When John was six, his mother told him about the red string around his wrist, she told him about soul mates and true love, and promised him that if he was patient enough to seek for the end of his string, he'd find true meaning, true happiness, joy like no other.
A reason to be alive.
So he did, he searched for years.
In his youth, he used to play around and follow his string until he got tired or his mother called him back home, he had hope and no feelings of doubt, even thought he knew that the end of his string could be around the wrist of someone he couldn't love, or someone who couldn't love him back. He knew better than anyone, cause his father was not whom his mother should love, but she was okay with it, so he was okay with it too, at least for a while.
It wasn't as his father didn't love his mother, they were threaded, they loved each other more than anyone, but his father was weak and vicious, and sometimes he got drunk, drunk enough to forget his name, to forget his love and hurt his mother, and hurt them too. He usually stood up by Harry, trying to keep her safe, and he did what he could for his mother too. He used to think that his father could change and that it wasn't his fault, but as he grew up, his hopes got thinner.
He met new people, boys and girls at school; he met teachers and doctors, and family friends. He met people whose bond was so strong and pure and full of love that you could only look amazed at what they shared, you could do nothing but try to guess if they could actually read each other's thought and feelings, or if that was just a myth. He also met people whose bond was weak and fragile, so fragile that sometimes it broke, leaving both ends burnt and hurting, without knowing what had happened or how to fix it, leaving them lost and somehow empty. But he also met people whose bond had been cut by one of the threaded, whose bond was shattered after one of them cheated or left, because they couldn't love each other, because they refused, because they disagreed.
Just like his parents.
Soon, he forgot about the string around his wrist and kept on living, burying himself in books, getting good grades, trying to be popular, being a good son.
He went to college and decided he wanted to be a doctor, to help people, like he used to do when he was smaller, and helped his mother, like when he was just a child and had to learn to put himself back together. He graduated with good grades, not the best but close enough to make himself happy and proud, and soon enough he discovered he needed something else.
So he joined the army.
Being an army doctor changed his view of the world, made him realize how important a bond was for some people, because for those who had grown in a happily bonded family knew things he didn't know. He learned them fast, and something lit up inside him.
The old thirst of seeking and hunting the end of his string.
He pushed it back, because he was an army doctor, a captain and couldn't really dwell on those feelings.
Then he got shot and died.
Mind you, not for long, but his heart stopped and somewhere else in the world someone else felt the lost, even if just for a second. He was discharged from the army with an useless shoulder and a psychosomatic limp, just to add insult to the injure. He started to live again, or try to, because everything seemed dull and kind of dark around the edges since he felt the burning of the bullet on his side.
John soon found himself buried in dreams, nightmares, from the war; sometimes they were awful, where someone died because he wasn't good enough, because he couldn't save them. But other weren't as bad, where he could see himself from an outside point, the great soldier down in one knee, the wild sand dancing around him and a red patch growing round his shoulder and chest, his face pained but yet brave, cutting fabric and digging skin, taking the bullet out by himself and then falling backwards, looking at the sun and sighing.
Maybe it was sad, that the nights he slept best were the nights he dreamed of dying.
But yet, he kept on living.
He kept on living because he needed to find the end of his string, because right now everything seemed pointless and he needed it; a reason to live.
He was desperate for it, so he hung on tight to the red string around his wrist and faced the days, and nights. He got a therapist and tried hard to ignore the gun under his pillow, never mind the nights when he would clean it and craved a bullet on his temple, anything to take him out of his misery. But he didn't give up, not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't, not yet, first he needed to know what was waiting for him at the other end, and whatever it was he would take it, because when you reach the bottom the only way left is upwards.
One day he met with an old friend of his, Mike Stamford, and they went for a coffee. John tried to ignore the knowing looks his friend was throwing at him, because he knew, he looked like someone who had died and was barely hanging there, he knew it was the truth so he didn't tried to hide it, he didn't want to. He talked to Mike and told him about some of his less troublesome inconvenient; his new apartment was a bit of hole, and Mike smiled and told him he had the perfect solution for it. They went down to St Bart's and John couldn't help but notice that things had changed since his last visit, including the labs, last time he was there only people who worked there or students were allowed.
-Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine- said the man of the long coat, who was roaming around the lab as if he owned it.
-What's wrong with the landline?- Mike questioned.
-I prefer to text- The man urged.
-Ah, sorry, it's on my coat- Mike shrugged with a bit of a smile.
-Eh… you can use mine- Ventured John, trying to be nice and fishing his mobile out of his pocket.
-Thank you- Said the man, giving John a brief up and down.
-Well, this is an old friend of mine, John Watson- Mike finally introduced him.
It's kind of funny, how destiny works, how live takes meaning, because what happened next was not what anyone expected, well, maybe Mike and Molly should have known that the man couldn't keep his mouth shut, and that tact was not exactly his area of expertise, they should have known that, but yet, they let it happen, and with a single question John's live was turned upside down.
-Afghanistan or Iraq?