I don't own Sherlock (much as I'd like to) or anything/anyone, really, which totally sucks because Benedict Cumberbatch is flawless and Martin Freeman is a hedgehog
Johnlock is my OTP and it will be very romantic and fluffy and epic friendship and manly giggles and maybe touching the physical manifestation of each others' souls also some cries for you please don't hate me
John Hamish Watson was born a normal child. He was delivered at a healthy weight, from a healthy mother, with a strong daemon by his side. He grew up to be an unassuming child, running around in the dirt, with golden flyaway locks of hair, and sticky fingers. Lyressea was a normal daemon, growing alongside her human counterpart, flickering (as all children's daemons did) from bird to cat to dog to pony to snake, trying out as many shapes as she could before they Settled.
"What do you think you'll be?" Lyressea stirred. Her whiskers twitched forward, and her delicate chin rubbed at the child's soft skin.
"I don't quite know yet, John. But I'd quite like to settle as something big, something that can run and fight and keep you safe."
John dug his fingers into her sunset-colored fur, feeling the ticklish buzz of a kitten purr, and the barest touch of a lashing tail.
"You can watch my back, Ree, and I'll watch yours."
His cat-daemon pressed her forehead firmly into his small palm.
"That's what we do, John."
She settled as a lioness, at the age of thirteen. John thought she was perfect. His parents were surprised, as their child was an exceptionally gentle boy, and the fierce form his daemon settled into was nothing short of contradictory. His mother's red squirrel daemon, Miranel, chattered nervously at Lyressea when John announced the settling, while his mother fluttered around John, asking him if he felt wrong about the change. His father just patted his hair.
"A lion, eh, John, my boy? He'll grow to be a fearsome man, my dearest- no need to worry. I can see the strength in him."
Nyrenne, a goshawk, was perched neatly on John's father's shoulder. She blinked slowly at him, and inclined her beak. Harry just sniffed, and stroked the sandy back of Alinel, still in her arms, twitching his rabbit-nose.
John became flustered under the eyes of his family, and, with a weak grin, slipped out the house with Lyressea at his heels.
"We'll be strong and fierce when we grow up, won't we?"
"Of course! Like those brave soldiers in the films Daddy watches!"
John remembers the yelling and the running. He watched little men duck for cover, and saw the ground explode and heard the guns. He'd seen what soldiers did in Daddy's films, and they did look brave and strong and fierce. John decides to join the army as a doctor.
Sherlock was born premature, a gasping, wrinkled thing. His daemon was barely moving, and his mother had passed out from blood loss.
"We're afraid neither of them will make it," the doctor stated, palm pressed against an eye. "There's a very small chance of survival." His dog daemon whined behind him.
Mycroft, age seven, was plastered to his father's leg, Erassine tucked away in a pocket in the shape of a mouse.
"Papa, will Mummy get better? Where's Sherlock? Can I see?"
A strained smile answered Mycroft's questions.
"Mummy's going to be okay, I promise you. And so will baby Sherlock, alright? You'll see them soon."
Sherlock and his daemon, as well as his mother, lasted the night. And then another. And another and another and another, and Mycroft knew everything would be fine, because the doctor started smiling now, and every day, Mycroft would visit and stare at the pink face of the creature that was his new brother, and held hands with his mother.
Her name was Sapphiel, and Sherlock loved her. The two of them would giggle and chase each other through the halls of the manor, barefoot on the soft carpet. Mycroft and his daemon played with them too, even though he was a big boy. But he wasn't a man yet, which meant he could still join in, until he had to leave for school.
On rainy days, they would go outside, to collect worms and watch the pregnant stormclouds. Sherlock liked to track the movement of the lightning, and he would roar during every thunderclap, trying to outdo the sky in a contest of noise. Sapphiel would roar alongside Sherlock, no matter the form.
"My croft thinks we're being silly," yells Sherlock, during one particularly loud boom.
"He says we'll get sick doing this, and then be really unhappy."
"Aw, who cares what the pudgy bum thinks? If you get sick, you'll just get better afterwards, right? And that means you get stronger! "
They giggled softly at the mild curse, and ran, dripping with rainwater and mud into the house.
"Mummy, where's Papa?"
"I'm sorry, Sherlock, but Papa won't be here anymore. Some bad men came into our home and made Papa-"
"…"
"Papa's dead, Sherlock. The police will catch the people who did this. They have their best detectives on the case."
"Will that bring Papa back?"
"…"
"NO! I DON'T WANT STUPID POLICE-"
"Sherlock!"
"-THEY WON'T BRING PAPA BACK AND THE DETECTIVES CAN'T DO IT EITHER-"
"Sherlock, the detectives will find them and the police will make sure they get locked up for a long time. They won't hurt anyone else, and they sure as heck won't find you or Mycroft."
"…will they be locked up without dinner?"
"Yes. No dinner for the bad men."
Sherlock wants to be a detective. But not like the slow ones that have to follow the laws and stick to procedure. Oh, no. He'll be a consulting detective- the only one in the world, and the police will ask his advice when they're out of their depth, which is always, so he won't get bored. His daemon purrs into his ear.