John's Beginning
Harry never tried to hide her sexuality from anyone. To her, relationships were important; they were about emotion and physical closeness with someone you related to and it didn't matter which gender the other person was. It was a good belief, but it was fragile, and she would learn the hard way that not everybody else – most everybody else – didn't view it the same way. When Harry came out to her parents, they cried and told her they loved her, understanding the difficulty of saying it and knowing that the years to come would not necessarily be good ones.
And they weren't.
The Watson family lived in a good suburb, relatively close to the city of London, but the community there was traditional and proper.
In his first years at High School, John was reasonably happy; he was getting good enough grades, his friends were nice and the rugby team had accepted him with open arms. And then Harry came out. It didn't reach all the ends of the school immediately – the rumour mill wasn't that powerful – and it hit the rugby team almost last, but the effect was instantaneous. Having been on the receiving ends of several comments already as he walked through the school to the oval, he was ready to get his gear on and start training without interruptions. Of course, with the day he'd been having, it was never going to be as simple as that.
"Oi, Watson, is your sister coming to the game on Saturday?"
John's shoulders tensed immediately as Declan Jones called out, every muscle in his body ready to react.
"Probably," he muttered. "Why?"
"Well my girlfriend's coming, as usual, and I don't want her anywhere near that les', thanks. I'd like her untouched for me, if you know what I- ughf!"
John had launched himself at Declan, arms straight out and mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. They fell to the ground, John on top, and he immediately pulled his arm back.
Once, twice, three times he snapped his fist forward.
"Don't call her a les', you bloody jerk," he snarled as they tussled. "She's never so much as looked at your girlfriend and you bloody well know that. And even if she did, she'd never go for it because she actually believes in love! So back off, you wanker, because if I ever hear you say so much as a word against my sister again, you'll find yourself without a girlfriend for the rest of your miserable life."
John stood abruptly, still seething. He turned to the rest of the team.
"And that goes for you lot, too," he ground out between clenched teeth. He threw his shirt to the ground, feeling a vicious stab of satisfaction that it landed right in a mud puddle. "Good luck with the rest of the season."
He grabbed his bag from the seats, set it on his shoulder and jogged out of the oval without looking back.
When he made it home, slamming the door after his entrance, he finally let go all of the tension he had been carrying all day and dropped the bag heavily. He sighed as he made his way up the stairs and towards his room, aiming for a hot shower to clean the dirt and mud and fighting off his skin. Harry appeared in his doorway as he grabbed his clothes from his dresser and stared.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I heard what happened – someone texted me. You didn't have to bother, John, it's fine-"
"No," he growled. "It's not fine. They don't understand, Harry. And because they don't understand, they're scared. They're miserable. I'm glad to be shot of them."
Harry's face crumpled.
"I'm sorry!" she gasped as tears coursed their way down her face. "I didn't know this would happen! I don't understand, John. Why is it wrong?"
"It's not wrong, Harriet. You listen to me, okay? It's not wrong, and if anyone ever tells you it is, you tell me and I'll take care of it, alright?"
She nodded.
"Promise?"
"Promise," she repeated and then hugged him. He squeezed her once and then stepped back.
"Go on, I'm all sweaty."
She smiled and left. John sighed, picking at his clothes. He loved his sister, truly, he did, but he almost wished she hadn't said anything. His expression hardened. He meant what he'd said; he'd take care of her and do the best he could for the rest of his life.
When John shifted next, his form was a Labrador Retriever; a fiercely loyal and protective breed. He stared at himself in the mirror and wondered briefly if that's who he would become. A protector, a shield. Someone who would also look after you, but never truly be with you. A sideline angel, helping as much as possible but never properly interacting. The dog lifted its head.
So be it.
A/N:
This is a companion piece to my full length story, 'Feline and Canine'. There's another one about Sherlock's childhood coming soon. Like, really soon. Probably straight away. In fact, go look for it now! :)
Cheers,
foxboxtango