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John Watson is a guardian angel to put it bluntly, standing tall and bold he looked along the stereotypical plain white crystal arches, horrifyingly plain, boring. Nothing ever happened here, not to him or anyone. Strolling through the corridors John walked, and walked, and walked, not really having no objective, no point until he was once more called upon. His 'adventures' to kindly put were put to a pause when Mike Stamford called - again, predictable. -
"John! You're being summoned!" John pressed his lips into a thin line before giving Mike a grim smile as he strode to the little professional 'meeting room' as it was so graciously labeled. Sliding his hands into his pockets the guardian angel nudged the door open with his foot, having no special handle or push bar to open. Turning his attention to the 'higher-ups' with his weathered blue eyes, tired of all of... this, the routine. Don't get John wrong he liked routine; just not this routine.
The 'Higher-ups' that the other angels so spectacularly referred to them as looked down upon him with a scathing look, like they shouldn't be letting and old veteran guardian angel even watch over another child so visibly different in age, but who were they to talk? They were thousands upon thousands of years old. "John Watson, 40 years old in appearance, Male, will be watching over from now on until Sherlock Holmes, 10 years old, Male, is to, as the humans say, kick the bucket." One of the side angels said, John didn't know his name, or any of their names. He didn't care for it.
"May I go now? To watch my child?" He drawled, the higher-ups exchanged knowing glances and nods before the one in the center slammed the desk with the stereotypical judges hammer. And immediately John saw swirling stars among-st black in the most extravagant galaxies, beautiful reds and blues, whites and yellow, many meteors and asteroids. But John could hardly cherish the lovely sights when he recovered himself, stretching out the old and creaky wings, made for display, to show dominance, to protect. He could not fly, and they could not glow. They could not be seen.
Standing to his feet John Watson looked over the area, eyes narrowed, why was he here and not in a home? He was in London, it was his second child here and where he had lived in his human life so he knew the place like the back of his hand. But not this area of London, oh no he stayed away from this part, the big bad army doctor - guardian angel - disliked this area. The walls of the buildings were pristine but the alleys between the buildings did not have much care, they were dark and full of muck, sludge, slime. Broken piping continuously dripped water, polluted water no doubt. That's when a boy with wild curly hair brown hair blasted past him, knocking into his hip and not even turning to say his apologies; John thought him pretty for a little boy, his hair he could tell would turn an ebony black and with his skin so pale it'd be imagined as porcelain with the odd freckle fleck.
And without a doubt, this child, John was to protect. John was going to take a step forwards to follow except with a shuddering gasp his limp slammed into his leg like a bulldozer hit it, his shoulder felt as if a electrified and heated Caddle prod was slammed with his shoulder and ripped and dug around before ripping back out. John clutched at it with a strangled gasp as he watched the brown-haired boy - no Sherlock, bolted for dear life... wait what? That was when it was clear to John that he was being chased. Little pitter patters of presumably angry 10 year olds was loud in his ears as he turned, he just got here like five bloody seconds ago and he already has to protect him? This, this might be a little fun.
His limp momentarily forgotten he spun around just as the two ten year olds jumped in front of him in pursuit before he snatched their shirt collars and tugged back with a hiss. "Go home, and don't you dare chase after Sherlock Holmes again, just don't." He gave them a harsh tug before he sent them on their way. Looking up to see Sherlock Holmes rounding a corner, looking at him through the corner of his eye.
This was going to be interesting, as much as John wanted to rush after Sherlock Holmes, he knew the standards of society when it came to adults and children, it was frowned upon for an adult to chase after a child when it wasn't your child. As much as John hated not being invisible so he could just follow him and not be seen he enjoyed the lively feeling of well.. being alive. It has been years since he has been back in London and he has missed it so.
Sucking in some air as he progressively limped along the streets aimlessly, hands in his pocket as he did so. Coming to a stop outside his old flat, this had been his home after he was sent home, for good that time. It led to sinking deeper and deeper into a big, black, and rough ocean, it wasn't an ocean of water. He was never going to admit to why he used to help himself drown.
Turning away sharply with distaste, John decided it'd be best to see where Sherlock lived, for a higher chance of encounter. It was already close to dusk anyways so he didn't find any harm in doing so, maybe add to the creepy facade but oh well. John followed the tug of his heart, it helped whenever the children, or friends, or whoever it was, were in trouble in some way. Coming up to a pristine white home, vines crawling up along the pillars, the lights in the rooms were on and not to mention bright. Stars were splattering the sky and John turned to the sunset with a swell within his chest. He loved these views so much, he loved the philosophy behind it and so many different stories were behind each star.. each galaxy, each that could stretch beyond generations, morphing perhaps into something or for worse.
Sucking in a breath he watched the moving head through the window with a heavy release of air before turning away once more, going to find a nice place to rest in for the night. It'd be hard but maybe he'd crash by the local library or open 24/7 restaurant, those were his easiest bets. And no doubt he'd have to get up early to watch over Sherlock at school, at a distance of course.
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When the guardian angel awoke he awoke with a start, almost surprised to not see the crystal clear gleaming walls, ceilings and floors reflecting his saddened face. John never truly felt at peace anywhere, not even after death, not when he was truly alive. He only ever felt alive when dying on the blood clumped sands of Afghanistan, with the sounds of gun fire and setting of explosives... in the lulls of battle, the lack of danger even had enough of that crackle of electricity in the air to keep is adrenaline running.
Pushing himself up from the restaurant seat he turned to see the last of the stars fleeting as it made its way for the sun to take its place back in the sky, turning to the clock he spotted that it was about 6:30 AM, plenty of time to make his way to Sherlock and find his school. Everything in his back clicked and his shoulder and leg flared up with pain before he gruffly stood to his feet and limped heavily out the restaurant and into the cold smelling city, London has already sprung to life, well, almost.
John knew that there was a school around somewhere, but decided it'd be best not to get lost and follow the tug of his heart, which kept tugging in different other directions. He must be on the move then. Stepping back so his back was pressed against a building wall he waited for the tug to still into one direction, and when it did, he started sprinting. Slinging himself over cars just for the hell of it, the adrenaline, well what he had managed to scrounge up prevented from too much pain distracting him from his objective. The angry honking of the car horns almost made him laugh as he scaled fences and stumbled into and out of yards.
And before John knew it, the school bell was ringing but he had made it. And with a matter of quick thinking he had snatched a long stick to substitute for a stupid cane, he knew he needed it now. Why wasn't he ever sent back in pristine condition like the walls of that hell-hole? It was probably his own little punishment for drowning like this. Shaking away the thought he caught a glimpse of Sherlock, wandering outside the crowds as if contemplating to actually go in. In the end Sherlock turned away with a scuff of his foot and crammed his hands moodily into his pockets and scurried away, clambering over a fence.
This alone John disliked, why didn't he go to school? Was he afraid of the two boys who had chased him the other way? Did he tell his parents? He hoped he did. Following the little boy with a frown, it took a little effort to scale this fence this time, dropping his make-shift cane on the other side. Landing on his feet on a thunk and a wobble he picked up his stick and once more followed the strong tug of his heart until he found Sherlock. He was poking a dead mouse and pushing it into the water. That totally wasn't concerning.
Clearing his throat and politely covering his mouth with a fist he leaned on his cane as he looked at the shocked boy, like a deer in the headlights. "You should be in school... y'know, learning. Like kids do." Sherlock seemed unamused by this and gave him a roll of his eyes before fixing him a skeptical look and a look with recognition before scoffing. "You have high morals, for an adult, meaning to have that you most statistically grew up in independence, depending on yourself only and or taking care of another or a strong role model, but going by your state of clothes your case is most likely the former. Now, the way you hold yourself says military, your stance, your hair cut, the way you hold yourself in general, and statistically speaking in the last few years you were most likely deployed to Afghanistan or Iraq. You're incredibly stupid so don't waste my time."
John could laugh right then and there, but he was confused and awestruck of his child... well not biological child anyways. "S-Sorry?" He spluttered. "Oh please do keep up, you're even worse than Sebastian." the little boy scoffed with a roll of his eyes, though there was a quirk of his brow in interest. Why was Sherlock interested and what in? "I said, Afghanistan or Iraq, I especially loathe repeating myself." He snarled.
"Afghanistan." He stated dumbfounded before quickly breathing. "Amazing! Positively brilliant!" He praised, this led to a bit of shock that crossed the ten year olds face before looking away with a scrunched face. "Really?" He asked, all too quite for John to hear. But Johns face was bright, excited as he stepped forwards. "But you haven't answered my question." He re-stated, tilting his head as he unknowingly stood normally. "School is but for children with an IQ less than a pear, it's tedious for me since I am far by their standards. I ran into you yesterday, but you didn't yell. Not even that but you turned those two boys - which I could have handled perfectly fine since I was leading into a trap! - around?"
"You looked like you had it extravagantly handled there." John teased, but Sherlock just looked insulted. Standing up sharply and growing bored of watching the dead, bloating mouse he started walking away. Towards the school at the very least. "Going to school now? I thought they were for the students with IQ's lower than a pears?" He called after him with a sneer. "Shut up!" Was the call back and John nearly broke into a fit of laughter.