Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide thoughts.
John’s War
When it begins, it’s subtle. A flutter in his stomach, which later turns into an ache in his heart. He knows it’s wrong, and he desperately tries to fight it. It’s like a war, and he is the only participant.
John’s been in love many times. Audrey was the first, Bethany the last. And it’s been fine. Normal. Girls seem to like him. He’s got quite the reputation by the time he’s reached sixteen.
***
It all started to crumble when his sister, Harry, came out as a lesbian at fourteen. Their parents had been livid, but Harry came prepared and was totally unfazed. She’d even arranged to stay at her girlfriend’s family, fully aware that her own mum and dad would kick her out if she didn’t retract and started to act normal.
***
Lance was half American, half British. He and his mother had recently moved back to London after almost twenty years in America. The moment John laid his eyes on Lance, the fluttering began. Lance looked like a film star. Golden, curly hair, green eyes, androgyne features, a slender body, strong hands, long fingers. He was everything John wasn’t. Gay, for starters. And he wanted John of all people.
Words John’s father used on such people, played on repeat in his mind:
Faggot. Queer. Degenerate.
John tried to tell Lance, he was straight, but there was no denying how much John wanted Lance to kiss and touch him. His penis reminded him repeatedly and inconveniently every so often of that particular fact.
“John. Stop this. It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lance whispered softly and kissed John’s neck. “Haven’t you heard of bisexuality?”
***
Running away to Afghanistan was the only way forward for John when he couldn’t rescue Lance after his overdose. He felt the need to atone for his lack of observation.
How had he not seen the self-destructing path Lance was heading down? He was a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake! Had he been in denial about that too? Didn’t he want to believe that such a talented man Lance turned out to be, could choose to destroy himself just because he failed the interview for the main role in a West End play?
“I’m sorry, darling, but there’ll be other roles. New chances. No one gets them on the first try, surely,” John had tried to reassure his lover, but to no avail.
So, there he was. In Afghanistan where danger lurked around every corner. John was quite startled that he enjoyed the danger so much. He felt alive, thrilled, his broken heart notwithstanding.
And then, another man invaded his thoughts, and eventually his bed. Major James Sholto.
***
Mike Stamford had never seen a more broken man in his life than John Watson, as he limped past the bench, where he was sitting thinking about Sherlock's words from earlier:
“Who would want me for a flatmate? I’m a difficult man at best. People hate being around me. Can you imagine someone actually living with me? Who is alive themselves. No, Mike. There exists no such human, I assure you.”
“John! John Watson!” he called out.
When John just gave him a blank stare, Mike sighed and introduced himself. The response was insulting to say the least. No “oh, nice to see you again, mate,” or “what have you been up to?” There was…nothing.
“Who has left you heartbroken, John?” Mike didn’t say and let John walk away without having said a word.
***
After his meeting with Mike, John finds himself outside Barts hospital. He’s got fond memories from his practise here. With Mike. He winces when he reminisces how rude he was to the jovial man. But it couldn’t be helped. John’s a broken man in so many ways, and he just wants to be left alone. He looks up. Wonders how it would feel to stand on the edge of that roof. Would he dare to jump off it if the opportunity arose? He’s never been afraid of heights. And he longs for the pain to subside. The emotional pain. The pain that scars his heart.
Time eludes him. Why are his knees hurting? He opens his eyes. Is he kneeling on the pavement? Apparently. When did that happen? How long? His thoughts stop abruptly when a warm hand is placed on his good shoulder.
“Are you alright?”
A deep baritone. John perceives a posh accent. The warmth from the man’s hand travel down his spine like lava.
Radiant. Alluring. Dangerous.
He lifts his head. At first glance, the man could be Lance’s twin. But then, John realises that it’s only the curly hair and height they have in common. This man’s hair is almost black with tinges of auburn. His eyes are blue, but also green and blue green. The colours are constantly shifting. They’re mesmerising. John wants to drown himself in them.
John stands. He still hasn’t said a word. The man hands him his cane and speaks again.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
For the first time in years John’s first response isn’t to flee. Instead, he straightens his back, lifts his chin and asks:
“How? Tell me.”
The flicker of surprise, quickly followed by insecurity on the man’s face, makes John realise that this can be, if he lets it, a new beginning.
“Go on,” John prompts.
When the man speaks again, John is lost. An ease sets within him, and his heart stops cracking.
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