To Robin Williams,

Whose wonderful acting and voice talents inspired my thought processes for this plotline. Even in death you inspire people and create goodness in the world. You're free now, sir. And yet you live on in the memories and remembered childhoods of so many people. Thank you.

You Ain't Never Had A Friend Like Me

In all honesty, it should have made sense. Well, it should have made sense to John, anyway. Most people wouldn't understand why it was so normal for John Hamish Watson to be sat in his flat, staring at one of those old style lamps from the stories and myths that people tell you about. You know, the sort that contain genies, the Jinn, or whatever variation of the myth suits your fancy. John had gone through stages of belief in myths and legends. When he was a boy? There was nothing you could stop him from believing in; Father Christmas, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy? You name it, he'd think it was real. Then onto his older childhood years and into teenhood, the doubts settled in and the inevitable revealing of parents' lies crashed down on his shoulders and his spirit with a heavy thud. And he took this dull weight with him all the way to Afghanistan, fighting a battle that was seemingly never ending. He'd seen things out there, though, things that anyone of the faint at heart would easily try to avoid for the vast majority of their lives. And this wasn't all of the death and violence, it was something not of this world, something spiritual and dark. John would probably have been scared out of his wits too if there wasn't a bloody great fight that he was trying to survive. Well, his job was obviously to aid any wounded soldiers that came his way, but that didn't mean that he never had to shoot a gun whilst he was out there. No sir, he was no stranger to firing bullets at the enemy for the sake of innocent people who would otherwise lose their lives. So there he was, back to believing in all sorts of things that may or may not be real. But these things were no longer the happy figures he liked to believe were real in the days of his boyhood, they were darker and far more sinister. Back in London, his nightmares now consisted of fellow soldiers dying before his very eyes, but there was also one where he would reach out into the darkness only to feel his hand clasped by something not quite normal, something not quite in the world of the living.

As for the lamp in his possession, well, John should have seen that coming. Whilst alive, his grandfather had been something of a humble traveller, and even joined archaeological teams on their forages for hidden treasures. John had seen this particular lamp a fair few times in his life, it'd been one of his favourites out of his grandfather's possessions. It was like a pirate's treasure trove up in his grandfather's loft, full of antiques and items found on the older man's explorations with the archaeologists. The lamp was rather beautiful, even if John could see now in his wiser years of early adulthood that there was a great deal of rust and dirt covering the once-shiny copper metal. As a child, the rust and dirt had been part of the charm of the beautiful ornament, well it still was, if he was honest with himself. The fact that this lamp was one of the most unassuming items that had ever been in his grandfather's possession was what had drawn John to it in the first place. And yet, as the older John sat staring at the lamp on his desk, he couldn't help but wonder back to his memories of the strange, yet wonderful object. No matter how many times he'd asked to hold, or even just touch it, when he was a boy, his grandfather, the original - but not the first - John Watson had always refused. He'd even gone so far as to putting the lamp out of the little boy's reach so there'd never been any chance of him even so much as getting a good look at it. Even that had made John sad. He had just wanted to touch it, to see what the warm-looking metal would feel like under his fingers. After all, how could something so pretty hurt him? His mother had always stopped him from touching or getting near things that could hurt him, but this was just a funny looking lamp! As he'd grown older, the lamp hadn't been as much of an obsession to him, just sort of in the background of his thoughts every so often, when he wasn't bogged down by school, homework, and a steady stream of on and off girlfriends. Oh, and that one boyfriend he never told anyone about. Since his mother, father and sister, Harry, had died in that god-awful car crash when he was a young boy, he'd always lived with the older John Watson, and life had never been boring, even as his grandfather slowly, but steadily, got older and more frail. After John had gone through uni and gained his medical degree, and even his doctorate, that was when he decided he wanted to save people. And so that's how Afghanistan came along. Even though he was scared of losing the young boy, his grandfather had encouraged him and told him his parents would be so proud. And that's what drove John the most.

So it was no surprise that it'd been a long time since this lamp had been in John's thoughts. Saving innocent people from being gunned down and seeing friends and fellow soldiers fall dead at his feet was enough to push the damned thing out of his mind for a long, long while. Perhaps not long enough. Because the arrival of this particular item to his flat had only ever meant one thing, and it was something he'd hoped wouldn't happen until far into the future. He'd known, though, of course he had. His grandfather was back in England getting older and older, and even more sick and frail, with each day that passed that John was out there fighting. He'd barely had time to get his bearings back in London, had only been there a few days, when the lamp had arrived along with a man dressed in a formal, black suit to bring the bad news. He revealed that the lamp was now in his possession, due to his grandfather's will, as was most of the rest of the late John Watson's belongings. John didn't care about any of the material things, didn't care about the money or the house - which had once been his home too. He wanted his grandfather back, wanted to see the warm smile that would always greet him whenever he'd visited the old man. Regret swam about in John's mind that he hadn't been there for the elderly man in his worst time, but selfishly he still couldn't bring himself to wish that he hadn't gone to Afghanistan. A changed man, that's what most people would say. The things he'd seen and done had ensured he would never be the same naive, innocent boy that his parents had known. Even during this time of development for John, his grandfather had always been there for him, had talked him through his troubles and made him smile when it felt like he'd never smile again. That sent another spike of guilt through him as he sat there on his bed, and he pressed the palm of his hand to his eyes and allowed himself a moment.

The moment dragged on until he'd been sat there for almost an hour before he finally looked up at the lamp again, tears in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. He gave another sigh and then stood, coming over to his desk and taking the lamp by its handle.

"What good are you to me now?" he muttered to the inanimate object, his gaze no longer full of wonder and amazement like it had been so many years before.

All there was when he looked at the dull copper metal now was a dead, cold look, exhaustion etched into the new lines of his face. John was in no way old yet, or even nearing it, but the war had taken a lot out of him and even just by looking in his eyes you could see everything that he'd seen. The lamp no longer brought joy to his heart the way it once had done.

"I don't want you, I want him," John said quietly, his voice breaking in the middle of the sentence as he started to sob quietly to himself.

He set the lamp back down on the table and once again covered his face with one of his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly as the grief took over him. If he didn't have his grandfather, he didn't want any of his possessions, they would never hold anything for him except bittersweet memories that would fade over the years. Most people would treasure that since they had nothing else, but in his moment of grieving, nothing was enough for the ex-army doctor.

In the midst of his tears and pain, John jolted slightly as a whizzing sound echoed throughout the room and he looked up, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion as he glanced about the room. Where had that noise come from? Sniffing slightly, he grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and moved to blow his nose when something glowing gold caught his eye. Pausing, he turned to see his grandfather's lamp and stared at it when it appeared that the object was glowing. It was as if the originally dull metal was now burning hot and glowing like embers in a fire. Rubbing his eyes a few times, John looked at it again and swallowed, his gaze curious, but wary.

"I've fallen asleep, that must be it," he murmured to himself, shaking his head and taking a deep breath, "This isn't happening."

Those things don't exist, if they did his grandfather would have told him, surely. Obviously he'd fallen asleep from the exhaustion of the emotionally challenging day and his dreams were reverting him back to his childhood when he believed in such things. And yet… His memories of the shadows, figures and voices he'd experienced in Afghanistan came to the forefront of his mind. There was no doubt that he'd seen things that were supernatural. Was there any other explanation for what had happened back then? As he sat there pondering those thoughts, he heard the whizzing sound again, though this time he also saw, out of the corner of his eye, the lamp shift its position on the table slightly, as if moving by itself.

"Okay, let me get this all out of my head and I'll prove you're not real," John muttered, reaching out to take the lamp in his hands.

The metal, instead of being hot like the golden glow suggested, was still cool to the touch and for that John was thankful since he'd rather mindlessly reached out to pick the lamp up. As he stood there with it in his hands, finally, after years and years of wanting to do so in his childhood, John didn't feel the same longing. There was something tugging at him, but it wasn't the same childish admiring of shiny, old things. He just couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"What did my grandfather see in you?" John asked the ornament he held in his hands.

After taking a deep, almost nervous breath, he rubbed his hand over the main body of the lamp once, twice, three times, and then over and over slowly as he watched the copper metal gleam brighter and brighter as if reacting to his touch. Eyes widening slightly, John kept on rubbing for longer than he expected, before the lamp all of a sudden just dimmed back to its original dull colour. Disappointed and more than a little confused, John stared at the lamp before he opened the lid and peered into its shallow depths. Nothing but dark metal also suffering the same rust as the outside.

"Stupid thing," John muttered with a frown, chucking it back onto the desk and walking away to grab his coat and his cane to go let off some steam with a walk out.

Stupid me, John thought to himself. He was an idiot for thinking anything would even happen with that old antique. It probably hadn't even glowed, it'd obviously caught a gleam of sunshine from outside, something like that.

When John returned back to his temporary flat later that evening, he was exhausted both physically and emotionally. How was it that not a month ago he'd been able to trek miles and miles every day with his fellow army mates across scorching desert lands, but now he couldn't even go for a walk around London without needing a nap? He supposed the shoulder injury and his limp had something to do with it, but he didn't like to make excuses. Something was wrong with him and he needed fixing, that was obvious. Not long after he got in from his walk around the neighbourhood, not that you could really call it that from the state of the area he currently lived in, John could do nothing but change into some pyjamas and crawl into bed. He was about ready to slip off into sleep when his gaze caught the lamp on his desk, that damned, infuriating thing that had always been in the background of his life. He wanted his grandfather, even if it was just to see him one more time and say everything he needed to say and apologise for not being there. Sighing, he turned away from it and laid on his side so he had his back to it, then closed his eyes. It took a while, but eventually John did finally get the sleep he needed. Whilst the man was blissfully unaware as to what was happening, the lamp began to glow again, this time getting so bright as to light up a corner of the room with its golden brilliance. John shifted in his sleep but remained in the land of nod as a stream of silver smoke poured from the spout of the lamp and transformed slowly into the figure of a man. Said man was tall and thin, dressed in traditional harem pants and a waistcoat, with bangles on his ankles, as well as two larger, silver cuffs at his wrists. His hair was dark and curly, whilst his eyes never seemed to appear one colour, always shimmering from blue to green to grey, though grey was the most prominent colour. The mysterious figure walked silently over to John sleeping in his bed and he crossed his arms as he stared down at him, a displeased look on his face.

"Idiot," he muttered, shaking his head, "So stubborn. As soon as you realise what I am you'll turn greedy like the rest of them."

With a sigh as if highly put upon, the tall man clicked his fingers and a chair appeared, setting it beside John's bed and he sat in it, reclining his bare feet up on the edge of the bed as he waited for his new master to wake up.