John Watson didn't have that many memories of his real parents. His mother was the back of a head with curly hair and his father was, strangely enough, a man with a bowtie.
He knew that he was adopted. He looked nothing like either one of his parents or their parents. Nor their siblings or cousins.
One day when he was five years old he walked up to his mother and asked "Who are my mum and dad?"
A pained expression came onto her face as she put down the knife she was cutting lettuce with and looked down at him.
"Who told you?" she asked softly.
"No one." John said. "Just knew."
His mum had took him into her arms and held him tightly.
"You know that your dad and I love you, right?" she asked him.
John nodded. "I just want to know who the other ones are."
"Your father was…a friend of mine. I didn't know your mother that well." she said. "But your father is a great and smart man. Very smart. At times like a child. But always loyal and loving towards his friends."
"Did they love me?" John asked.
"Oh sweetie." she said and for some reason the last word caused a shot of pain to go through him. "You know that they did."
John Watson knew he was different. He…felt things that he knew other kids his age, or older or anyone at all really, felt.
Like how sometimes if he concentrated he could feel the very earth moving. Moving so fast and yet still in place.
How easily languages came to him. How he could learn a completely different language in mere hours of studying.
And most importantly how his dreams were filled with visions of different worlds and universes. Of beautiful ones and destroyed ones. Ones that took your breath away and one that took it away for good.
How he would cringe whenever would use the word 'exterminate' or how he hated robotic voices.
How sometimes he would draw a certain blue box. A blue 1950s police box that made a funny sound and could disappear.
He was ten years old the first time he saw his parent's faces. Not that he knew they were his parents. They were just two strangers who helped him after he got separated from his family.
The woman had held his right hand and the man had held his left. They walked together with John talked the entire way about nothing really. Just what had happened at school and the rumors that the other children were spreading all around. What he had for breakfast that day and how mean Harriet was sometimes.
The both of them listened and smiled at him constantly. They listened to him as if he was the most important person in the world and every last of his words needed to be listened to.
When John was fifteen he had sat on his bed surrounded by his textbooks and trying to remember his birth parents.
He knew that he should be studying for his science test. Or trying to figure out where he was taking Jessica out for their date on Saturday. Or doing something more productive than trying to remember parents that obviously couldn't care less about him.
"This is for your own good."
"I'm sorry. We are sorry."
"We need to protect you however. You will draw too much attention to yourself and you might get hurt or worse."
"And we'll never be able to forgive ourselves for that."
"Just please know this."
"We love you so much."
"We're giving you to our former companions. I trust them, they are good people."
"We love you so much. But…"
"When you wake up, you won't remember us."
His life continued. Growing up, growing old. He went to high school. Finished medical school. Became a doctor in the military. Got shipped off to Afghanistan.
Got shot.
Moved back to London.
Somehow found an insane completely bonkers flat mate in the form of Sherlock Holmes.
Killed a man for Sherlock Holmes after knowing him for almost less than a day.
And now living with Sherlock Holmes were life is no longer dull.
Sherlock was different than his previous girlfriend. The one he had before Afghanistan and the one who couldn't take being involved with a military man, who despite being a doctor, still might have not made it home in one piece and alive.
She tolerated his ramblings of other worlds and at times descriptions. She would smile her small smile and nod her head.
Sherlock on the other hand would scoff and almost ignore him when he started to talk about such things. Time went that he simply stopped talking about it at all.
"Doesn't it interest you?" John asked one day. "The possibility that there might be intelligent life on other planets? That there might be other worlds?"
Sherlock scoffed once more. "There is barely any intelligent life on this planet. Space does not concern me nor does it interest me. I have far more important matters to attend to."
That was the only time in their relationship that John truly felt the want to punch Sherlock for his indifference. He had of course wanted to punch him a number of other times before but this was the only one for his complete indifference to such a wonderful topic.
Not for the first time John wondered if perhaps he had gone the wrong path. Instead of becoming a doctor, the word sent a thrill through him; perhaps he should have just become an astronomer instead.
John was breathing heavily as he slumped forward and leaned on his knees. The entire room was spinning and he couldn't bring it to stop.
"Oh." Moriarty said almost joyfully. "Looks like my men weren't as careful as you thought Sherlock."
"John." Sherlock breathed. He was by John's side immediately. When John started to fall to his knees Sherlock caught him around the waist. When his hand came up to John's chest it came away covered in blood.
"Sorry Sherlock." John said. "I tried to hold it back as much as I was able to."
"Stop talking and concentrate on breathing." Sherlock ordered. "Breathe John."
"It's too late." Moriarty said. "It didn't hit a vital completely but the time it was in there combined with everything else. It's too late."
"I'm sorry Sherlock." John mumbled. "I'm so sorry."
"John." Sherlock said clutching tighter at him. "John!"
For some reason his birth parents rang through his head at that moment. Memories from before he was five when he was with them.
The entire room was spinning. He couldn't breathe. And he felt like his entire body was on fire.
"Sherlock." John wasn't too proud to not admit that he was whimpering. "Sherlock I don't feel too good."
"Calm down. Just calm down." Sherlock ordered.
The fire had started at the bullet wound and was spreading. It went into his chest, his arms and legs. His torso and his head. And finally his heart.
"Sherlock." John whimpered.
The fire was over flowing and overheating. It continued to spread although John knew that there was no more where it could. The heat continued to climb as it almost became unbearable.
"John?" Sherlock voice now questioned. John managed to open his eyes to see Sherlock was staring at John's hand. He managed to turn his head to look at his own hand.
It was glowing. An orange color with slight light red and white in it.
The glow spread throughout his entire, his face was last. He staggered to his feet with Sherlock's arm still around his waist.
The last sense of his mind that remained told him that Sherlock needed to get away from him. With the last strength in his body he managed to push Sherlock back and away from him.
And then his entire vision was of fire and flames and pain which spread to his entire body as his arms extended. He could feel his very essence leaving through his fingertips and yet at the same time coming back anew.
All John saw and felt was the burning fire that was destroying him and creating him.
And then as suddenly as it came it had gone out. He was aware that he had been screaming and he stopped as the fire went out.
Breathing heavily he shifted around to get a feel of his new body and glanced towards where Sherlock and Moriarty stood, the both of them with dumbfounded looks on their faces, possibly for the first time in their lives.
A new face gave a hesitant smile to the both of them.
"Hello." he said.