John Watson (
ihadabadday) wrote2018-02-01 12:21 pm
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In Plain Sight - AU - Locked to
seaweed_writes
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.
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.
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"Tell him how you feel. About your John, this John. Be human." He then vanished.
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That was about the worst advice that Fates could have given him. The man was worthless, and he wondered sometimes why he even counted Greg among his very few friends. He was a lot more tolerable than most, and that was no small feat, but when it came to advice or help, he was pretty much pants at alt.
He sighed and settled into a chair that he pulled next to the bed. There was nothing to do but wait until John came to now. No telling how long that might take.
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The last thing he remembered.... He had called Sherlock by the name Hades.
Why had he called him that?
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That was, until John woke up
"John." He leaned over the bed, looking into the man's dark blue eyes. He put his hand gently on John's chest. "Stay in bed. You.. were feeling ill earlier, Perhaps you should rest a bit more before you try to get up." He wasn't really sure what in the Nine Realms that John should be doing, but since he was still technically human, resting sounded like a good idea.
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"I'm confused. I don't understand. What's going on?"
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"John." He asked calmly. "What do you remember... about me?" Sherlock;s heart would have been in his throat, if he had a heart.
This was it, he was going to reveal everything to the man and hope that it pulled him closer, and didn't tear him apart or scare him away.
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He gave a shaky breath. "What's happening? Am I dying? Is the gold killing me?" He had never told many about the "gold", his power. In the past five years it had only gotten stronger.
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"You.... cared for me a lot." He did admit. "And I ... I didn't reciprocate. I didn't know how." He paused for a moment. "But I think I know how to now."
"No. You are not dying. You will never really die. You... are not fully human. That is why you see your eyes change color. Even I don't understand it fully."
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"What happens when this fully wakes up?" He asked in reference to his sleeping power.
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"You chose to be mortal and life out a normal mortal life. But.. you don't have to this time. You will be a demigod, not a god like me, but not a mortal like the people here in the Overworld. You will have your feet in both worlds."
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Sometimes he didn't know what he was doing. But this was right, content.
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"I can take you back to Hell with me. We can talk to the Fates and Zeus, my brother. One of them might be able to tell us more."
It sounded like he remembered some of it, but not all of it yet. Maybe it would come back in little groups? There were still many more questions than answers.
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"I... I'm not ready to go." He admitted, "I want to know more before I agree to anything."
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Sherlock's shoulders slumped a little when John said that he didn't want to go back to Hell. Wasn't that supposed to be their 'Happily ever after' or whatever that mortal saying was?
He could, of course, make John go back to Hell, but if he wanted to care for John, he was pretty sure it was best not to do things against his will.
"If you want to know more, we should talk with the Fates. He might be able to give us more information." He had no way to call Greg, which mean either going to Hell, or going to his business, Fates would most likely be in one of those places.
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He pulled his blankets close to himself. He felt cold, so... So...
His eyes closed as he slumped.
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Had he fainted? Or was something else wrong?
Was he not living up to his side?
He was trying to show John that he cared. He had kissed the man, even.
But he had no idea if it was enough.
Damn it all, he needed to talk to the Fates. Mycroft was a very last resort.
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Without even being asked, he stepped forward and pressed two fingers to Sherlock's forehead. He showed him how most human's showed the other that they cared. Through actions and words. With meaning behind it. Not wanting for something.
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Before Sherlock could respond to what Fates had said, he felt the fingers on his forehead, and a wealth of information rushed into his brain. He saw kissed and hugs, words to say and little things that can be done- none of which of course he had ever done before.
It was all so much, he pulled away from Greg when the information stopped.
"I... I'm supposed to do all of those things, cook for him, give him words of encouragement, hold him for no reason.... and those things will help him merge the mortal and god sides of him?" He asked, for once his voice was unsure.
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He looked at Sherlock, studying him. "Surely you remember what it was like having John ripped from you. The emptiness that came after... That's how John is all the time right now."
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Can someone without a heart die of a broken one, he wondered.
If Sherlock was going to describe John, 'fragile' would not be one of the words. One of the reasons that he was drawn to HIS John originally was because of his strength.
But he didn't argue with Fates. He kept his thoughts to himself, for once.
"I... I will try. But I can't be human. I'm not. I never was. I don't understand those feelings and emotions that these... mortals have."
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48 hours with human emotions, a whole gambit of them, to try and give the god an idea of how to relate to John Watson.
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Of course, he was one of the only gods, or really any entity on any plane that Sherlock did trust. He found himself nodding his head, against his better judgement.
"I do, but why do you ask?" He said, with some trepidation.
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