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John hadn’t seen them in over twenty years. He bought the boots back in 1985 when he was sixteen and was mad at the entire world. He wore them for four years, solid. They were his footwear equivalent of “fuck you”.
Nothing fit: he was too short, he was too skinny, he had spots and his sister got more girls than he did. Maybe he didn’t even want girls. He just didn’t know. Why did everything have to be so confusing when you are too young to sort it all out?
The old pair of Doc Marten’s sat in a box of stuff he’d been lugging around since he had moved out of his parent’s house. Everyone has that one box that never gets unpacked for one reason or another.
Now they were on his feet again; worn, crumpled and scuffed. His feet and these boots were old lovers. They slid on just as easily as the last time he had them on. John remembered how defiant he felt when he wore them.
He laughed at himself and muttered “Ten feet tall and bullet-proof.” That turned out to be as far from the truth as you could get.
In those years when he was angry, rebelling and just looking for John Hamish
Watson – whoever the fuck that really was – the one thing he was sure of was he knew was strong. Strong-willed, strong-minded, and physically stronger than people gave him credit for. Hurt someone he loved and you’d find out just how strong.
Things finally started to sort out for him after his mother insisted on him spending his gap year with his granddad. “Get away from here and whatever it is that is making you so angry,” was her advice.
John’s grandfather David was a veterinarian in Aberdeen Scotland. He took care of the local farmer’s livestock. John went because he respected his grandfather. He would miss his mates, but maybe his mother was right. A change might be good.
And it turned out his mother was right. John worked hard for his grandfather, who was a quiet, gentle soul. David cared not only for the animals but for the farmers too. He knew that the farmer and his livestock were a working unit – if the animal was sick or injured, the man who owned it couldn’t do his job. Also, some of the more stubborn men would listen to David about their health when they wouldn’t listen to their own bodies. They would listen to his advice to see someone about the pain in their hands or backs.Or the rattling cough they couldn’t shake.
John decided to be a doctor after that time spent with his granddad. He wanted to care for people the way David took care of the animals, and people, in his community.
So, he came home and enrolled in medical school. His strength served him well there, toughing out long days of study and residency that washed out lots of his classmates.
He decided to join the Army and traded his Doc Marten’s for a pair of combat boots and fatigues. Being strong and calm in the worst situation on Earth helped John save lives, even his own.
That all felt like ages ago. It was ages ago.
He looked down at the boots on his feet and remembered the angry, confused young man he’d been.
“John.” The voice came from behind him, low and sultry. As it always did, a shiver ran down his spine when he heard his name spoken just so by his husband. “How long have you had them?”
Of course Sherlock knew all about them just with a single glance: Oxblood Doc Marten, size 7, 10-eyelet boot. Steel-toe, air cushion sole. Oil, fat, acid, petrol, and alkali resistant. From 1984 or ‘85. John didn’t have to say anything, really.
“Since I was sixteen.” John blushed a little bit. He could see Sherlock picturing him at that age. Hair bleached blond, trying very hard to grow a moustache. Black t-shirt with some band logo on it, black motorcycle jacket, plaid pants with zippers all over them. A pierced ear.
“I wish I could have known you, back then.” Sherlock came forward and put his arms around John. “I might have been a different person had I met you when I was younger.”
“Stop it. We met when we needed to. Its perfect how we met. I wouldn’t change a single thing. Being a teenager wasn’t just hard for you, you know. I had a terrible time of it.”
John had Sherlock sit on the bed. He told Sherlock about how angry he’d been, how confused and frustrated. He spoke about his grandfather and how that time spent with him turned his life around. When he finished his tale, he bent to take the boots off.
Sherlock stopped him. “Take off everything else instead.”