Hi there! :D Thanks so much for checking out my story! I hope you love it, and hopefully I'll be updating it weekly, although it might be difficult because it's a busy time of year and this story's taking a lot of research. But stick with me through this! :)
Beware: there's probably going to be angst. And feelsy parts. And cliffhangers. And possibly gore. Because those things are my favorite. BEWARE.
I also promise I won't do any author's notes during or after the chapter, because I hate reading something really dramatic, and then an author's note pops up and ruins the mood. Ew.
Feel free to review, we all love 'em!
Also, I'm just going to say now, you will find no lemons in this fanfic. No me gusta "lemons." Lemons sour character relationships for me. (See what I did there?) So please, go pick lemons elsewhere.
I think that's about it... :)
This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.
Chapter One: Fighter Planes.
August 7th, 1914. Bridgewater, Britain.
She stood at a table, in a kitchen covered in new wallpaper. Right beside a window, cool, lazy air brought in a fruity aroma. The woman bent over her work, kneading dough firmly with sore palms, and continuously pushing her long blonde tresses back over her shoulder absentmindedly. Flour was scattered through her hair and across the front of her blue apron, but she hardly noticed its presence. Her mind was far away.
He cannot go. He mustn't go.
The woman looked up at the folded newspaper on the other end of the table. The title was bold and black and excited: "WE'VE DECLARED WAR ON THE CENTRAL POWERS!" She rubbed her eyes with her little finger to keep herself from tearing up. The idea of her husband going to off to fight was a terrifying one, yes. But who was she to stop him from standing up for justice?
Because if there was one thing the two of them believed in, it most certainly was justice.
From upstairs, there was a string of muffled thuds followed by an angry yell. Margaret was well accustomed to this commotion from her children, and carried on. When she heard the sound of distraught whimpering, however, she stepped back from the baking, attempted to brush the flour from her hands, and headed out the door into the dining room.
Right on cue, Margaret heard unsteady feet come stumbling down the hall stairs, and seconds later a compact little figure came into the room, tears rolling down plump cheeks.
His hair was dirty blonde, short and scruffy, and one side of his face was distinctly redder than the other, like he had been slapped. Just three years old, he wore a light jumper and dark trousers. He ran over to his mother and clumsily clung to her skirt with pudgy hands.
The woman bent down, doing the routine check for any cuts, bumps or bruises. Finding none, she placed her hands on either side of his face.
"Darling, what's the matter?"
The chubby child hiccuped despairingly. Margaret held him and patted his back with sympathy.
"Harry keeps-hic-taking-hic-my planes."
The woman sighed, turning her gaze towards the second level of the house. Harry did love to create trouble. She stood, pulling the stocky boy into her arms with her. He was covered now in a thin layer of flour, and she struggled o stifle a laugh.
"Alright, alright," she consoled her child with false seriousness, tapping his round nose. "Come on, John, let's go talk to nasty Harry. We'll get your planes back."
Little John did not seem convinced. As they approached the upstairs bedroom, he kept eyeing the doorway with suspicion on his features.
Margaret carried him into Harry and John's shared nursery. It was cozy and green, with a large open window that made the room glow like the heavens. The naughty seven year old sat content on John's bed, her light blonde curls springing as she moved a little red wooden plane through the air with spluttering noises.
Looking up and seeing her mother and her kid brother, Harry scowled, clutching the toy ever tighter.
Margaret set John on the floor. He crossed his arms and puffed out his little chest in determination.
"Harry," Margaret began.
Harry only turned to face the wide window. The plane spun around in her fingers with agility.
"Harry," Margaret repeated, "give John back his planes."
"No."
Before Margaret could insist otherwise, John had tottered across the room to the low bed. "Please, Harry?" He tried to pull himself up, but landed back on the floor with a bump.
"No."
"But they- they're mine!" John protested. His brows were furrowed; his dark blue eyes glittered with moisture.
"Why?" Harry cried suddenly, turning to face her brother with malice in her green eyes. "Why do only you get them? Why can't they be mine, too?"
Margaret stood back, simply observing. It was unusual that the duo argued over anything without it coming to blows.
John's young mind seemed stuck on the question. Finally, he answered, "Because... because Daddy gave them to me. Just me! So they're mine!"
Harry sniffled almost furiously. She picked at a button on her skirt.
"Well, can't I play with them at all?"
John whined, and fiddled with his hands, clearly not wanting his big sister to have his special planes from his father.
But Harry used John's hesitation to attack again. Tossing the airplane aside, she scrambled to the edge of the bed, hanging over John. The bed creaked as she leaned further and further forward.
"Well, you're being selfish. Daddy wouldn't be selfish."
This one hit John hard. He looked from Harry, to the planes, and then to his mother, who remained silent, and back again. After much internal debate, John huffed and gave in.
"Alright, you can play with my planes. ...Not all the time, though," he added hastily, as an afterthought.
Harry grinned. John mumbled something irritably under his breath.
"What did you say?" Harry asked, not really paying attention, but already picking one of the planes back up.
"You, you still hit me," John pointed to his pink cheek, like a wounded puppy.
Margaret raised her eyebrows. "Harriet?"
Harry cringed, hurt at the use of her full name. Even her parents rarely used it.
"I'm sorry, John," she sighed under her breath, somewhat unconvincingly.
But John was now satisfied. He waddled back to his mother, and tugged on her skirts again.
"I'm like Daddy," he beamed. "Daddy isn't selfish."
Margaret chuckled. "You are like your father. Very much."
And the statement was completely true. He was a carbon copy of his father. John had the same hair, the same eyes, and the same large ears, everything except his father's lanky stature. The way he stood, and even the way his face crinkled up when he was upset, very much mirrored the behavior of Hamish Watson.
John nodded. "I'll be like Daddy when I grow up, too! Just like him."
Harry scoffed as if this were the wildest of fantasies. "No you won't."
Spinning around suddenly, John flew towards the bed, and pulled himself up like a bullet, jumping in front of Harriet. "I will too! I'll be big and strong, and a soldier just like Daddy."
Margaret Watson gasped. The children weren't supposed to know about that yet. She started to step towards them.
"Please," Harry continued, "you're much too little to be a soldier! You wouldn't make it a week."
"I would!" John yelled, shoving Harry fiercely in the shoulder. "I'll be the bravest soldier! I'll have a gun and a big helmet just like Marcus' father does, and I'll be the best soldier anyone's ever heard of. Just like Daddy."
Margaret had to intervene. She hurried over, pulling John, now winding up a chubby fist, away from Harry, who laughed mockingly, sticking out her tongue.
"How did you two know about Daddy becoming a soldier?"
Margaret and Hamish had in fact only had the conversation the night before, after he had come home from work. They had been planning on telling the children soon, but not this soon.
"We stayed up," Harry chirped proudly. "We hadn't fallen asleep yet, and we heard you and Daddy talking."
Margaret sat down on the bed next to her two children. "I want you to listen to me now. Being a soldier can be very scary. Daddy's not going to be home a lot, and he might get... hurt while he's away."
"I know, John chimed in quickly, as if his mother was speaking only to him. "But Daddy will be alright. He's brave. Daddy's fighting against the bad guys."
"That's... that's right," Margaret sighed, choking up just a bit, "He is."
Harry straightened up. "When is Daddy leaving?"
Her mother put an arm around her comfortingly. "I don't know. I don't know how long he'll be gone, either. There's no way to tell." She hesitated. "Are you two... alright with Daddy's decision?"
Both children nodded easily. "I'll miss Daddy, though," Harry said, as if he were already gone.
Several minutes later, Margaret was downstairs again, shaping the bread more slowly than before. Still lost in thought, she failed to realize when John had walked into the kitchen until he uttered a sad, "Mommy?"
Margaret jumped, and turned to face the toddler. "John! Yes, what is it, love?"
John frowned, eyebrows deeply furrowed. He stepped back and forth nervously, curling his hands into fists over and over again.
"Harry says I can't be a soldier like Daddy."
There was a short silence. John sniffled, and his mother smiled, a little unsure of what to say. "Do you want to be a soldier, John?"
"Yes."
"Well," she began, crouching again in front of he little boy, "I think it doesn't matter what Harry says."
"It doesn't?" John's navy blue eyes shone. He wiped a stray tear from his red nose.
"Not even a little. If you want to be a soldier, then of course you can be. You can be whatever you want to be, John."
John blushed and grinned, showing little dimples. "I will be a soldier. I will be just like Daddy."
Margaret ruffled the little boy's hair. "John Hamish Watson, I know you will."
