Notes: If you've read Neil Gaiman's "Neverwhere" well, that's the basis of the setting of this story. There are two Londons. John lives in a place inflicted with war and hunger while Sherlock's London is magical though they don't really refer to it as such there. This literally AU though there are still cases to be solved.

I'm warning you that this one's going to a bit long.

Chapter One: The Lone Soldier

The sky had always been red.

There were days when too much smoke and ash prevented them from clearly seeing anything that was not ten feet away from them. There were days when it rained and the sky would hide behind dark clouds that spewed water that was more harmful than helpful. And there were days when the sky, red as blood, could only be seen through large black birds soaring in the sky, the red peering through the gaps and reminding them that it would always be there. It was like a warning of what was to come.

And what came were the bombs.

They did not fall one by one. They fell in twos and threes, crashing into buildings before they exploded after five seconds. These five second intervals were the worst. It was always better to have a quick death, to have it done with before you knew what was coming. To see these giants ticking away and having yourself rooted to the spot, staring Death in the face, was a cruel thing.

But nowadays, what wasn't?

For John Watson, the concept of good deaths and bad deaths did not exist. Death was merely what it was. It was simply to cease being who you were. He hadn't believed this at all when he was a child. He had wanted to die in a hospital bed, aged yet fulfilled the way his grandfather had gone. This wish had gradually faded in the coming years. Now his only hope was that if he did die right now, they would find a piece of him large enough to send to his sister. It would give Harry some peace of mind.

The fifth bomb fell a few feet away from them.

They fell back when the ground burst, and froze when they saw what had caused the crater. The bomb was large, as tall as five men standing on top of each other, and black as sin. They could hear it ticking away, informing them of the time. Not enough to run away but it baited you, wanted you to try. No one did. In his earlier years, John had seen men go the same way. He had screamed at them to run and wouldn't stop until the explosions drowned him out. The third time it happened, he realized that there was absolutely no way to run. The ticking of the bomb froze you to the spot, like Death himself was holding you down.

Five seconds passed and nothing happened.

"It's a dud!" Mike screamed. His hand found John's wrists, pulling him out of his trance.

They heard the ticking stop then the gears inside whirring again. After twenty seconds, the bomb would begin its countdown once more.

He was lucky guy.

"Run!" It was him screaming now, their commander once more. He turned to the frightened faces, white beneath the soot and grime that coated their bodies. There were too many boys in his platoon. Dimmock had been an idiot in letting them leave camp so early.

"Come on, move!"

Then they were off, tearing down the street as quickly as possible. John could hear some of his men sobbing in relief. There would be another night spent with the wife and kids. For the youths, it would be a story shared by the fire, told with just the right voice to incite adoration from the others. Another night to live before they were thrown back here again, fighting in a war that never seemed to end.

Thirteen seconds.

"In here!" It was a hole in the ground, created by an earlier bomb, and just large enough to accommodate the fifteen of them. He let them in first before he let himself drop. A crack and a burst of pain. John gritted his teeth and stumbled, his legs giving out under him. He had landed on his ankle. In the darkness he squeezed his boot slightly, just enough to prove him right. A sprain, he guessed. Nothing bad.

Eight seconds.

There was no god. There were many of them but John hadn't believed in a single one for a long time. Nevertheless, John prayed, not for himself but for Harry. He could not imagine her living without him. She needed assistance, someone to stop her from drinking herself to death. And the only person who could do that was John.

Seven seconds.

They were shaking, his men. What if the hole was not deep enough? What if the bomb was stronger than they had anticipated? This had happened before. You could never tell when it came to these monsters.

Six seconds.

A soldier was whispering under his breath. Young voice, probably a new recruitment, probably no more than sixteen.

Five seconds.

He could smell cold sweat, and all of a sudden something wet and warm seeped into the leg of his trousers, followed by the sharp scent of urine. The soldier next to him apologized, choked, then sobbed all over again.

Four seconds.

"John?" Mike. Only Mike called him John instead of Captain.

Three seconds.

"I'm scared, John."

Two seconds.

So am I.

One second.

John closed his eyes. Please, he thought.

Zero.

The sky blazed and there was the bang of a gunshot.

His dreams hadn't always been filled with blood and gore, but since he joined the army that was all his mind could play for him. He would dream of fellow soldiers dying in his hands just as he was trying to save them. He dreamed of the bombs falling and killing every person he had ever known and loved. He dreamed of his mother dancing in the kitchen, cradling Harry in her arms and smiling at him through red. They were always the same, these dreams, but he never failed to wake up screaming until his throat bled.

The dream this time had changed slightly. He still dreamed of the bombs and the red sky, but now there was a light, brighter than any he had ever seen. And all of a sudden there was a tingling in his arm, beginning in his fingertips. It was nothing at first but as the sensation climbed up, it turned into pain. It was a bone-deep pain, a gut-wrenching pain. It was as if the nerves in his arm had twisted and were tightening around themselves. It was a pain that made him feel as if he couldn't breathe, as if it had transferred to his lungs and transformed into a fist squeezing his heart.

It was the pain that broke the dream.

His head was pounding madly when he opened his eyes. It felt as if had been split into two with a sledgehammer then mashed together in a desperate attempt to put it back to its original state. He screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth as sleep faded and gave way to the raw pain. Every cell in his body seemed to be on fire. The core of it was in his shoulder, his left, and madly he thought, no, not that one. Anything but that one. That was his good hand, his gun hand. Without it, he was nothing.

It was a minute late but still, he opened his mouth and screamed.

A door slammed open and he heard the sound of heeled shoes clicking on the floor. Warm hands pressed against his skin, holding him down. John tried to fight it but he was too weak, too useless.

He registered the sting of the needle as it sank in the crook of his elbow. "Rest," someone said softly.

The dreams did not come back but they were there, waiting. He could feel them fighting, trying to surface the drugs that kept them in place. It was like drowning and when John woke up again, he could not decide if being drugged was better or worse.

Sometime later, he heard voices. He could hear them but not see them, not associate them to the bodies where they resided. He lay in bed in a vegetative state, his mind never working perfectly.

"Unconscious but alive"

"Shoulder, though…Thankfully, the bullet went right through."

"Idiots, those people in the army. Recruiting boys! Of course they'd panic. They're children, they shouldn't be out there fighting."

"What do you suggest they do? Sit inside and wait for death?"

"Well, at least they won't go killing people on our side."

"He's not dead."

"Not yet."

"Oh gods! He's not…please, don't let him die!"

"It's alright! He'll wake. A bit of rubble fell on him but it's nothing."

"His shoulder! Oh, John…"

"We'll do our best to fix it."

"Please."

"He's worthless to us now."

"What are you saying?! This is John we're talking about! He's a damn good commander and you know it."

"Look at his injury! Do you think he'll still be able to hold a gun and put you back together? He'll end up dead after an hour if he goes back."

"He saved our lives."

"Then you repay him in other ways, starting with the boy."

"He…he just. It's not right. John wouldn't want it."

"There's a price to be paid, Bill. It's the first way."

"Who was it?"

He was conscious now, sitting in bed, propped up by the pillows. The pain was still there but it was more bearable with the drugs still in his system, there but not overpowering him. Occasionally, a part of him would ache horribly but he would just grit his teeth and wait for it to settle down.

Mike sat in the chair at his side. There were stitches in his forehead and chin, but other than these, he was fine. His face was still grimy but that was expected. When out of the training camps, cleanliness was a myth. There was only survival.

Bill stood at the foot of his bed. He and Mike exchanged a look and Mike nodded. Bill wasn't part of the group John commanded. The floor was Mike's. Smiling sadly, Bill bid him goodbye before he drew back the curtains and stepped outside. John caught a glimpse of several other fallen soldiers before the curtains fell down and separated him once more from the rest of the world.

Mike sighed sadly. Mike who had a family, a wife he doted on and two children to whom John was godfather. Of course Mike would be affected by it, more so than John. John only had Harry and a sad, demented woman who he had once called mother.

"It was Meyers," Mike said. His words caught at the end and John knew that Mike had been there, had seen the spectacle with his very own eyes.

"He was only fifteen, John. Only fifteen."

Edwin Meyers. He had been with them for only a month. John remembered a gangly boy with a round face full of freckles. Edwin, the same boy who had followed John around with wonder in his eyes, doing all of John's orders without a moment's hesitation. He was a reflection of what John had been like when he first joined. Young and absolutely stupid.

"We were holding our guns," Mike breathed. "We all were. When the bomb went off, most of us dropped it. But Meyers…Boy panicked. Didn't know he'd pulled the trigger until it was too late."

John could just see it now. The bomb going off at the same time as the gun, the bullet piercing his flesh and young Meyers looking at him fearfully. Too young, John thought. It was a mistake. They should never have allowed any of them to join. They were only children. John remembered himself at fifteen, an awkward boy who went around chasing girls in his spare time, hoping to get a little more than a kiss. That should have been Meyers. It should have been him and it should be Palfrey, Irving, and all the young boys who'd joined in hopes of sending more money to their families.

A foolish notion. There wasn't much to send.

"What did they do to him?" It was the question he'd dreaded to ask and it was the question Mike had been dreading to answer. But he had to know.

"You know how it is, John. They…they told him he'd made a big mistake, told him he was too weak and he shouldn't have joined in the first place. He pleaded with them, told them he had to so he could support his family. But they…they don't listen, John! Shot him six times then they burned the body, sent the ashes to his mother. And they apologized! They told his mother they were sorry it had be that way but it was protocol. No time to afford mistakes.

"I couldn't help but think of Mattie when they brought him down." Mike was trembling. "I couldn't help but think that if I—no, when—I die, John, my son will join, too. And he might make the same mistake as Meyers and gods…It's just. It's all fucked up!"

John stared at him, at this man who was torn between right and wrong. No Mike, he thought, that's not good. There was no wrong in the army. There were only orders and you had to follow them. They had enlisted, knowing that there was already a noose tied around their necks, so they shouldn't be…shouldn't be…

Shouldn't be so human.

There were no good deaths and bad deaths. He repeated that in his head but it no longer reassured him. He thought of that young soldier. One stupid mistake, a stupid mistake that even soldiers like him could have committed. And it cost him his life.

A part of him was secretly glad about not coming back.

Harry didn't see the cons of the situation. When he was finally discharged from the hospital and sent back to London, she threw her arms around his neck and held on. "You idiot!" she told him fondly and John wrinkled his nose at the reek of alcohol.

She had never wanted him to join the army. He was seventeen when he put his name down the list and eighteen when they finally came to their house, informing John that he would begin his new life as a soldier. He remembered the ride to the port, Harry clinging to him all the way, telling him quietly to please not go because they needed him there. For a moment, he had considered going back. But then Harry had pressed against him and he felt how skinny she was, how malnourished. Back then, London was even worse than it was now. Food was a rarity and the crime rates had gone sky high, making people afraid to leave their homes. Harry was only sixteen then, but she had considered prostitution to John's horror. He had seen those women waiting outside pubs in their garish outfits, their weariness palpable even through layers of makeup. "No," he said, "I'll find a way." A week after Harry's proposal, the fliers came. The army was always looking for new recruitments. People were always dying.

"But what about Mom?" Harry had sobbed when he told her his plans. "I don't know how to take care of her, John!"

In the end, they had taken her to the asylum, something both John and Harry had insisted they never do when their mother began to show signs of madness. It had always been there when they were children, but as the years flew, sanity left her until she could no longer take care of her own children. They were only minors when it happened and by law, their mother should have been taken away and they should have been sent to the orphanage where death was a better option. So at thirteen, it was already John who kept the family alive. He had done petty crimes such as stealing, mugging, anything to put bread on the table. He never let Harry do any of it but that didn't stop her from creating trouble. She had always been rebellious and when John returned home for the first time after being sent to camp, John learned that she had turned to alcohol.

He was sent back before he could anything about it.

But now he was here and he could fix some of their problems. He had, of course, realized on the way back that there were more things to worry about at home than in the army. Injured soldiers, ill commanders…They had never bothered John greatly. He would worry at a patient for a while and there was always that slight ache when a soldier under his command passed away, but most of the time he had been detached. The only people in the army that he had ever feared for were Bill and Mike, but as they were soldiers, John had readily accepted the fact that one day, they would too, would die. No one was exempt from death. Yet when it came to Harry and his mother, all rational thoughts left John's mind. They were all he had.

Harry was squeezing him too tightly for his liking. John could sense the fear in her embrace, could almost hear the questions running through her mind. Was he really going to stay? Was he going to make things better? John just hugged her back to avoid thinking of answers.

"It's not much but it's home," she said when she released him. They stood in front of the dilapidated building that Harry had told him about during his army days. The last time John had visited was eleven years ago, just before he began his medical training. Through Harry's letters John had learned that she had moved several times in his absence. Never out of London, though, and never far away from the asylum where their mother was confined. To hear Harry talk about it, it was like heaven. It was far from that. The building was three stories high but so narrow and crooked that John was surprised it didn't collapse in on itself. The brickwork had been destroyed by acid rain, making it look as if the walls were melting. A few windows were boarded while those that weren't were either cracked or coated with so much grime they could hardly be considered windows. Still, it was his new home and compared to their camps in the army, this place was a dreamland.

Harry chatted happily as they carried his few possessions to his room. It was located in the ground floor which John was quite pleased about. His shoulder, despite the pain and the tremors it gave his left hand, was the least of his worries. Even though he had only sprained his ankle, he had gotten a limp that was so bad he required a cane just so he could walk. Psychosomatic, the medics had explained, and the government had, along with money and a medal, supplied him with a physiotherapist who had been paid to torture him for one year.

Harry left him to his own devices for a while. John sat on the bed (lumpy mattress, moldy sheets but still better than his army cot) and began to unpack. He didn't own much. There were his uniform, his undershirts, medals and badges received through hard work, letters sent by Harry, letters forwarded to him by Harry from the asylum updating them about their mother, a fossil of a strange insect that Bill had gotten from one of the many deserts they'd gone to, and the photographs. He had a number of them, most of which were taken by Mike who had been sent the camera by a relative. There were pictures of John when he first arrived, an awkward eighteen-year-old smiling at the camera. There were pictures of them drinking by the fire and a few of John practicing surgery on animal carcasses. John noticed that even though he was smiling in the camera, there was that trace of worry in his eyes, as if he were thinking that this moment of happiness could be taken away any time. And he had been thinking that when the camera flashed in his face. The only picture of John where he saw he was truly happy was a slightly blurred one and of poor quality. They had been very drunk then, celebrating the birthday of one of the soldiers. The camera was too close and John's face nearly filled up the whole square. A great deal of the background was visible at the upper left of the photograph as John had moved (actually, Bill had pushed him) to the right so that part of his face wasn't visible.

There was a knock on the door. John quickly shoved the rest of his military items under the bed, including the photographs. Save for that last one. John had no idea why but he wanted to hold on to it. He slipped it in the pocket of his coat then asked Harry to come in.

"You alright in there?" she asked. She had changed into a dark grey uniform that John assumed was her work outfit. John was not exactly sure what Harry did for a living, but as she worked under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Turner, their first landlady and the one person who knew them better than anyone else, John wasn't worried about her getting into too much trouble. She still drank, of course, but John could tell she was making the effort not to overdo it for his sake.

"I have to go work. I'll be back at eight."

"That's fine. I really should visit Mom."

"Oh. You still know your way?"

'Of course."

Twelve years away from London hadn't altered John's memory of it one bit. He knew the streets, the alleyways, even the underground tunnels where he was forced to hide during an air raid. There were lesser attacks here in London but the bombs were still as deadly. Traces of the three-week old attack could be seen through the state of the streets. There were holes here and there and the scent of sulfur never truly left a place that had experienced an ambush.

St. Bart's was only a few blocks away from their flat but John's leg was practically screaming by the time he reached the tall iron gates. The building hadn't changed at all and John was pleased to note that compared to the others beside it, St. Bart's seemed to have been untouched by any bomb.

The receptionist was unknown to him but his strong resemblance to Harry helped her guess where he wanted to go. He was told to go up the circular staircase and down a narrow and dimly lit hallway. Doors lined at either side of him, the small windows at the center giving him a glimpse of the people it contained. A scream pierced the air, distant yet unnerving all the same. John swallowed thickly.

His mother was sitting on the bed when he came in. She looked frailer than the last time he had seen her and her waist-long hair, once golden in color, had turned grey. John approached her cautiously, wondering if she still recognized him. Her dark green eyes were glazed meaning she had been recently drugged. They regarded him silently, two forests in a map of scars. John remembered that day all too well. Harry had found her in the kitchen, laughing madly while weaving a knife in the air, her cheeks slashed and dripping red. John never did know why she had done it and Harry had been in too much shock to tell him what had really happened.

"John," she said and John sighed, relieved. Amazing how she still knew him. Perhaps this was what Harry referred to as a 'good day'. Good days meant their mother stopped acting like a wild animal. Good days where when she reverted back to what she had been like before insanity claimed her. They were a rarity.

"You have his eyes, John."

He had heard this many times before but she never elaborated. 'He' was his father, obviously, but apart from knowing that he had the same eye color as him, the man remained a mystery. He did not know either if he had been present when his mother was pregnant with Harry and he was just a year old.

"It's snowing," she whispered and she was gone again. It hadn't snowed in London for a long time.

He visited her daily, sometimes with Harry but mostly on his own. She seemed to talk more when he was present, something Harry pointed out, her voice failing to mask her annoyance. John did not know why it was like this when it was Harry who had been seeing her during his absence. His mother treated him like a child and John never bothered to tell her that he was already thirty-years-old and he was far from the wiry roof-climbing, pickpocketing boy that she had known.

The tenth day John went to the asylum, he was alone. Harry had work and after the fourth visit, when their mother had recognized only him, John guessed that she no longer wanted to do it when he was around. His muscles ached as he climbed up the steep steps. He had just had a session with his physiotherapist the day before and it was agony. Still, it was working for his shoulder. It did nothing to fix his limp, though.

John peered through the window first to see what his mother was doing. She was sitting in the chair where he sat every time he came to see her, her back to him. She was moving her hands dramatically, as if telling a story to an invisible man.

No, not invisible.

There was someone inside with her. For a fraction of a second, John thought it was one of the orderlies, but the man standing before his mother wasn't dressed in the crisp white uniform. John caught a glimpse of a long black coat and dark hair before he burst inside, hoping to startle the man.

"John?" His mother had turned to look over her shoulder to give him a smile. Of the man there was no sight.

The first person to spot the airship was not a person at all.

Physically, he looked human—two legs, two arms, one head, a nose, and a mouth. What made him look a little more extraordinary than most were his eyes. They were oddly shaped, sharp at the corners and a little far apart. Their color was unearthly. If one was asked to associate a specific color with the man's eyes one would not say blue or green or brown. Instead, that person would describe to you the heart of glaciers and dirty snow, cool mist and frigid water. Cold was the word and they were, both in color and expression.

The man was sitting on the broad windowsill, hands shoved deep inside the pockets of his trousers. The blue scarf around his neck hung loosely and his coat, a wonderfully dramatic piece of clothing, was unbuttoned partially unbutton. He looked for all the world, the very epitome of relaxation. In truth, he was quite bored.

The coming of the airship did little to change that. A normal person would have run at the sight of it and hidden underground, but as the man was not really human, he needn't bother. He was a ghost in this place. He could touch and see and smell but nothing could harm him. This was London, but it was not his London.

He swung his feet to-and-fro, the back of his shoes hitting the wall with a thump. He wondered briefly whether the man and the woman inside the room above him could hear. The woman, undoubtedly. She was quite mad and he had long ago learned that the mentally disturbed in Common London could see him and talk to him. They would attempt to touch him, of course, but they never could and that suited him just fine. He did not like to be touched.

The man, though. He was not insane. He had known that when he saw him peering through the glass. His eyes had the gleam of a hardened man and a split second after the man came in, just as he was disappearing, he saw enough. A soldier, he guessed, a former one. The aluminum cane he held in his hand was enough to tell him that and he still smelled of war. Acrid smoke, desserts, and blood, faint but still detectable. The combination, mingled with the scent of the Commons, was absolutely intoxicating. He wondered if the man's emotions tasted just as good as his scent.

The airship was beginning to sink lower, its silver belly now cutting through the heavy clouds that coated the sky.

Imbeciles, he thought, spotting a group of youths walking down the street, laughing loudly. Couldn't they see that there was impending danger right above their heads? No. Commons were rather stupid which was why so many of them died in less than a week.

All of a sudden, there was a whistling in his coat pocket. He heard the conversation below stop. The woman carried on but it was the man's silence that intrigued him. He hears, he thought, fascinated. How strange.

The whistling became more insistent and the man sighed as he fished inside his pocket, never leaving his eyes on the airship that was beginning to make its appearance more clear. As soon as his fingers touched the scrap of paper, the whistling stopped. The once blank piece of parchment now contained words written with dark blue ink. Lestrade. That was the color he preferred.

Come back at once. Something's popped up at the edge of Baskerville and several of my men have already been injured.

The words stayed for a few seconds, waiting for a reply, then disappeared when it was made clear there would be none. There was a new case to take but he already knew that it was frightfully easy. First, he would watch the bombs.

Whistling again. The man scowled then crammed the paper deep inside his pocket. The sound was muted slightly but that didn't stop it from getting the attention of the two Commons. He jerked his feet up and drew his legs to his chest when the window below him slid open. Right, he had forgotten to lock it again.

He watched the back of the man's head curiously. Blond hair, bleached by the sun, scent of soap and coffee. He leaned forward a little, his feet threatening to slide off. He could feel the man's emotions buzzing inside him, fear and wonder jumping inside. It should taste bitter and sour, but he couldn't, for some reason, transform the man's feelings to tastes.

Stranger and stranger yet.

He leaned forward some more, a mistake as his feet did slide off the edge. He was able to draw them back again before he could fall but the damage was done. The man had turned and was now looking up at him, shock in his eyes.

He held the man's gaze for a moment before he looked up. The bottom of the airship was now opening and even though it was still far away, he caught the glint of the black murderer. It would drop right in front of the asylum.

"Oi!" the man cried, interrupting his thoughts. "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing up there?"

Lestrade will be mad, he thought, ignoring the man's words. But then again, he didn't really care what anyone else thought.

He reached out and grabbed him just as the bomb fell.

Notes (Oh no notes again no no no no more notes!): Sherlock feeds on emotions just to make it clearer. Explanations will be provided in the next chapters. :)