The Blog of

John Watson was used to the funny looks, or the whispers. What sort of person went around without any talismans or amulets anymore? Even non-magical folk had them. Either purchased or made for them by loved ones.

But... he didn't need one. Not that he would openly tell the people why. After all, his parents had stressed it to him. Never, ever tell anyone what he was.

So he moved through life as a regular non-magical. Itnwas the easiest option really. And he marched off to war, a talented surgeon and medical man that many people overlooked the fact that he wasn't a sorcerer. And then he got shot. And once he was recovered he was sent home to England.

Things were... okay. And it was by luck that he ran into Mike Stamford. It was good to see a friendly face.

He thought that he had his entire life worked out. Go to school, work hard, become a doctor, join the Army, come home, work in an emergency room.

But life didn't work out that way.

A girl he had been seeing during the year he had planned to take the A Levels was a musician. He went with her to a practice one day and found the piano to be beautiful and fascinating. That night when he went home, he started to research the piano, various pieces. He found a used keyboard to learn how to play.

It was like overnight his life had changed and his plan was no longer his plan.

He worked hard, learning to play by teaching himself. He also taught himself to read music. Bit by bit his skills improved and he was able to read more music and play more complicated pieces.

John reworked his plan for his future. He was accepted to the Birmingham Conservatoire. He applied himself there more and more, learning and mastering harder pieces until he graduated with a job offer from the London Symphony Orchestra.

And this was his first day of practice. It was a new season, but he noticed, as he stood on the sidelines, a lot of the musicians knew each other. They were all far more elegant than he was. John bit his lip suddenly nervous and worried.

He heard someone shouting something, but he paid it no mind.

The sun still rose and set on the Great British Empire. The colonies had never made noises about independence as the Empire had actually listened to its citizen’s concerns and gave them what they wanted. A voice. Each colony had representatives in the House of Lords and House of Commons. In order to gain the voice in the House of Lords, a Royal member of the Empire was appointed to a colony and that family remained the figurative head of the colony. Sometimes, when the families would not listen to the needs and concerns of the residents of the colonies, the Empire would step in. They would remove the family and replace them. Though it was rare that it happened, perhaps a dozen times since the failed Revolution for American Independence over two hundred and fifty years ago.

This tale does not talk about that time.

Instead it talks about a time now, in an era in which the Empire is prospering, and there is peace (which makes it all sound like a propaganda tale, but really, it is pretty chill out there).

John Watson was happily married to William Scott Sherrinford, they had no children (and were honestly fine with that) and lived in the colony of New Zealand. As about as far from England as they could get. Both had their reasons for living so far, but neither of them were willing to discuss it with outside parties. It was their business and it was private than you very much.

But of course, that changed one day five years into their marriage when they had no choice but to return to England and thus London.

John sighed when they got to their flat. They hadn’t been here in five years, but it was still like they had never left. Mrs. Hudson was a saint and kept it clean and god. There was a full pantry. He got the kettle on for tea and searched for some of William’s favorite biscuits.

William’s adopted father had passed away suddenly and they had rushed back to assist Brenda, his adopted mother, with the funeral. And neither of them were sure how long they would be here.

With the kettle on, he went to turn on the telly and very nearly dropped his phone (he actually dropped the remote, the batteries went somewhere).

There was a man who looked identical to his husband on the telly. What?

He sat down heavily and watched. It was a news program on the Holmes family, the representatives of the colony of South Africa. He… He hadn’t known. Neither of them had known. How had this been hidden? He recalled the Holmes family, they also presided over the county of Devonshire. It was an intimidating family. Was William related?

John barely noticed his ringing phone. He was entranced with the telly still, in a bit of shock.

Did William have family? Why did they put him up for adoption? He… John ran a hand through his hair. Was it because the nobility was often worried what the omen of twins meant? Which was rubbish. That was hedgemage magic and not applicable to today’s society. It had been proven that twins were not an ill omen over and over again. But did this meant the Holmes believed old Hedgemage superstitions? How could they? They were one of the families who had dragons living with them for Christ’s sake. Dragons would only live on land or with families they deemed worthy and those who made it public were few and far between. The only reason the public knew the Holmes family had a dragon was because Sherlock, their youngest son had been photographed carrying a dragon babe.

Of course that meant they had to keep the small dragon in their possession a secret. She was currently asleep in her travel bed on their bed in the master room. They had found her when they had been hiking in the backcountry of New Zealand. Abandoned by her mother they suspected, or her mother had been illegally poached.

John was still entranced by the news story, not noticing as the door to the flat opened.

It was a time where Gods walked among men and women. They reeked havoc on those that refused to leave offerings and lavished those that were considered favorites. But with any system, there were those that just were missed, forgotten.

But all of the mortals that lived under the realm of the Gods... They were connected to another person. Whether mortal or not. But more often than naught they were connected to another mortal. Being connected to a God was something special.

And Iōannēs, the son of Valtéros was not special.

He felt ordinary, overlooked.

But he didn't mind. Iōannēs was able to move through his life in Athens with ease. He studied medicine. But he was not a Philosopher or a Mathematician, so he was overlooked once more.

He was walking through the empty market one evening. It was after dusk. All the vendors had gone home. He was enjoying the quiet and the peace.

John Watson was a professor of Archaeology, with a focus in ancient Middle Eastern artifacts and history. He was mild mannered and ordinary. People assumed he was boring, university educated and went home to do whatever it is that ordinary people do when.

But John Watson had a secret. He often carried out interesting archaeological missions (for lack of better descriptors) for the British Government. Things that the government didn't want others to find, to keep secrets safe from the public. Not that the public didn't deserve to know. But there was much that John Watson found that would turn history in its head, which would cause chaos among the population.

But this day, he had finished his classes and was sitting in his office. He was researching something he had been working on his entire career.

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon and thus the other missing Ancient Wonders. The only one that had survived antiquity was the Great Pyramid of Giza. And John suspected that was for a reason. There had been reports of other pyramids being dismantled, of crumbling and collapsing. This pyramid was the height of the pyramid building craze that clutched ancient Egypt for so long.

But that wasn't his focus.

He didn't tell many he was researching the Gardens. Too many other archaeologists had been laughed out of a career for it. No. He wanted to find them, prove their existence before he published anything.

He closed his notebook and tucked it into his messenger bag. It was leather and worn, he had taken it on many of his adventures, and he always kept a gun tucked into it. John left the university ground and hailed a cab. He was off to the British Museum to see the Alexander the Great exhibit that was there. Maybe there was something in the collection that would lead to another clue or breakthrough.

At the museum he was stopped in front of a large stone tablet (a recent discovery) reading the text and translating. It wasn't too busy this day, as it was a Wednesday, but there were still people milling about, talking. And he suspected the Curator, one Sherlock Holmes, was watching or around. Bringing this particular exhibit to the museum had been a feat.

No one knew how long Gods had walked among the mortals. They just knew they had. Some remained in their country of origin, some branched out and traveled. Others started business or charities. Some just went through existence simply being. Belief didn't have much to do with how the Gods chose to lead their lives.

This tale though, it focuses on the Greek Gods of old and Mount Olympus (which is a real place and traditionally is where Zeus is said to live with Hera).

John Watson didn't care for the politics of the Gods that surrounded them every day. He had other things to focus on, to pay attention to. Like medical school, and then the military. It wasn't until he was shot and laying in the desert, bleeding, did he whisper things to the God of Death, to Hades. To a god he didn't believe in. Blood whispers they were often called. And gods hardly paid attention to them, most believed they were the whispers of dying men.

But John Watson survived when others with the same injury had died. What was different about him?

He returned to London on an army pension and a cane. He shuffled through his life, a constant ache in his chest, like there was something missing. Though he had little to no idea of what was missing. He helped others where he could, donating his time and what little money. A homeless veteran (it boiled him so to see those who helped their country be left behind) once called him a beacon of light.

A beacon of light huh?

Most days he didn't feel like one. Most days his mood was dark and everything was shit.

One night when he was limping slowly back to his dismal bedsit, something caught his attention. He glanced down an alley and saw a tall man dressed in black, being mugged by some ratty youth. The man was far too posh for this neighborhood. So why was he here? But that didn't matter. John, on two strong legs, charged into the alley and used his cane to knock the criminal away. He didn't notice, but there seemed to be a light around him, an otherworldy aura to him.

He held the cane like a sword and pointed it at the would be thief. "You need to leave here." John commanded. It had been easy for some to forget that he had been Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers in Her Majesty's Army.