Author's Notice: Hello! I've decided to pair up my two favorite things! I hope everything moves along rather smoothly. I'd like to tell you right now I'm not a 40k history buff, and a lot of the galaxies/planets/basically all the places they go, are made up by me, so please be gentle, there. Also, I'm not completely familiar with a lot of the wars, and obviously the one Watson was in is not anything in the history books. Some classes may also be made up. I've just based things loosely in the 40k universe, so please don't run over everything with a fine toothed comb.
Also, just so you are aware, most the time the characters will be referred to by their last name(unless of course, the characters are speaking to each other). MOST the time. Sometimes their first name will also be used, but it's mostly to keep it a bit more military. Chapters may jump characters, you may follow John one chapter and then Sherlock the next, or even a side character such as Sally or Anderson.
YES this is going to be a romantic story; but it's also full of drama, adventure, and action.
This is going to be a long, long story. I'm thinking of doing a prequel for both John and Sherlock separately. Their starts. There is a planned sequel for this fiction, once it is completed as well, if anyone is even interested in it. Updates will hopefully be rather regular, so please enjoy the show!
(Again, forgive any discrepancies in timeline; and if things really bother you a lot, feel free to leave a comment over what I missed. Also, this story is not Beta'd or Brit Picked.)
*Crown: Form of currency
*Narthecium: Standard issue medical supply bag. Has all the high-tech gadgets a field operative needs.
*I just got it brought to my attention John couldn't be a space marine. Thank you so much for bringing that to my attention. However, I really loved the Apothecary class, and it bums me out if I have to change it. /UGH, so I think I'm going to look over it, which I know now makes it a plot hole I suppose. But, I really love the idea of John as a space marine. I'm sorry? I might change it later though, thinking about it. AGAIN, thank you for bringing that to my attention.
"Heretic"
'Chapter One - Broken'
"John Watson: Apothecary Space Marine"
"Yours is to serve, unto the last drop of your blood, that your brothers might live to fight on. Watch over them, heal them, offer up your very life should it extend theirs but a moment, and by your sacrifice the enemy be slain. And when the time comes that you must fullfill your most solemn oath, speak clearly, speak proudly, speed the bolt that brings his end and send him joyous to the Emperor's side. Then do your duty, take which is due, and know your mission is done." - Extract from the Apocrypha of Eons, Verse V, Chapter L (M40 Redaction)
Local Winter, Ordna Metropolis, Silva Primarus, 297.M41
John Watson, a military field medic was invalided back to his primary sector; where his family had long since moved off planet. He had fought valiantly alongside his brothers and sisters in battle; healing the wounded and comforting the dying. He had taken a heavy bolt to the shoulder; his armor had taken most the damage, but the soft tissue beneath had still been speared through and left him at the mercy of the God Emperor. His comrades had pulled him to safety in time, but he was useless to them.
It had taken a little over four months to get his arm working, to get the muscles set proper, to get his fingers to coordinate. That shoulder wound had mucked up that whole side of his body, his leg had been damaged(all in his head, the medicae that treated him had said). He relied on a cane now to get around, limping heavily from here to there, relatively useless.
Watson was old and broken; or at least, that's definitely how he felt. He was no longer an asset to the war; he was merely just another crippled civilian.
Watson was left renting a small flat in the outskirts of the once great metropolis. The planet hadn't been doing well; the trade routes had been re-routed outside of this galaxy due to the volatile dying star the few planets here still orbited. It was a primary reason many of the families that had the funds, took the quickest route off-world. But, this was Watson's home, this was where he grew up, and where it looked nothing like he remembered ninety years before, it was definitely where he decided he needed to be.
Not a battlefield, but something close to it, with the poverty and the disease that spread like wild fire in these close-knit communities. Drugs were the quickest and easiest trade to get into, and a lot of the youth got their selves hooked in with the wrong crowd. Legitimate hospitals were expensive, not to mention completely packed; and if you didn't have the proper funds, or the right credentials, there wasn't any admission.
There wasn't any familiar faces left here; but the one good thing about this planet(if you'd call it a good thing) was that it was primarily human. Very few alien races lived amongst them, and where Watson wasn't a racist by any means-seeing familiar human faces, was something that became a luxury up in battle. So, he savored it where he could, helping his own people gave him a sense of pride and duty. He desired to make a difference, and where the hospitals were not likely to staff a discharged cripple(his hands were useless, shaking like he had palsy, what sort of surgeon could he be?), he opened up his own practice. Not officially, of course not, but in his small flat he began to see patients. Drug-addled youth, single parents, poverty-stricken families with not even a crown* to their name. He allowed clients to keep a credit line, and by doing so, he got the attention of the underground.
Not only were children, teens, and poor families coming to him-but now he saw his fair share of knife wounds and acid burns, all manner of gruesome injury befitting the underground. The hired muscle and the loaded guns, all seeking his help to be patched back bright and new. Watson barely had the material to keep up this grand client base, but he never turned anyone away, everyone was welcome; and everyone in their gratitude, could be sure to keep his secret.
After all, operating without an official license was a high crime. Practicing medical arts without the proper permits, without even the proper building to do it in, he could be branded worse than a criminal. Not to mention most his clients were probably in something a little darker than shady and God Emperor forbid, he became branded as a heretic for helping them.
The consequences didn't bother Watson(and if he were to admit, he got a perverse thrill from it). No, he wasn't trying to overthrow the golden throne with his medical knowledge. He was just trying to do his job, what he had been trained to do. Be the best damn medicae there was and help his fellow man. If John could no longer do it under the shine of the Emperor's light, then he'd do it in the shadow of it. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. He was doing good work here.
At least, that was what he told himself.
It was well past midnight and finally his little flat was his again and not stuffed to the brim with ailing people. There was a stink that would never quite leave; of burned flesh, dried blood, and just the general unwashed smell of the people he treated. But, he got used to it, the work was rewarding, and it was worth it. He cleaned his hands in the sink, shutting off the taps and tossed the soiled rag on the counter. His body ached all over, his eyes burned from focusing so hard on getting stitches through torn skin. He'd be up and ready again, come four hours, knowing there would be a new batch of patients, as well as some following up for further treatment. He had made it all the way to his room, about to shed his dirty work clothes and get into something more comfortable when the bell rang.
His brow furrowed, but a promise was a promise, he'd treat anyone, at any hour, if they legitimately needed emergency care. He pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead to try and stave off the looming migraine as he walked his way back into the sitting room. The bell rang again, urgent. "Coming!" Watson called, opening the door wide; he was startled into silence at who was staring back at him. "Mike?"
Mike Stamford, a childhood friend, one he hadn't seen since long before he enlisted, stood on the stoop of his flat. Of course, he had aged, as everyone did. He had the body of a scholar, round and soft, had never fought a day in his life. He was wearing loose fitting clothes, and a heavy black cloak over his shoulders that made him look twice as big as he was. For all his girth, he was a short man, shorter than John by just a few inches. He always had a rather jovial face, but now it was tense, that pinch between his brows always a sign there was something weighty on his mind. "John, lovely to see you. Heard when you got shipped back, terrible stuff, that." He said, as personably as ever, but instinctively Watson knew this was not the topic of conversation Stamford wanted to probe.
"Indeed," He admitted, standing awkwardly, leaning hard on his cane; fatigue having robbed him of his manners before he gestured wide, "Come in, have a seat, want something to drink?" He said in a rush, because he knew there was something unsettling here. Stamford last worked at the ministry, or so he had been told. Some distant planet John couldn't even remember the name of, rich work over there, just rich in general. Where a lot of the precious documents of the Imperium were held, the history of the ages kept under tight lock and key in the ministry Stamford had been last rumored to be employed at.
So, why was he here? This far away, in this putrid place?
The ex-space marine did not have a good feeling. His gut instinct had never been wrong before.
"I'm fine, thank you." Stamford said, running a hand nervously through his auburn hair. He had shut the door behind him, and Watson(having been on his way to the kitchen) turned back around to meet the man in the sitting room. From the waning light, he could see the unnatural shine to Mike's eyes. Where they looked relatively normal, Watson was aware now they were not organic. He had implants, but that wasn't a surprise. Stamford's vision was bad, from a young age, he worked for a while with primitive glasses, but all that time reading must have corroded what was left of his eye sight. Not unusual, augments were rather common among the richer classes, they could afford it.
"I know you didn't travel all the way here just to see how I've been getting on." He said, deciding to address the tension.
Stamford smiled sadly, "I've been found out."
"You were never a good liar."
He shook his head, "You're a very good Apothecary, John."
"I'm not the best." John said, because it was true. He might be the best these underclass had, but he was definitely not the best, and definitely not even the most decent someone could buy, given how well off Mike must be. Watson was not envious of the rich, he did not value money in such a way, but it was the life blood of the Imperium(that, and lives themselves).
"You are exactly what we need." Stamford said, glancing nervously at Watson, then away again.
"We?"
"My boss," He wrung his hands, "I've told him about you, about what you can do. We don't have a lot of options, we need the utmost discretion."
John eyed him warily, "What is this about, Mike? Your boss? I thought you were a ledger keeper."
"I am," Mike protested, "I was, well, I am, just in a different way."
"You have to start making sense. You know I'll help you, with whatever you need. You don't look injured, so who is it? What happened?" Watson asked, still unsure, unable to understand why Stamford would skip galaxies just to sniff him out. "How did-how did you find out about my practice here?" He asked before he could stop himself.
"I asked around," Stamford said, "Really, I didn't, I didn't know before. I knew you were discharged, and I knew you were sent back here, to your home world. But, I didn't know where you were staying. You weren't listed on the residency register, but that's common here, aliases and such." He said gently, "I got directed into this neighborhood when I asked for an off the book doctor, the street children directed me here."
Watson swore, "Throne, it's not supposed to be that easy."
"Don't worry, John." Stamford said, "Who would ask about it, if they didn't know about it? I don't look like an authority figure, so they had enough trust to think I needed legitimate help."
At least that was one good thing. Those in power liked to flaunt their power, and undercover missions to sniff out a crippled doctor was not something Watson should be worried about. If he was going to get found, he'd have prior notice from his connections in the city. Besides, seemed like he had other problems.
"Okay, okay," He conceded, "Answer my questions. Who is it? Why?"
"I'll tell you, as much as I can, once we get going," He said, sincere, "Would you please come with me?"
Watson snorted, derisive. Where Mike was a man to be trusted, he wasn't sure what would be waiting when he walked out the door. "How long?"
"What do you mean?"
"When can I be expected back here, I have patients, I can't just go off world."
Stamford sighed, "You must, I need you to come with me. I don't know for how long, but long enough for you to bring anything of importance."
"Just like that?"
He blinked, "Like what?"
"You come here and spirit me away for some unknown cause? Don't I get a say about it?"
Stamford frowned, "I'm sorry, John, I am. Please just come with me; you won't want to say no to this."
Watson was quiet, weighing his options. He could always refuse; but there was something here, bad or otherwise, and he had never backed down from danger before. Why should he start now? "Give me a minute."
Stamford sat down, and Watson left the room.
He retreated to his bedroom, began to gather his clothes. He rifled through his drawers, trying to remember what exactly he needed to bring, what was important, what did he not want to be stolen in his absence? Watson stripped out of his soiled clothes and tugged on a fresh pair of pants and heavy trousers. He laced up his combat boots, and tugged on a soft-knit grey shirt. Watson then yanked down a few more outfits from his closet and stuffed them into the suit case that lay open on his bed. He tucked a few picts of his family in the case, among his clothing. He reached for his bolt pistol that was on the night table, the heavy weight comfortable and familiar in his hand. He tucked it behind his back, in the waist band of his heavy trousers, sure to smooth out his shirt over the bulge to conceal it. He doubted the pistol would do much good, but it did make him feel better. He then picked up his recently stocked Narthecium*. Whatever other odds and ends he deemed useful to the cause he tucked in his suit case, before he reached for his heavy pea-green coat and shrugged into it.
He walked back into the living room, carrying the two bags by the handles in opposite hands, his expression hard. "Lead on." He said, none-too-pleased, but it didn't seem the time to argue. Besides, Stamford was not in charge, he'd take this up with his boss, whoever that turned out to be. Hopefully he wasn't falling prey to some crime syndicate, though it was unlikely a crime lord would need a scholar such as Mike Stamford, the man allergic to peanuts and whom had a fear of just about everything.
Stamford got up, beaming happily at his long-time friend now that it appeared everything was in order. He held the door for Watson and then shut the door behind them. "Need to lock up?" He asked, since Watson had walked out onto the street.
"No need," John said easily, "If they want to get in, they will, locks don't really matter here." Out of respect for his profession, from helping the bulk of the public in this ghetto, Watson had the luxury of not having to worry about such things. Now though, skipping planet on his patients, he was sure he wouldn't have much of a flat to return to. He'd build back up, life would continue on, as it always would. He was hardly bothered; more perturbed by his lack of knowledge on what was going to happen now. Even in heavy combat zones, he was privy to the plan and now he was completely in the dark, being led by a man clearly not suited for leadership; the way his hands fluttered for something to do, trying to fall in step behind Watson even though he had no idea where they were going.
"It's just a short ride. We're going to the mooring station. Our ship is docked there."
"How short?" He asked.
"We'll have to take the train, a few hours out." Everything was a few hours out from the city, the decrepit buildings set in the heart of the decaying residual caps of civilization around them. The tall buildings were stained black, looking like burned trees among a sea of cream-colored mushrooms(the more livable parts of the city). The train still ran in and out, though there were always delays, debris often got caught up on the tracks.
"Who is my patient?" Watson prompted.
Mike glanced sideways at him, before he seemed to decide he could at least tell him that much. "Gregory Lestrade," He spoke clear, but Watson had no recognition of the name, "He suffered a good blow in a recent skirmish. Something is in his blood; it's keeping him from recovering. We do have a medical professional aboard, but this isn't her field of study."
"Like what? Poison is it, or radiation maybe?"
"Poison," Stamford shrugged, "That's the best guess we have, it's destroying the blood cells anyway, at least from what I've been told. Ran enough tests, but he's getting worse, and we need results, John."
Watson breathed hard through his nose a moment, thinking, processing. "You won't go to the hospital though, his life not worth enough, is it?"
"It's of the upmost importance our time here is not known. Our presence at all, is not known." He said solemnly. "You'll be able to patch him, won't you?"
Watson barked a laugh, "You're asking me to become a miracle. How long has he been poisoned?" He decided to say poison, because he didn't know what it was yet, didn't have the body in front of him and it seemed Stamford's knowledge was grossly limited. They had made it to the train station, nearly one in the morning, the place was mainly deserted. Only a few homeless patrons were asleep on the pews in the lobby, a single ticket agent behind the cage at the end of the hall.
Stamford requested the route tickets, handed one to Watson, then proceeded to their gate. "Few hours. We didn't know he was poisoned at first, it just recently got brought to our attention."
"Great job your medical professional is doing."
Stamford winced, "She doesn't normally deal with living bodies."
"Right." Watson snorted, stepping up the stairs into their train car. He set his bags carefully next to his feet, not trusting them to storage. He rested his cane up against the side wall, his attention on Stamford. "Well, she might be in her field then, won't she? In a few hours more, if the poor bastard lives that long."
"Our other medicae," Stamford paused, running a hand through his hair, "They died recently, in the same skirmish. Luckily we only had those two casualties, everything else was minor."
Watson's brow furrowed in thought, "What happened?"
"I can't-"
"Not at liberty," Watson sighed, "Right. Who is the person in charge?"
"You'll meet him. Once you tend to Greg, he'll come to you."
"Anything I should know?"
Stamford smiled a melancholy smile, "Loads."
Watson laughed, because what else could he do? He'd been sent into hostile battlefields with less than a compass; he could weather this storm, like all the others before it. His hands were steady when he set them on his knees, his posture straight, and his shoulders square. He would face this challenge head on, and hope he could at least save this Gregory Lestrade.
