I know that some of this is far-fetched, and that it isn't how alerting the families of military really works, but I ask that you deal with some suspended belief.
Having an infinite number of days made everyday life seem a lot more boring than knowing any day could be your last. Although many people strived to achieve immortality, there were a few who were actually born with it. No scientific explanation could be found, and by the time there were machines advanced enough to really do any research on it, the subjects who had been around for centuries had lost interest in the answer. They existed, and it was enough.
Sherlock Holmes was one of these few cases. He was born somewhere in the 1200s. He always had a strong intellect, which caused him to question everything. In a time of theocracy, this was something quite negative. When the Inquisition happened, Sherlock was one of the first people to be put on the torture table. When it was found they couldn't kill him, that he would heal from everything they did, they saw him as a demon and found more painful ways to try and destroy him. At the end of each session they tried, they would lock Sherlock in a cell for the night and leave him with a guard.
One night, there was a new guard. Sherlock didn't take much notice, instead turning in on himself to ignore the pain and itching of his quickly-healing skin and organs. However, he was brought out of his reverie by the sound of his cell opening. He opened his eyes and saw the guard locking the door behind him. Sherlock paled as he pictured what humiliations this guard was looking to thrust upon him.
The guard turned around, and Sherlock was quick to take in the details. He was shorter than Sherlock, though most men at that time were. The guard had deep blue eyes, and he was a soldier that had obviously seen battle rather than just some of the rabble who volunteered to avoid really fighting.
"Fifth or Sixth Crusade?" Sherlock asked. The man looked at him in shock.
"Both. How-"
"Who would volunteer for both? You must be addicted to the thrill, but forced to retire to meager guard work by that limp in your leg. Tell me, were the circumstances traumatic?"
"A sword impaling your left shoulder tends to be," The soldier nodded.
"And yet it is your leg that is affected. Are you going to claim it is a punishment from your God?" he sneered.
"I don't have a god," The soldier said. "And if there is one, I would not follow one who insists men kill other men and children and rape women all for land they both find religious value in."
This gave Sherlock pause. "Who are you, soldier?"
"John Watson. And who are you?"
"Sherlock Holmes."
"Well, it's nice to meet you Master Holmes."
"Sherlock, please." Sherlock watched him with wide, distrusting eyes. "Why aren't you terrified of me? Don't you think I'm a demon?" He smirked.
John cocked his eyebrow as he took out a knife. Sherlock tensed, but paused when John instead pressed it to his own hand. A deep red line appeared, but as Sherlock watched, it healed. Just like his did when they strapped him to the table.
"You're like me," he looked at John questionably. "How long…?"
"I'm about eighty years old, Sherlock. Apparently people like us don't age. We don't die because we heal. I suppose we just are," John explained. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes.
"You're like me...Are there more of you?" Sherlock was aware of one person besides himself who was like him, but Mycroft was smart enough to not be discovered. He, on the other hand, couldn't help questioning how logical things were in their society. That's what made him part of the Inquisition.
"The only person I know of is my sister, well, and you now." John sat across from him.
"Then it runs in family groups, like physical traits," Sherlock nodded. "My brother is like us as well."
"That's...that's interesting," John smiled. His face became serious gradually. "Sherlock, are you ready to go?"
"You're getting me out of here?" he questioned.
"I'm certainly not letting you suffer here for eternity," John looked appalled that anyone would consider him capable of such an atrocity.
"I would have figured a way out long before then," Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I don't doubt you," John stood and held out a hand. "Coming?"
Sherlock watched him for a moment before gripping his hand and letting John pull him to his feet.
John and Sherlock disappeared, hiding out until the Inquisition faded into the background. During this time, they came to learn who the other was, what made them tick. John was grateful for his extra decades he had to develop patience, because hiding out with a man who became bored during tense situations could be very trying. Sherlock was intrigued with the other man though, and although he came across as rude and inconsiderate, he was taking in every fact he could about his new acquaintance.
"Why did you save me, John?" Sherlock asked one day as they ate a cooked squirrel around a fire. They were deep in the woods, the moon was full, and the stars were as bright and abundant as ever.
"Because when I caught word of what was happening to you, and I realized what you were, I knew I couldn't leave someone like me," John's mouth twisted as he realized that answer wasn't the full truth. "Well, and because once I met you, you were...interesting...and you seemed nice enough, and you…. Well, it was the right thing to do!"
"You really mean that," Sherlock noted. "You really are that good."
"What of it?"
"Most people aren't," Sherlock shrugged.
"Are you trying to say thank you?" John grinned.
"I suppose," Sherlock tried to hide his smile in response.
"Then you're welcome!" John chuckled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
And so life continued for the two immortals. Despite many chances to go their own ways, they decided to stick together. Once the threat was mostly removed and they were able to move around with more stealth, they went back and checked in with Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. He was instantly distrustful of John but had to recognize the favor he had done for his brother. When Sherlock met John's sister Harriet, it was clear they wouldn't get on well at all. So rather than go off with their respective siblings, they stuck with each other; they found the other more agreeable than their family members in general. This was how it was for centuries.
There were years of aliases and traveling and scientific experiments. There were fights and laughter and silence and conversations with just a look and drunken nights of loud bonding. They were close, occasionally checking in with Harriet and Mycroft. But their main concerns were each other. Best friends, family, there were many labels that fit parts of what they were to each other, but at the end of the day, they didn't need a label.
It was in the late 1800s that Sherlock followed his interest in crime. He started solving mysteries here and there, wherever they went really. He never gave his real name, as the last thing he needed was to be remembered in history books. That would limit his future endeavors and complicate matters. Besides, it would make John cross.
At that time, John had delved into medicine. Although he had been a soldier for the first century of his life, his passion was in helping people. It was something that endeared him to Sherlock. John had a very dual-natured personality. Both a killer and a healer, personable while also despising the average population, caring and ruthless, patient with a violent temper; he could also be quite clever but also had a tendency to be a bit idiotic or blind when it came to the mysteries Sherlock so adored. He was a brilliant conductor of light.
By the 2010s, Sherlock went by his birth name once again, and John decided to go off and join the Army. He hadn't been active as soldier in some time and he missed the disciplined life style. Although Sherlock wouldn't admit it, he was a bit hurt by the development. But then, John was used to a life of action and their life had been relatively peaceful for the past decade. Sherlock kept his mouth shut while John went off, sent to Afghanistan, and told himself worrying was ridiculous. He was going to be fine. He always was, after all.
Sherlock took up became a Consulting Detective with New Scotland Yard while John was away. He had followed every development in forensic science throughout the years, making some improvements under aliases himself. It made him aggravated with men like Anderson who he doubted could tell his left from his right if put under any amount of pressure.
Lestrade was different. He was useful for access to crime scenes, yes, but he could also be clever himself at times. It was refreshing to see a capable detective besides himself. Sally Donovan was more intelligent than Anderson, but she could stand to make smarter decisions, especially relating to Anderson.
Sherlock was at a crime scene when a man in military uniform asked to see him. Lestrade and the other officers looked at him curiously and remained in ear shot.
Sherlock, whose mind had been solely focused on the puzzle at hand, snapped to attention.
"Excuse me, are you John Watson's husband?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, and it was true. Although their relationship wasn't of a romantic nature, they had the other listed as their spouse so as to make things like hospital stays and taxes easier. Besides, they were the closest either would get to a lasting relationship.
"I'm sorry to inform you, sir, but Captain Watson was shot while on duty," he said with a grave face. Sherlock paled, despite knowing this was not the first time either of them had been severely injured.
"Is he okay?" he snapped.
"It was a shot to the shoulder, and he had to be operated on. He is being medically discharged, however." The soldier had a stony expression, as was necessary with the news he often had to deliver.
"Do you have the number of the hospital he is staying in?" Sherlock asked. The soldier gave him a sheet of paper with the name of the hospital and the direct line to his room. He left after that, and Sherlock went over to Lestrade.
"My phone is dead. May I use yours?"
"Why?"
"I need to make a call."
"You prefer to text," Lestrade eyed him curiously. "Who is Captain Watson?"
"My partner," Sherlock snapped. "Legally, he's my husband, but we don't really take fondly to those terms. Now may I use your phone?" Sherlock, despite all the years he had been alive, still had no more patience than when he was living through his first two decades.
"You have a husband? Who would marry you?" Sally scoffed.
"John, evidently," Sherlock glared. "John, who was in Afghanistan, and has been shot. So if I could use someone's mobile phone, that would be lovely!"
Lestrade seemed to remember himself and gave the device over. Sherlock quickly punched in the numbers and listened as it rang a few times.
"Hello," came the voice of someone obviously just woken up.
"John." Sherlock closed his eyes, savoring his voice. He hadn't heard from him in months, and the truth was that he missed his best friend terribly. His voice was something that he had become attached to in the 800 years they had been together. He closed his eyes to revel in it.
"Sherlock," John said, sounding as if he were doing the same thing on the other end of the phone. "What are you doing?"
"Well, I was investigating a double homicide. However, a soldier just came to tell me you had been shot. So now I am seeing just what the hell you are doing getting injured while Scotland Yard stares on," he gave the team a look. Most had the good sense to look somewhat ashamed and attempt to not pay attention.
"Double homicide...any ideas?" John asked, sounding genuinely interested.
"You're not going to distract me, John. What happened?" Sherlock said, voice low. His tone was much more caring than he used with anyone else.
"I got shot in the shoulder while taking care of one of the fallen men. He was twenty-three, Sherlock," John sighed. Sherlock could practically see him rubbing his hand over his eyes.
"Did you save him?"
"I did. Barely. But I managed it before the sniper got me."
"Good," Sherlock gave a soft smile. "I'm...proud of you."
"Thank you," John's voice warmed. "Well, looks like I'm coming home. What do you say, do you have any need for a broken army doctor while you fight serial killers and clean up London's streets?"
"I'd be lost without my soldier," Sherlock said truthfully, but his voice was edged with humour.
"Then I'll see you in about a week. Take care of that double homicide for me." Sherlock's smile grew wide and he could practically feel John's on the other end of the line.
"It'll be your welcome home present."
"Be careful."
"I told you that and you got shot!"
"Shut up, Sherlock."
"Goodbye, John." He hung up the phone, still grinning. He looked up to see Lestrade staring at him. "Don't you have a murder to investigate?"
To be continued...