Everything
A/N: Quick, unbetaed drabble sort of thing. This just popped into my head so I write it then posted it. Please let me know what you think! Any mistakes are my own and I apologise profusely for them!
When his mates look at him they see someone dependable. They know that no matter what happens, he will always have their back; always. He doesn't mind this because he likes being dependable, or rather; he likes being thought of as dependable. It means that people do need him, that his father was wrong, that he is worth something more than he originally believed.
John knew he was worth more than the alcohol induced shouts his father would strike him with when the fancy struck; he just never had much reinforcement in the idea until he was older, able to hide his life from prying eyes.
When the army officers looked at him the first time, they saw a short kid with a dream too big for his head. They put him through the tests, indulged his radical ideas of becoming a soldier, they never batted an eye when he switched to being a doctor. They could always use doctors, soldiers were commonplace in the army, but a doctor was rare. A doctor was needed, especially in an army. No matter your rank, if you were sick or injured, the army doctor was a godsend. John liked that idea. In the army, when he was looked at, it was because his powers of healing were needed.
The army is responsible for a lot of things in John Watson's life, and not withstanding is the outstanding reputation of 'Three Continents Watson.' When he is first coined with this nickname he looks away in shame, embarrassed that his mates think him something akin to a tramp, but on the inside he is swelling with pride. There is yet another reason for people to look at John Watson and see more than a short, sturdy, dependable man. Now there is a racy reputation for John to maintain while saving lives, and it's a reputation he gladly upholds while on tours, and even at home.
Attention is attention, who is he to deny it when he craves it so much, a craving born from a life spent sandwiched between an older sister and father battling the bottle while a mother was strategically absent. John never thinks of himself as an attention whore, but as a friendly person willing to give his shoulder to anyone who might need it.
Unlike an attention whore, John actually has a heart, despite it being repeatedly broken by near everyone on his life, it continues to beat and he continues to strive and remain alive.
The second time John shows up around his superiors he is totting a gun, well he'd always had possession of a gun since becoming a soldier, but he'd never been good with it, not until he'd met Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best sniper the entire British Army wide. They chatted over a pint in some pub whose floors were covered with sand while exterior temperatures threatened even hell in their intensity. Two soldiers in a war torn land, bonding over their affection for attention. This time, however, John was the one giving. He'd heard about the Colonel. You'd have to have been deaf, blind, and dumb to be in the British Army and never hear of the man. He was a legend among the ranks, a legend that John secretly envied and wanted to be a part of. The blokes chatted amicably, parted ways, only to be reunited under a hail of gunfire and the sounds of a medical tent flapping in the breeze under an intense sun. John saved Moran's life. Moran repaid the favour by teaching the little doctor what he knew about shooting. The second time John's superiors see him, they are thoroughly impressed. It doesn't take long before he is given the title Captain.
John preens under the new title and the attention it gets him. He thrives under the new admiration of his men. He is actually happy, truly, wholly, unbelievably happy. Even in war-torn lands he finds a reason to smile, greet the day, and improve the suffering of his patients. He does his job, and does it so very well, that his superiors decide to give him access to the soldiers right at the front line where his dedication, skill, and sharp-shooting skills will be a huge asset to them. John readily agrees; his mind full to bursting with the idea of it all. He accepts the offer, enjoys rounds of pints, praise, back slaps, sex, and veneration.
John thrives in the war. He fixes people. He kills people. He lives on the war, the terror, the excitement, the adrenaline that courses through him, the act of playing God, all of it feeds him, makes him who he has always wanted to be. He is better than his father, better than his sister, better even than his mother. John Watson has finally become everything he's dreamed of being, he has gained everything.
Everything is not was he thought it would be.
Everything soon crashes down all around him.
Everything becomes a white hot pain.
Everything is sand soaked through with blood.
Everything is an unforgiving sun burning his skin.
Everything is nothing.
The third and final time John's superiors look at him he is told to go home. They use kinder words, but John has been robbed. A bullet to his shoulder has wrecked him. He goes back to London, lost. His superiors hang their heads in practised grievance for the small man. When they look one last time at Soldier John, they see a small, pathetic man unable to do what he was so passionate about. They predict his death to come within a month.
John Watson does not want to be looked at now. He is staying with his sister. Even with her fucked up life, marriage ending, bottled and amber liquid poured down her throat, and life taking a shit on her too, she still managed to look at John with pity.
Once he had everything, but now he has nothing.
When he's with his mates, he's no longer dependable. He's scary. They look at him now and see a broken man. They don't really know what to do with him, and in truth John doesn't know what to do with himself. He tries to keep up appearances because if he loses everyone, he won't survive.
Soon John is grasping at straws. There's not much left to keep him afloat, not even the small, unbearable flat his sister helped him find. John Watson can't seem to do anything, and he sure as hell does not want to be looked at in anyways anymore, because people only see pity now. Once he flourished under their gazes, now he just wants to shrivel up and disappear.
John Watson is one day away from dying when he runs into an old mate. When Mike Stamford looks at John Watson it's not with pity or remorse. Mike Stamford is actually happy to see John. John almost doesn't know what to do with that look, but it sparks something he thought was long dead. They have a nice chat, and soon John is introduced to a new man.
A dangerous man.
John meets Sherlock Holmes.
There nothing more than calculation when Sherlock Holmes first looks at John Watson. John stands stiffly under the scrutiny. He doesn't know what to make of the man. John is even further gob-smacked when Sherlock Holmes rattles off his observations.
For the first time, John Watson feels like there's a light slowly coming to life inside of his soul again.
Somehow John Watson has moved in with Sherlock.
John's life has become dangerous again. This ethereal man, Sherlock Holmes, split him wide open, read from him, and set him back to sorts, all with cold, calculating looks. John's not sure what to do with this attention, so he marvels in it.
The look in Sherlock's eyes soon softens. John smiles for the first time in months.
When Molly Hooper looks at John Watson for the first time, she almost misses him. He is nothing to write home about. He is short, average looking, and boring. He is nothing compared to the tall, energetic man she longs for. Molly Hooper sometimes forgets that John Watson exists, until, over time, she can see the doctor taking up space in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. John Watson becomes important then. Molly is the first to notice the difference in Sherlock Holmes, and then she really sees John Watson. She envies him, but also admires him. Soon she and John Watson are sharing tea at lunchtime and chatting about Sherlock. There's a spark in John's blue eyes, Molly sees, and she hides her smile behind the lip of her cup because now, now she can remember the time when John Watson was nothing.
When Gregory Lestrade looks as John, he sees a short, unassuming, jumper wearing, older man. He wonders what such an ordinary bloke is doing with the cold, eccentric Sherlock Holmes. He almost resents the doctor's presence because it's not normal for someone to actually want to be around Sherlock, especially not someone as normal as a short man named John Watson.
Over time Greg's view is altered, twisted, and remade. John Watson is a remarkable man. A saint actually, and a damn good friend that Greg shares pints with the three times he finds his wife in bed with another man. John Watson is dependable, Greg decides, and one of the best mates a guy could ask for. Sometimes he will ruminate on how it had happened, how the short, unassuming doctor could fill up a giant space, and Greg wonders, not for the first time, what exactly the relationship between Sherlock and John are, and then Greg decides he'll know when they want him to know. For now, however, when Greg looks at John, he smiles because he can see something sparking up again in the ex-soldier's eyes.
The first time Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson he is no impressed. Despite the psychosomatic limp, PTSD, and army background, John Watson is nothing special. He is presented as a possible flatmate. Sherlock looks him over, calculates him, reads his story, and then snaps the book shut. He doesn't do boring, so he hopes the cold rundown of the soldier's life will frighten him away, but John takes it. There is a twitch, something in John Watson's eyes that intrigues Sherlock. He'll start with the limp he decides; see if he becomes bored after curing the small doctor of it, then he'll see if the man will remain with him.
The twelfth time Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson it is with a sense of wonder. The consulting detective had just coldly rattled off John's life story. He's scared away lesser people, but the words John Watson utters are so surprising that Sherlock must look into his eyes. He must see if the ex-soldier is being honest. He is nearly breathless with the honesty he sees in those eyes.
The sixty-seventh time Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson they are both smiling like a bunch of children. Sherlock Holmes actually laughs, leaning back against the wall. He can't help it; he also can't help looking at John, seeing something coming alive again in the doctor. This jumper wearing man is not as boring as the detective once thought, not in the least.
Sherlock continues to look at John, study him, take him apart and put him together. He can never fully put the doctor together, because something always surprises him.
The eight thousand four hundred thirty fifth time Sherlock Holmes looks at John Watson it is with pure, unadulterated want. They are naked, slick with sweat, and pumped full of adrenaline. Sherlock cannot keep his eyes off of the doctor who is slowly moving over the top of him. When their gazes lock Sherlock sees the spark of something in John's gaze. Sherlock caresses his cheek, breath bated as he tries to discern what it is that is coming alive in John. He briefly wonders if it is the old John re-emerging, but the thought is quickly quieted because there is no old John, there is only a new John.
The twenty thousand five hundred sixty seventh time Sherlock Holmes looks at John it is with pure love. Somewhere in their time together the detective and the doctor had fallen in love. Sherlock had thrived under the constant attention from his lover while John too rose from his ashes under the attention he received from the people in his and Sherlock's life. John Watson received all sorts of attention at being Sherlock's handler.
At this point in his life, John didn't care about all the peripheral attention. He had finally found the one thing he knew his life absolutely needed; Sherlock Holmes.
John had found everything again.
John had found himself, and he knew that where he was now was where he'd been working to get to ever since uttering his first cry on this planet.
The twenty thousand five hundred sixty eighth time Sherlock Holmes looked down at John Watson; he was looking at everything he had ever wanted.
Sherlock Holmes was now in possession of everything.
Everything was amazing.
Everything was unabashed love.
Everything was a warm jumper.
Everything was a stern look.
Everything was a soft caress of lips.
Everything was just simply, everything.
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had both finally had everything they would ever need.