Chapter Text
The labyrinthine streets of London were currently being slowly devoured by tendrils of thickened mist, offering an ethereal backdrop to the slow moving traffic and passive pedestrians. The eerie false twilight gave a distinct pull -a longing- for a fit of exploring.
‘Wanderlust,’ He mused absently, letting the curtain fall back over the window.
Within a comfortably cluttered apartment of haphazard style and sense, a tall and lean figure moved across the room with unnatural grace, grabbed a grubby poker, and jabbed at the inoffensive logs in the fireplace. Small sparks from the fire spat out into the living room in protest. He carelessly flung the metal poker to the side with a clang and spun back around. His sharp, piercing gaze darted across the intricacies of case files spread like cryptic mosaics on his desk. Loose leaflets and some torn pages were taped, pinned, and a couple times -nailed- to the closest wall. Not his fault he ran out of tape. The air around him seemed to vibrate with intensity as he paced in front of his handiwork. A faint smile played unbidden upon his lips as he visually scoured the data.
The fire in the fireplace popped and snapped as its fuel shifted, casting wild shadows across the room. He remained unmoved and suddenly stilled, narrowing his ice-blue eyes. Quick as a snake, he snatched a paper off the wall and with a final unimpressed once over, tossed it into the flames.
“Aaaargh, I need more information!”
He whipped out his phone from his back pocket, thumbs flying over the digital keyboard.
<< Get me more. SH
His foot tapped as he stared at the screen, waiting. Two minutes later, a ding.
>> Get stuffed.
‘Ugh!’
Annoying, but not unexpected. He tossed his phone to a chair, steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. Can’t go to the crime scenes without being invited (ridiculous), not allowed to step into the station without a case (see point 1) or near dead (unlikely, though appreciated), and not allowed to directly call unless near dead. He snatched the remote from the mantle and switched the small telly on.
The lastest press conference about the murders suicides was being hosted by his associate (are they associates? He does associate with the man in the verb kind of sense), Lestrade. Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards as he watched the man with the stress-grayed hair give his little speech about the case. Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully. He may not be allowed to call but he wasn’t restricted from texting anyone. An impish gleam settled in his eyes. He quickly retrieved his mobile, tapped a couple times on the glass screen, and confirmed ‘send all’ in a group message. Wouldn’t be able to trace it back to him anyway.
A soft knock at the door disrupted the rooms stillness, the arrival of a visitor momentarily drawing his focus. He swiftly crossed the room and opened the door. His landlady had brought the mail. He greeted her with raised eyebrows.
"Good evening, dear. It's quite chilly out there," she remarked, handing over the letters with a pat on his arm. "Do make sure you get yourself a nice cuppa, it’s going to be cold tonight."
The young man’s demeanor softened, and he offered a quick peck on top of her curls. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied as he took the mail, his expression a mix of appreciation and distant contemplation. “Perhaps, you should make sure I do.”
Mrs. Hudson chuckled warmly. "Oh, Sherlock, you need to take care of yourself,” she said in mock astonishment. “I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”
Sherlock rapidly sorted through the envelopes, tossing them carelessly to the floor. His flurry of movement was soon stilled. He tilted his head, catching something unusual in the pile in his hands. One letter stood out from the rest, its appearance distinct with swirling black ink, sealed with wax, and marked with a unique emblem. He dropped the rest to the floor as he weighed it in his palm, eyes narrowed.
Mrs. Hudson looked at Sherlock with mild worry. “Ah, perhaps I’ll check on you later anyway. I’ll bring a good meat pie.”
“Mmm… yes, very good,” Sherlock murmured as he turned away from her, sliding his thumb carefully under the seal. He barely registered Mrs. Hudson carefully closing the door behind her as he analyzed the stationery. He gingerly removed the creamy, heavy-weighted paper from the satin-like envelope and unfolded it, scanning it quickly. His frown deepened, and frustration simmered beneath his calm exterior as he re-read the message.
Tiptoeing the lines for the past two years to remain a free agent had been a delicate and frustrating balance. Most of the time, he could believe in the illusion it provided. However, every now and then, reminders of how fragile that "freedom" was came knocking. With a low snarl, he snapped his wrist, and the fancy stationery spun into the fireplace. It quickly caught flame - green tinted tongues lapping at it greedily, curling the darkened edges. He remained like stone till every bit of it disintegrated into ash and embers.
In a different part of London, far removed from the mysterious mist-shrouded streets of Marylebone, John Watson lay tangled in a knot of sweat-soaked sheets. His body sporadically jerked as his breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes roved rapidly behind closed lids.
Familiar swirling heat scorched his skin as a chaotic assortment of sensations hammered into him. Shouts, heavy machinery, jostling against his fellow brothers in arms in a transport, the distinct scent of salt, adrenaline, and electric anticipation, before it all skipped away, leaving him breathless.
The whirlwind of memories settled and stabilized, depositing him back into the sickly sweet stench of death and burning buildings. Smoke stung his eyes and he reflexively coughed. His chest squeezed painfully as his heart pounded to the beat of the surrounding gunfire, the acrid taste of fear clinging to his tongue.
He saw himself crouch beside his friend, their uniforms drenched in mud, sweat, and oil. They were pinned down by enemy fire, surrounded by the chaos of battle. His Major's voice was calm and commanding, his presence a pillar of strength amid the madness. The Major’s mouth moved but his words echoed dully and were muffled. John leaned forward, straining harder to hear. James then glanced back at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling with fondness. The claws of anxiety gripped his spine as he fought tooth and nail against the slow realization of what he knew was coming.
No, no, no, no, no….
Time stretched impossibly slow as James’s head turned to better face him. John froze, his breath hitched, watching with wide eyes, helpless. James gave him his familiar lazy smile, “ Trust me.” John thrashed against the invisible chains that held him bound to this dizzying torture, begging himself, God, all the powers that be not to…
The John that was with James returned his smile with reckless abandon.
“Always.”
A sudden violent flash and a bone jarring impact, everything changed. A hail of bullets shrieked through the air narrowly missing them. John gasped, shocked, reeling on his back, his weapon thrown out of reach.
“Watson!” The Major’s voice sounded so, so far away. John coughed and struggled to right himself, eyes watering.
“Captain Watson!”
John’s eyes finally snapped to attention, the Major was already at his side, hauling him up. John swallowed hard as his throat tightened against his will, choking out his weak protest.
And then It happened.
Major James Sholto's form jerked, a soft final exhale and a softening in his eyes as he stared at John with a knowing look. For a brief moment they simply held each other as if it was any other day at base. Reality rushed back with force as James’s eyes darkened, glazing over and then he fell unceremoniously out of John’s arms. John’s sight narrowed to a painful hyper- aware point on Jame’s unseeing face. His vision shook around the edges, he couldn’t suck in enough air to breath, and a deafening roar that filled his ears, took him a few moments to realize it was his own hoarse scream. His skin vibrated with increasingly breathtaking intensity. His breath came in fast and hard, sharp molten pain bloomed along his spine. He fell forward feeling his entire being splitting open from his core with a heartbreaking, agonizing howl that tore up through his throat like a raging demon.
The army believed Major Sholto, the units only registered homo sapien maga, to have been the one that initiated the witchflare, a typically self destructive last ditch move, that had completely incinerated the battlefield. John was the only one that was left somewhat intact. The truth of that day was buried along with his fellow dead. John was discharged; honorably, with a dismissive handshake, and empty condolences for the loss of his comrades.
Now, in the stillness of his small London apartment, John lay awake, his heart pounding and his brow slick with sweat. Not for the last time, he wished the familiar numbness that enveloped him like a heavy wet blanket during waking hours would hurry up and smother him already.
He laid there in the dark as tremors shivered up and down his left arm and he couldn't help but wonder if this was just a reminder of the past or a premonition of things to come.
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John Watson sat in the comfortable, if slightly worn, armchair in the therapist's office. The room was inviting, with soft colors and the soothing presence of several potted plants on the windowsill. He idly wondered if they would recommend him starting his own collection of various succulents. He stared dutifully out the window, seeing but not really looking and sighed. He knew he needed this, was supposed to want it but...he really could not have cared less. His government-appointed therapist, Dr. Ella Stevens, sat across from him, her warm and understanding gaze making him shift uncomfortably and fidget.
“Have you started writing as I suggested? In a journal?” She asked. He cut his blue eyes over to her and gave a noncommittal hum before returning his thousand yard stare back out the window. Dr. Ella gave it a few moments before she spoke again.
“John, you’re a soldier. It’s going to take quite a while for you to find your balance in civilian life. Writing about everything that happened to you and what you experience in life right now-“ John gave her a look. “- would be of great benefit to your adjustment.” Her brown eyes softened. “ Trust me.”
John’s breath hitched as he visibly stiffened, his knuckles growing white while he gripped the arms of the chair. Dr. Ella waited patiently as John fought to school his features back into a faux calm. She took the moment to scribble something into her notepad. John finally took a deep breath, posture still rigid, his gaze remaining distant but no longer staring out the window, and spoke; his words measured and low. "I had the dream again."
Dr. Stevens leaned forward slightly, her expression empathetic, but she could sense the emotional distance in John's demeanor. "Would you like to discuss it?”
John continued staring at her notepad. Several minutes passed, the analog clock on the wall behind the therapist ticking, growing obnoxiously loud in the stuffy room.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
He sniffed and met his therapist's eyes with cool steel, a ghost of his old pride and stubbornness trying to shine through.
“Yeah, no. Absolutely not.”
The therapeutic session continued for twenty more minutes with a palpable tension in the air, a discomfort underscoring John's reluctance to fully engage with the process. His responses were detached and clipped. He picked absently at the loose threads on the fabric of the chair. He couldn't help but wonder if this government-mandated therapy would ever truly bring him the closure he sought or if he needed to put the ol’ dog down himself.
John couldn’t leave the therapist's office fast enough, limping heavier than usual. He gritted his teeth with every muted thump of his rubber tipped cane. Once outside, he found himself on the busy streets of London, the mist from yesterday evening still lingering in the air. The city bustled with life, yet John felt strangely detached. He walked with purpose but without direction, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.
A familiar ache settled in his chest, a distant longing for a sense of purpose that had eluded him since being discharged…since he left a piece of himself behind. His phone notification binged at him, thankfully distracting himself from his own self loathing. He unlocked the phone and read the new email. Oh, good, a possible landlord responded back to him about taking a look at a rental. John sucked in a breath and looked around, making an effort to be present and see where he was in the city. He stared at the street signs and did an about-face and frowned. He had walked a hell of a lot further than he thought. He looked back down at his phone and entered the rental property’s address into a search engine. Huh, how convenient. Only a few more kilometers away. John leaned heavily on his cane and contemplated his choices. A tantalizing waft of caffeine tickled his nose, his body automatically turning into it to his left. He checked the email again. He’s got time for a latte.
John Watson stepped out of the cab, his breath forming a brief, ghostly dance in the chill. The rhythmic hum of the city was distant. It was strangely unnerving not to be surrounded by the constant visual and auditory bombardment. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. However, this rental was close enough to the city to detect a symphony of distant voices and muted sounds of semi suburban life. With a sigh, he adjusted the collar of his coat, the mist settling on the fabric like a fine dew.
In his hand, he cradled a cardboard cup, warmth seeping through the thin material, offering a comforting contrast to the coolness of the day. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the small opening in the lid, prompting him to take a sip as the cabby pulled away from the curb behind him.
The rental property loomed ahead, a stoic facade not exactly what he would call welcoming. John approached the home, the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes punctuating the quiet. He glanced up at the bare windows and pursed his lips and checked the email for the umpteenth time. It did say it’d come furnished.
As he reached up on his tip toes for the keys that were hidden in the front door’s light fixture, the weight of the impending decision suddenly settled heavily on his shoulders. The prospect of a new place, a fresh start, felt both overwhelming and daunting. His hand trembled as he grasped the keys and he drew in a shaky breath as he lowered himself back down to flat feet.
With a deep breath, he inserted the key into the lock, turning it firmly. The wooden door creaked open, revealing a dark interior. John stepped inside, allowing his senses to attune to the stillness that enveloped him. The click of the door closing echoed through the sparsely furnished space.
As he explored each room, his mood shifted from curiosity to unease. The near bare-boned rooms seemed to hold a silent history, whispering tales of previous occupants and forgotten moments. John's mind wandered, trying his best to envision a life he could carve within these walls.
He exited the kitchen and gingerly started walking up the stairs, swiping a finger on the worn bannister. Same level of grime and dust as the other rooms. He made it to the first landing and fingered a bit of torn wallpaper. The house wasn’t in the best of shape but it certainly wasn’t the worst he’s seen. Maybe he could haggle the price down a bit for the dilapidated state. He trudged up the last few stairs and pushed open what would be his bedroom if he accepted the rental. The door swung in silently. He lifted his eyes to scan the empty room and froze, stomach dropping.
“ You’ve got to be bloody kidding me.”