Chapter Text
There are three words nearly every person in the world learns from the moment they're born. Classifications that have been around from time immemorial.
Monstrum, Magus, and Humanus.
Monstrum. Derived from the Latin verbs monere and moneo, both of which hold the same definitions- “to warn, remind, or instruct.”
It, along with its genitive plural Monstrorum, are the Latin root of the word Monster.
John had never really been a particular fan of that word, especially in the context of referring to an entire population of individuals. Unfortunately for him, and rather fortunate for the one who started the whole Monstrum business in the first place, Magick that affects time doesn't particularly mix well with going to the past when one doesn't have a specific destination in mind. That, and Time Magick is rather seriously forbidden, but if you ask him that is neither here nor there.
Magus referred to anyone who studied and worked nearly exclusively with Magick in a multitude of ways, with most Magi commonly being humans, but not always. He'd run into plenty of Monstrum over the years who pursued careers utilizing Magick to know better.
And Humanus was rather self explanatory- Humans. The so-called ordinary, though truthfully that was far from the true case, Humans were extraordinary in their own right.
All three have been moving in a rather complicated dance of unification and defiance with each other for centuries. That's simply how things have always been as far back as any can recall. There was no before, or who was in the world first.
And of those three, John was. Well. John. Just John. That's all he's ever wished to be, or ever will be. Simply John Hamish Watson. Centuries old classifications hold no merit nor meaning for his state of being. Classifications did not dictate how successful he was at protecting his squad, how disciplined he was when a gun rested in his hands, or how efficient he was with a scalpel in the operating room.
‘No, they certainly had nothing to do with you being sent home,’ That traitorous part of John's mind hums, tired blue eyes absentmindedly glancing at passersby as he slowly makes his way down the street. The stark clacking sound of his cane meeting the pavement in tune with every step dampens his mood even further. ‘What decided it was that damned tremor in the end. Can't very well save lives when you can hardly prepare your tea, can you?’
As ironic (and possibly a bit unhinged) as it sounds, Afghanistan was John's safe haven. No demands or expectations shoved onto his shoulders beyond the expected, coupled with the safety and assurance of having comrades at his back was exactly what a younger John needed back then. What he still needs now.
And all it took was a single bullet to tear away that sense of security, of being, of purpose.
Not to say returning to London was bad. Not really. Disorienting, certainly, but no, not bad in the least. It was the lack of direction that was slowly killing him, though the stress of being amongst London’s surging crowds was most definitely trying its best to do him in as well. But no. Still far more preferable than returning home in the long run, even if the cost of living was becoming a lot more than his Army pension can reliably sustain (And no matter however much Harry may disagree with him regarding the situation as a whole. Even still, no amount of arguing was going to convince him to live anywhere but London.).
“John! John Watson-!”
Abruptly pulling away from his internal thoughts, John's head instinctively snaps around to face the vague direction his name is being called from, sharp gaze immediately locking onto a middle aged man standing in front of a park bench. Short brown hair, rounded rectangular glasses, and a creamish tan coat over some decent dress clothes is what John manages to note before the man's scent subtly registers in his mind.
Coffee, pen ink, old papers, and..antiseptic? Familiar. Why does he smell like-
“Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together.” An offered handshake is suddenly within John's line of vision, and he just barely manages to stifle the embarrassed blush that tries to bloom on his face as he quickly accepts Mike's hand. Got too lost in his thoughts again, made the other man think he'd forgotten him, bloody hell Watson, keep it together.
“Mike! Sorry, yes, Mike- Hi, Hello. How've you been?” Smooth, Watson. Smooth. Fuckwit.
“Yeah, I know. Got a bit fat.” Despite the self-deprecating words Mike's smiling brightly, gesturing to himself as he speaks as if to say ‘Look at me! Isn't it funny?’
That cheerful smile alone is all that's needed to immediately plunge John's mind back to those younger days back at Barts. Mike may have changed in appearance a bit, but at his heart he seems to be just about the same as he once was. Cheer and soft spoken optimism personified.
“No, no, you're not you..you're..” Sighing softly, John takes a steadying breath before continuing on, a weak attempt at a grin on his face as he nods in the direction of a shop that's a ways down past the park path that they're standing on.
“Nevermind. Coffee?”
Mike gives him a bright happy smile and quickly gathers up his satchel he left sitting propped against the bench he's been sitting on, returning to John's side with its handle clutched tightly in his hand.
“Absolutely.”
“So? How are things? I thought I'd heard something about you actually going through with going abroad, getting shot at and all that.”
“I got shot.” Short and straight to the point. He doesn't catch the startled look on Mike's face, or the worry in his eyes as he watches John sip his coffee. Just answers as clearly as he can in hopes that the topic will switch out to something else. Something more bearable.
“Christ. How serious?”
Mm, No dice then. Pity. He should've known his luck wouldn't work with him on this.
John makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat and gestures vaguely at his cane, refusing to look towards Mike as he does. “Enough to have this damn thing.”
“And London doesn't trouble you? You're doing alright?” There it is. Perhaps the biggest question out of this topic’s batch that John had hoped Mike wouldn't ask. Not out of any sort of cruelty of course, John's fairly certain Mike doesn't have a single mean bone in his body- it's just the inevitable worried questioning. Unavoidable.
“I'm managing. An Army pension in London isn't exactly brilliant, but..” John glances at Mike with a small, and hopefully reassuring, smile. “Really, I'm fine. And, before you even start, yes- I'll reach out to you and Dahlia if I ever need help.”
“Mm. I'll have to hold you to that, Lord knows what Lia will do if I don't.” Mike's giving him a suspicious and almost fondly exasperated look, a look straight from their old uni days, that John quickly decides to ignore. Maybe it's the fact he has a familiar face by his side distracting him with casual small talk, but there's a confusing mixture of calm and the striking urge to just leave swimming around in John’s chest. He won't, of course he won't, but it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
“Where are you then? Still at Bart's?”
“Teaching now actually. Bright young things like we used to be. Gods I hate them.” Mike jokes with a placid grin, his face brightening with pride as his words spark a little laugh from John. “Are you certain about sticking around London? If Harry can't help, Maybe you could try a flatshare.”
The snort that leaves John is automatic. Harry would rather disown him altogether than help, and honestly homelessness sounded far more appealing than approaching her for anything. A flatshare on the other hand would be troublesome for entirely different reasons altogether. His psychosomatic limp, chronic nightmares, and overall disposition wouldn't earn him any points with his potential flatmate, and those weren't even the entire list of issues he'd end up bringing to the table.
“Who the hell would want me for a flatmate?” John sips his coffee, raising a curious brow as Mike laughs. “What? What's so funny?”
“Nothing, it's just,” Mike chuckles again, shaking his head in disbelief. “You're the second person to tell me that today.”
Interesting. “Who was the first?”
Damn Argus McMillan for helping him figure out his quote unquote ‘type’, Damn that months long bender of dating said type back in Uni, and Damn Mike and his cheeky arse for bringing him here knowing fully well just who he was introducing him to.
Sex personified, that's bloody well who.
As if he needs to be making a fool of himself in front of such a catch at a time like this. Fucking Stamford.
Running into another old colleague or two had been uncomfortable but expected. The new, more advanced equipment in the lab Mike drug him to was a given when one considered how long it has been since both he and Mike studied there and how advanced the medical field has become in that time.
The tall, lithe, dark haired man at the far end of said lab pipetting an unknown substance onto a petri dish, on the other hand, was the equivalent of a gods-sent pipe bomb.
Limping further into the lab, John does his best to ignore the man at the other end of the room, silently praying he isn't truly who Mike plans on introducing him to. “Bit different from our day, isn't it?”
“Mate, you've no idea.” Mike grins, a not so subtle gleam in his eyes as he glances between John and the stranger. Bastard. John rolls his eyes at him, annoyed, though the smile on his face is more than fond.
“Mike, may I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine.” The stranger speaks up with a silken baritone, sitting down on the chair that's situated in front of the microscope he appears to be using.
“Is there something wrong with the landline?”
“No, I simply prefer to text.” Understandable, and a habit John himself shares. Far easier to send information over text and continue with your day instead of stumbling through a call where the other person won't have answers right away. With a surprising lack of hesitation John reaches into his coat pocket and grabs his phone, holding it out towards the dark haired stranger with a small awkward smile.
“Ah, well. Here. You can use mine.”
“Oh, thank you.” Just barely concealing the surprise on his face the man stands up again and strides over to gently pluck John's phone from his hand, Looking John up and down before flipping it open as he quickly gets to work typing out a message.
Gesturing towards John with a wave of his hand, Mike speaks up again, smiling as he introduces him. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”
The man makes a faint noise of acknowledgement, fingers flying across the keyboard of John's phone. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan.” John responds automatically, habit kicking in swiftly. “Sorry, but how did you know?” He's smiling again, genuinely smiling. Just who is this man?
Before John can pull an answer from him a petite, gentle looking woman in a stark white lab coat walks in with a steaming mug in her hands, pulling the stranger's attention immediately.
“Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He flicks off John's phone before passing it off to him, Looking up as he accepts the mug from the shy looking woman- Molly. “What happened to the lipstick?”
“Oh it..It wasn't working for me.” Her smile is a titch strained now, a faint blush blooming on her cheeks.
Evidently missing the obvious embarrassment on Molly's face, the man continues, sipping his coffee and grimacing at the taste. “Really? I thought it was a big improvement,” he vaguely gestures at his face in a circular motion. “Your mouth is too small now.”
The blush on Molly's face deepens as she murmurs a soft ‘okay’ before leaving the room. Mystery man doesn't seem to notice nor care about her sudden departure as he moves to sit back down in his chosen chair.
“How do you feel about the violin?”
“Depends,” John hums, his smile taking on a more amused turn. “Do you happen to be any good?”
“Considering I play when I'm thinking, I'd argue very good.”
“And I'm sure you also happen to not talk for days on end due to said thinking. Am I wrong?”
“Would that bother you?” The man relaxes against the work table while setting down his coffee and pulling a keyboard closer, an intrigued shine in his eyes as he looks John over again. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, after all.”
“I'm an army veteran with PTSD and a habit of falling mute on bad days, I'm no stranger to silence.” If John's mind wasn't caught on this fascinating man before, it most definitely was now, no holds barred.
Relaxing his weight a little more casually against his cane, John completely misses the amused grin on Mike's face as the bespectacled man watches the two hit it off. “Besides. I'd argue potential flatmates should also know the good about each other. For instance I'd say I'm a rather decent cook, I happen to love the violin, am generally a neat person, and have been told I make a damn good cuppa.”
The man doesn't even bother to pretend he isn't surprised now, an eager grin on his face as he forgoes working on the keyboard as he may have planned in favor of focusing his full attention on John.
“I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. You, Doctor Watson, are fascinating.”
“Fascinating?”
“Intriguing.” Mystery man gives a subtle shrug while picking up a pristine looking black Belstaff coat. “You haven't run yet, so you've already lasted longer than most others.”
The man stands up and slips on the coat before he ties on a navy blue scarf, casually stepping towards John and Mike as he prepares to leave.
“I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening. 7 o'clock sharp.” He finishes adjusting his coat and scarf, stopping in front of John. “Sorry, gotta dash. I believe I may have forgotten my riding crop in the mortuary.”
“Hold on a moment.” John raises a hand in a gentle gesture to get the man to stop. “You've got me at a disadvantage.”
“Disadvantage how?”
“Well for starters. You know my name, but haven't supplied yours, haven't told me where we're meeting, and we've only just met so we hardly know anything about each other. You're not trying to get me to budge off, are you?”
The man raises an elegant brow, amusement dancing in his blue (Green? Gods, just how many opportunities is he going to have to decipher this man's eyes if he actually goes through with this?) eyes as he leans in as if to tell John some grand secret.
“I know you're an Army Doctor who has been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for any form of help because you don't approve of him - possibly due to his alcoholism; far more likely because he has recently walked out on his wife. There are secondary reasons as well, reasons I am forced to admit I cannot yet place from a mere first glance, yet all the same I will note they are there. And I know that your therapist believes your limp is psychosomatic-” He glances down at John's leg, unintentionally triggering John to shuffle in place a bit. “Quite correctly I'm afraid.”
Looking back up while standing back to his full height he gives John a smug smile. “That's enough to go off of, don't you think?”
“Brilliant.” John breathes, chuckling softly while stepping back out of his potential flatmate's path to the door. “But that still doesn't answer my questions. Who are you?”
“Sherlock Holmes,” The man - Sherlock - answers while stepping towards the door, one of his hands moving up to tug up the collar of his coat. “And the address is two two one B Bakerstreet.”
He opens the door and steps through, turning his head to give John and Mike a wink (John swears, would bet money on it even, that there is subtle blush burning Sherlock's pale cheeks.), and speaks up before he leaves. “Afternoon.”
Listening to Sherlock's steps fade down the hallway for a moment John eventually turns to face Mike, squinting suspiciously when he catches the giddiness and obvious amusement the man isn't even bothering to hide. Mike gives a small shrug. “He's always like that. Figured you two would get along.”
“Mhm. And that's the only reason you introduced us, is it?”
Mike shrugs again and chuckles when John makes a half hearted attempt at hitting his ankle with his cane. “Of course it was.”
Suddenly snapping his fingers Mike perks up in realization as he appears to remember something.
“Oh hold on, before I forget- Here. Pass me your mobile for a moment.” Mike holds his hand out expectantly, smiling happily to himself when John complies with his request despite returning to his usual mildly grumpy countenance. Typing quickly he passes it back to John once he's done, leaving behind two new contacts with him and his wife's names displayed proudly on the screen.
“Now you haven't any excuse not to contact us.” He grins, patting John on the shoulder.
Huffing in a mix of amusement and false annoyance John tucks his phone away and shakes his head, following Mike as the other man holds the lab door open for him.
“You're a pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Haven't the faintest idea what you mean.”
He owes Mike dinner. Many dinners. Because this? This has got to be one of the most brilliant first meetings he's had in his life, and he has met plenty of interesting people in his life, especially during his service.
Sitting alone on his bed in his dreary bedsit John flicks through the menu on his phone and simply stares at the message Sherlock sent using his phone earlier, unknowingly sending John's mind tumbling in a fascinated spiral for the umpteenth time, in the few hours since they'd met each other.
If brother has green ladder arrest brother -SH
Shaking his head in disbelief John chuckles a bit and sets his phone down. Looking up, his eyes stop on his laptop resting on a table across from him, and he comes to a quick snap decision.
Leaving his bed he moves to the table and flicks on the laptop, quickly typing ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in a search bar and smiling as results appear- First of which being a site titled ‘The Science of Deduction’. Settling down in the nearest chair John eagerly clicks on the site and prepares for a decent bit of reading.
Forget the dinners. John owes Mike a bloody cruise.