Disclaimer: not mine (did have something wittier but it got deleted somehow)

A/N: I did have author's notes on here before but for some reason they got deleted so have another go. Just a quick note to say thanks to RedBrickandIvy who was my test-reader (would say beta except she wasn't really and hasn't seen the finished piece yet so yeah...) please leave a review if you can, really helpful to me and all. ;)

What Makes A Man

Chapter One: The Mesmer

John Watson was not ordinary; not by any means.

He had…an ability. A power, if you will. A gift, or indeed curse, which he'd received from his father, who had inherited it from John's grandmother.

The Mesmer, as they called it, allowed them to influence other people; a sort of cross between hypnotism and mind control. It's difficult to be specific as it differed from person to person, growing and shifting as they grew as people, working to match with who they became.

Grandmother Watson, a gentile elderly woman always used suggestions, 'would you mind this' or 'could you do that', perfectly innocuous but even as children, Harry and John had never been able to refuse one request she posed towards them.

Mr Watson was a stern but fair man. He believed in discipline but never used the Mesmer against his children. He believed that his children should obey him because they respected and understood the requests and never because they had to. A belief that stemmed from the one time he had unintentionally used it against John. The boy had been chasing Harriet cradling a worm which he was threatening to drop down her shirt when Mr Watson's strong voice bellowed out the single word "Stop!"

The poor eight year old had been frozen in his position for nearly four hours before his father found a way to rescind the order. John collapsed, having struggled throughout to move from his position, trying to shout and kick and scream but never moving an inch or making a sound. For three weeks after that his son was too afraid to even look him in the eye.

John had first used the Mesmer in secondary school aged twelve.

Some kids had tried to pick a fight with him, shoving him to the ground just outside the school gates. Far enough that the teacher's technically held no jurisdiction but close enough that there had been no way to avoid the inevitable beating. The taunts and the jeers they threw at him weren't the problem though, rolling off him like butter as he lay there easily shielding his stoic pride. No, it was the punches that followed with a good strong kick to the stomach that really pissed him off.

"Stop it." He muttered through gritted teeth as he clutched his abdomen, his young twelve year old mind causing him to fight the urge to curl into a ball. "Get away from me." They just laughed, kicking dirt in his face and continuing to smack their boots harshly against his back.

When he spoke again his voice was hoarse, cracking from a combination of fear and anger towards the ones who'd knocked him down. Oddly, it felt as though his throat was tightening as he spoke, drawing forth the extra layer he hadn't known he'd possessed.

"Get Away From Me."

Each of the boys jumped back immediately, jerking their limbs as though John had set fire to them and stood, gazing dumbfounded at each other before turning and running away as far and fast as they possibly could; as though the hounds of hell themselves were after them.

They never messed with him again.

For weeks afterwards his parents argued over whether or not to tell him, either ignoring or forgetting that it was only walls that separated them from their young children, both of whom were able to hear every word. In the end it was an angered and greatly impatient Grandmother Watson who explained it to him.

"You are a special young man, John, as was your father when he was your age." She paused, waiting expectantly for some response but John merely stared as his hands clasped in his lap. Leaning back, she sighed. "There are a great many people out there who would give anything, or indeed do anything for your ability, John." She smiled at him, peering over her thin-rimmed glasses while he shifted uncomfortably.

"But I don't want it."

"Hamish was the same." Grandmother Watson nodded knowingly. "He wanted nothing to do with it and what did he get for his troubles? A simple slip of the tongue and now his own son's too afraid to even look him in the eye anymore. Don't think I haven't noticed young man." She added the end statement as John turned purposefully towards the window while a slight shiver ran through him.

Four years had passed and he still remembered exactly how it felt to not have his muscles react to his panicking and fear. How he'd spent hours internally screaming and shouting but never once being able to move or make a sound. Even now he still had the occasional nightmare that he was frozen in place, not capable of making a sound or moving and remaining that way forever. He'd always awake in a cold sweat and chest heaving often followed by a few sleepless nights.

His grandmother nodded in understanding. "That's how it works. The stronger the order, the stronger the mind behind it…" she tailed off. "But it's a part of you, John. And like it or not you'll have to find a way to live with it." Raising her drink to her lips, the elderly woman muttered. "Can't do any worse than your father."

They sat in silence for a few minutes before John was able to find his voice. "Are there like rules for it?" That was how it worked in comic books and on television right? There were rules of responsibility to be abided by, to separate the good guys and the bad guys. Which was why he was shocked when his grandmother scoffed.

"Rules!" Replacing her cup on the small table beside her, she sat back again looking thoughtful. "The thing with rules, John, is you will always find an exception to them. It could be today, it could be in five years or ten years, but it'll always make itself known, and what use are your rules then?"

John looked up from his clasped hands to take in his calm grandmother before him. "But don't I need to…" he paused, searching for the right term. "Do the right thing? Not use it against people?"

"Having the Mesmer will help to shape you as a person. How you come to use it is something you have to discover for yourself." She smiled sweetly at him, her wrinkled eyes creasing further in sympathy for his confusion. "For right or for wrong, no one knows what it's like and you'll know better than anyone how to make it work for you.

"Remember, you're a boy with an ability, not an ability with a boy."

And those words always stuck with him.

Afghanistan. John Watson's tent.

Yesterday a young man was dying beneath his hands. The multiple bullet wounds should have been instantly fatal but John wasn't willing to let him go without a fight.

For twenty minutes longer than anyone had expected the soldier had remained aware, his eyes glued to John's face that stood sentinel above him until the final moment in which his heart finally gave up and he passed on. Everyone had put it down as some random miracle that he had held on as long as he did but something about it had got John to thinking.

Almost continually, the doctor had muttered reassurances as he worked, mentally screaming at his patient to just hold on, just a little while longer, please. Even so, his voice never wavered although in all honesty he was paying himself little attention. That was probably why he hadn't noticed the Mesmer. I mean, that was the only way he could make sense of it, even though it made no sense.

John sat in quiet contemplation, fingers clasped beneath his chin almost in prayer. Maybe they were. He'd never given the man any orders; at no point had he said "stay alive" or anything of the sort, too busy rallying his fellow doctors to try and save the man.

Yet…

More and more over the last few weeks his patients had been commenting on how kind his eyes were or how soothing his voice was while they were under his care. The doctor had run through the figures a couple of times and had come to realise that of everybody here treating the wounded, those who came beneath his hands following an attack had a greater chance of surviving. They lasted longer than anyone else and most of them lived on to see another day.

Except there was nothing particularly special about him. Nothing about his methods was different to those of anyone else's. He did the same as anyone would in his position but every one of his patients seemed to hold on that little bit longer. The only difference, literally the only thing that set him apart from the others was his ability; was the Mesmer.

The thought that he could control and guide the thoughts and actions of another human being was never a responsibility that had rested easily on John's shoulders and, as best he could he had tried to refrain from using it.

Only he'd failed…

Over the next few weeks John Watson kept half a mind on his voice and his words at all times. Sometimes, when he'd been awake for many hours and so many people had passed beneath his hands, he'd start issuing orders and feel his throat begin to tighten the same way it had so many years ago.

At this point he'd draw short. Instantly becoming silent and taking a not-very-calming breath before continuing, slower and calmer than before to ensure he didn't slip up and force someone to do something.

In this time he lost fourteen soldiers.

After the latest loss he sat in his tent for hours, hidden away from the others and allowing silent tears to fall, tracing invisible paths along his arms as he dug the palms of his hands into his eyes. He wasn't sure why he was doing that exactly, to try and slow them probably, stop them most likely, hell anything but they kept coming, there was no keeping them inside, they'd been building for too long.

Raising his head, John dragged his hands down his face and curled his fingers into fists as they fell to his lap.

It wasn't fair! He didn't want to use the Mesmer on his patients, but if he didn't, then more people would die; people who were relying on him to get them well again, so they could get back out there or get back home.

For possibly the millionth time since joining the army, John turned his grandmother's words over in his head.

The thing with rules, John, is you will always find an exception to them… …Having the Mesmer will help to shape you as a person… …For right or for wrong, no one knows what it's like and you'll know better than anyone how to make it work for you.

And as he questioned his own motivations, John felt he finally began to understand what she'd been talking about.

Shot; invalided home; John Watson was returned to London a few months later. Moving into a tiny one bed apartment that he forever dreaded coming home to, spending entire days out on walks just to avoid looking at those damn walls.

Every night, awaking from nightmares filled with shouting, explosions and gunfire; people, comrades and friends dying beside him, it was those four walls that greeted him. Those four walls, a damn crutch he needs for his limp and a calender pinned to the wall that indicated his next appointment with his therapist.

Of course there were other items, his laptop, a desk and whatnot but after the nightmares, after every single one those three things were the ones that always drew in his attention like a magnet. Reminding him everything he had lived through.

As is often the case with extraordinary people, he did his best to appear inconspicuous as he went about daily life, strove to lead as normal a life as possible. He even had a therapist even though he thought about three times as carefully through everything he said before saying a single word to her. Really, being 'normal' was really quite simple, not too difficult. All it really required was for him to maintain a decent level of self-control and restraint that his sister failed to possess.

Harriet, John's sister, had actually tried getting in touch once or twice since his return home, offered her help, even a spare bed to sleep in but John wanted nothing to do with her anymore.

Like the good doctor and their father, Harry also had the Mesmer but much like their father refrained from ever using it, growing up in this 'magical' world where apparently denying a truth would eventually make it real. Of course this wasn't true, and it resulted in her holding little to no control over it. What pitiful control she did have was slowly but surely stripped away by her steadily increased alcohol dependency. When it did work, it was against her wishes and intent, usually during times of heightened emotions and false words that she just couldn't take back no matter what she tried.

Like the day that Clara left.

The same day he landed back on British soil, the fair-haired Clara had near begged poor John to please, oh dear god please, come round to help her address Harry's continuing drinking problem. Most nights she was coming in as pissed as anything, screeching nonsense and crying once or twice. That or she'd wallow in her chair cradling some strong drink or other, moping and wailing in a fit of depression.

But when she returned the following night she was met with the concerned gaze of her beloved and the accusing gaze of her brother, both who calmly explained to her their concerns and their fears about the drink and what it was doing to her.

"Oh I see." There had been no raised voices, there had been no fingers pointed and nothing provocative said but Harry quickly became riled, her hazel eyes becoming fiery as she stepped forward glaring daggers at the pair of them. "I see what you're up to."

"Please, Harry." Clara's voice was pleading but Harry just waved it off, raising an accusing finger in the poor girl's face.

"It's a plot! A plan!"

John stepped forward, forcibly pushing her hand down. "Harriet-"

"Don't you 'Harriet' me John Watson! I know your game-I know your game!"

"Harry, he's only trying-"

Turning on Clara she roared. "And don't think I don't know you're involved with this! Just get out! Pack your stuff and leave! Go on, Go! Just get out!" John recognised the added layer of the Mesmer that laced her words as she burst out at her would-be fiancée.

"Harry! No!"

But the small silence that followed and the slight shift in Clara's eyes told him it was already too late. Clara left that day; the rest of her belongings followed her within a week. She never called; she didn't return.

Not long after, John called round to check on Harriet to find her thoroughly drunk in the front room glaring at her mobile phone where she'd left it on the small coffee table. Various bottles and cans were scattered around the place and when he asked how she was doing, Harry moved forward taking the phone in her shaking fingers before extending it out towards him.

"Take it." Her eyes were still distant and firmly focused on the table but the hand was merely inches from his chest. "Please."

"Are you sure?" He remembered how Harriet had described first seeing the present, how she'd squealed with delight and taken Clara in her arms before bundling her away to the bedroom and doing things that really no one ought to be allowed to send to their siblings in letters, no matter how delighted they were about it. Whatever she had said on that day, Harry had always loved Clara.

"Please." The reach extended slightly and the phone was all but pressed against his chest and so, reluctantly he had taken it, absent-mindedly running his fingers over the engraving on its back.

"Stay in touch." She'd called as he left, but John didn't. There wasn't much he could say to make things better and he'd tried everything to get her to stop drinking so there was no point. What more was there to say?

It had taken him a while to figure out but on that day John had lost all sympathy for his sister and her predicament. It was her own fault, a problem which had been a long time coming and there was really no way he would put up with her childish ways while she tried to glue the pieces back together with alcohol.

So even though he kept the phone, not having one himself, he cut off all ties with her.

That was another thing that had helped; limited interaction with other people. It hadn't been a conscious decision to begin with, he just wasn't used to dealing with everyday civilians again after so long in a war zone. But after a few weeks he realised it had been a while since he'd seen someone who wasn't stood behind a counter selling him something or in a chair opposite asking him how he felt and truthfully he found himself unbothered by the prospect.

The only problem was with fewer people to talk to he had more time to himself, more time to think over what he'd learnt following his revelation over his grandmother's words in Afghanistan.

To make a long story short, John had…for lack of a better word, experimented. Deciding that if he wanted to…be at peace with the Mesmer it wasn't enough to keep it in check. No, if he didn't want to end up like his father, afraid to talk to his own friends and family, he needed to understand it's ways and limitations. So he experimented.

It hadn't been too extensive, wary as he was of his still somewhat shaky self-control but it was enough that now, as he walked through the crisp air of Russell Square Gardens, there were four things, he was certain of.

First - minds. The stronger the will, the more resistance there was. Even in the army where you're trained to obey without question, if someone wilful enough could feel him trying to use the Mesmer against them, they would resist his suggestion, even when they knew it was the right option to be taking.

Second - orders. He didn't need them. As long as he had his intention crystal clear and entirely focused in his mind it didn't particularly matter what he said. Although, if he did use an order the person was more likely to do as he'd instructed and quicker.

Third - headaches. Following years of lack of use, prolonged or repeated…exercise of the Mesmer caused head-splitting pain to sear through his mind. It became less so through practice but he'd yet to reach the point where he could function without consequence. So he had to be careful.

Fourth - eyes. More precisely, his eyes. Just as if he gave a direct order, if he held a direct line of sight with the person he was talking to, if they were looking right into his eyes, they felt a greater compulsion to do as they were told and with less hesitation. It wasn't a necessity but it helped things along when someone was particularly stubborn.

Absorbed as he was in his thoughts he almost didn't hear the near unrecognisable Mike Stamford call his name from the bench beside the footpath.

No point beating about the bush, he was big, bigger than John remembered, which he did…eventually. The first person he'd spoken to in nearly a month and oddly enough it was refreshing and remarkably invigorating to realise that he wasn't entirely invisible.

Alright, so he didn't believe that notion whole-heartedly but there had been more than one occasion when he'd wandered if people didn't notice him because they were busy or because he'd been transparent.

As such, when Mike offered coffee, his treat, and a chance to spend more than five minutes with another human being he found himself reluctant to pass the chance up.

It was nice to talk with someone, even if the dialogue was flat and boring. So what if it centred mainly around the old days and how now, Mike was old, fat and academically redundant and John…well John wasn't really…himself.

Somehow they got around to the subject of living in London and Mike mentioned getting help from Harry but John just scoffed at him. "That's not gonna happen."

"You couldn't just get a flatshare or something?"

He snorted again. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" His brow furrowed as Mike began laughing light-heartedly. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

Still confused, John took a small breath. "Who was the first?"

Mike paused for a moment, probably deciding whether to tell him or not. Eventually his face relaxed into a smarmy smile and he tilted his head as he stood up, indicating one of the pathways out of the park.

"C'mon. I'll introduce you."