
This is why he can't socialize. He's no longer John, no, now he's (weird genius prodigy freak) a poor veteran who lost his ability to walk
But John just smiles and laughs, trying his best to get his friend to fucking loosen up, and amidst the talking he throws in one stupid self-deprecating line, and he curses himself this is why Mike isn't comfortable around you. You need to loosen the fuck up
"Come on, who would want me for a roommate?" And Mike laughs. It was a genuine laugh, one of his old laughs and suddenly it's like his old Mike is back
"You're the second person to say that to me today"
And suddenly, they're heading to Bart's, where he meets One Sherlock Holmes.
At first he's just so ordinary, dismissing their arrival until he needs something from them. A phone.
And John offers his. Afterall, this bloke might be John's only way to afford London, and frankly he's not ready to try anywhere else.
Sherlock stands up to take his phones, and brown old eyes lock with eccentric blue ones.
His eye does not shy from the cane, but locks on it. It locks on it and his hair shoulder eyes mouth jacket trousers his eyes sweeps him whole, not sparing a detail for later, not leaving an inch unexplored. He looks at him, looks into him, cuts him open and dissects him like a corpse hiding secrets within.
He takes the phone, and averts his eyes and types away.
"Afghanistan or Iraq" he asks as if they're talking about the weather.
It is starting to brighten up, John would've answered if they were.
Later that night, John would stay awake in his bed, excited to meet the guy who read him like a book without a hint of unease, and hopeful about sharing an apartment with someone who's so fresh, so new John cannot even start to predict what he'll do next.
Some time will go by, one shot will be taken and an amazing shrimp fried rice will be shared, and John hasn't felt so alive in such a long, long time ago. Not on the day he first graduated, not on the day he took his first shot, not on the day he took his first bullet.
A week later, and John looks at the ceiling with so much comfort, asking himself when was the last time he was this happy in a life?
Time continues to go on, and John is just happy. He's happy when he hears Sherlock using his brilliant, brilliant mind to deduce anything and everything about people from a mere look, he's happy chasing after criminals with Sherlock, he's happy having beers with Greg after a good long day of dealing with a certain genius, he's happy having tea at home with sherlock and hearing him talk and sharing stories with him about things that happened to him in this life (And maybe in a few past lives. keeping track of what happened when gets kinda hard when you’ve lived that many lives, and sherlock's smile and his rare laughs are worth it)
He's so, so happy
And then they bite a bit more than they can chew, and then they die, Sherlock standing shell-shocked while John tries to save him from the rogue bullet flying his way.
And sure, maybe John didn't see Sherlock dying and maybe his genius survived and is now mourning his death which is not right but it sounds kinda romantic in his mind that they died together and maybe he should stop readin-
romantic??
That word startled him so much little Johnny stopped crying (and sent his mother and a room full of nurses into panic)
He hadn't seen anything as romantic for so so long, he thought he'd never feel love again
Not in the romantic sense, at least.
Ok, let's be real, falling in love? that is so cheesy, he really should stop letting these stories affect him. Sherlock is just the first person to make John feel something, and, as stated before, it doesn't have to be romantic!
But that doesn't matter, now he just needs to make sure he meets Sherlock again. Life would be so empty without his best friend after all!
And then thirty-five years later, John enters the morgue again, following one excited Mike Stamford (and John is not at all able to stifle his own excitement)
And Brown old eyes lock with eccentric blue ones
And oh fuck he's never been more in love.