Hi everyone!
So this is an AU where everyone has some sort of gift/ability, whether that is telepathy, healing, wings, super speed, super strength, empathy, heating things, cooling things, making a breeze, etc. Either small insignificant things or major gifts.
Any and all medical facts/situations, I have sort of made up...so I tried to keep it plausible/realistic, but it could be wrong as I don't actually know, but hopefully it isn't too bad and you can all just go with it :)
Just as a warning, there is some reference to depression and suicidal thoughts, so read with caution if that upsets you, it isn't anything graphic, but it is a part of the story.
So I hope you all enjoy it :)
Everyone has a gift. Some small, some big, some ordinary, and some out of this world. Some people openly brag about their gift, others are ashamed of their small, ordinary ability. The gifts can be a physical ability or a mental or emotional. Some people have wings and can fly, others have extra limbs. Some can run fast, breath under water or simply mimic noises of any kind. Some can simply see in the dark, or hear long distances. Some may be able to hear thoughts, sense emotions, or turn out to be telekinetic.
Everyone has a gift, and no two gifts are exactly the same. You might had the same gift as your great great granduncle, but if there is someone alive with a certain gift, no one else will have that exact gift until that person passes away.
Everyone has a gift, even John Watson, who kept the true nature of his gift as a secret, with only one other person aware of the truth, and that person, his grandfather on his mother's side, was now dead.
No one knew the truth, and he was going to keep it that way.
Until Sherlock Holmes.
xxx
It started when he was a child. He was told his gift was healing, by the doctors when he was old enough to understand, and that healing would use up his energy, and he'd been forbidden to try it until he turned 10. The day after his tenth birthday, he passed a dog lying on the side of the road, whimpering in pain. His left hind leg was bent at a funny angle.
John didn't stop to think about it. He knelt down, held the dog's body to his chest and the dog's leg bent back to it's normal angle. Seconds later, agonising, burning hot pain shot through his left leg and the dog jumped away, leaving John crying and screaming in pain.
His grandpa found him and took him to the hospital and got his broken leg set in a cast. He listened to John explain about the dog and what had happened and told the boy that it was a dangerous gift, one that could help people, but would damage John. He was to never tell anyone the truth about his gift, not Harry, not Mum, not Dad.
Every time John was asked about his gift, he could never explain how his gift worked, it just did. It was like walking, or reaching out. When it happens, you don't feel each muscle in your arm bunching, tensing and straining to hold your bones and veins and skin in place, it just happens. But he always made sure that the person asking knew it wasn't very strong. It could fix scrapes and cuts and bruises. The most he had ever healed was gash that would have needed three stitches if he hadn't healed it.
He only knew that because he, umm, guessed. He didn't know that because he had healed the friend by taking the cut as his own injury. Not at all.
xxx
Never had anyone ever said his gift wasn't good enough. They knew he had limits, and they were never put down and he was never bullied about it.
But when his dad got cancer, when John was 16, mum begged him to try to heal him. Begged and pleaded and cried. John would grip his father's arm and pretend to try hard. he was shake and sweat and grimace and squeeze his father's bone's hard, but would be doing everything to stop that 'muscle' from flexing and healing his father.
He didn't want to die.
His grandpa wasn't ill, but was on his last legs of life as well, old age catching up to him. John would visit him in between the visits to his father in hospital and school, and would listen to him talk of his fading memories and grand stories.
John was sitting on the old man's bed when he said, "Promise me something, Johnny."
"What is it?"
"Promise me you won't try to heal me."
John forced a surprised look on his face instead of the guilty one threatening to come out. He had been thinking about it.
"Old age isn't an illness, it is a matter of life. Not something to be healed."
John swallowed down his protestations and nodded, "I promise grandpa."
"And promise me you won't heal your father. I know you are probably thinking it is selfish to not want to try to help your father, or anyone, because you know it will result in your death, but that isn't going to help anyone. The cancer will just come back and you'll both be dead. Promise me you will never heal anyone if it is going to result in your death, or permanent injury. Ever." he demanded.
John sighed and promised.
xxx
John never broke that promise. His grandpa died that night, and his dad died a week later. Harry turned to booze and sex, and blamed John for being a failure in healing their dad, and mum just turned to booze, no longer interested in her children or house or life, unable to move past the loss of her husband.
John graduated and on his 18th birthday enrolled in the army.
He left his family behind without a regret, to train to become a doctor and then a soldier.
If he couldn't heal people with his gift, he was going to learn to heal in every other way possible.
There were times when he wanted to break his promise. He had wanted to heal his dad, to save him, to take the cancer out of him.
He had wanted to save his best friend after a car accident, taking on the broken spine and shattered rib cage and punctured lungs to save his friend the pain of dying that way.
He had wanted to restore his best mate, a fellow soldier and be the one to have experienced the landmine.
He wanted to take the shattered leg out of the new recruit and give him his solid, healthy one, instead of sending the boy who had just turned 18 home with an amputated leg and broken life.
When he was shot, deep down, he was secretly glad he had never taken on a gunshot before. Since it was agony. After thinking that, he immediately hated himself for it, but ignored both feelings. He was sent home, crippled.
And he met Sherlock. Sherlock, whose gift was simply able to generate a limited amount of heat from his hands. But who had worked hard to appear a natural at deducing and being a consultant detective. Sherlock who was able to tell he had a healing gift and had been in Afghanistan and had an alcoholic sibling (gender was wrong, but close enough) and a psychosomatic limp.
And John moved in with him.
John watched as the man solved crimes, shone brilliance and genius, then sulked and screamed like a five year old. He watched as Scotland Yard assumed his gift was his ability to deduce and not something he had taught himself to do. He watched the man and he slowly began to care for him.
Yet John had never met a man more accident prone or danger-prone. He was constantly getting into fights, into scuffles and getting injured. Sometimes nothing but some scratches and bruises, but also sometimes there was strangling, stabbing, slicing, slamming, concussions, you name it. Each time John found Sherlock injured to an extent which he shouldn't heal, his heart leapt in his chest as he patched him up best he could, or took him into the hospital (verbally protesting with screams and insults). Each time, John was tempted to break his promise to his grandpa, and heal the man regardless of the consequences to his own person, but he refrained each time.
Until one time he couldn't stop himself.
xxx
Moriarty had excited Sherlock to an extent that John didn't like. To an extent that worried John, frightened him. Yet he had no choice but to stand on the outskirts, haven fallen behind the genius and could do nothing but run as fast as he could to try and catch up in time before the man fell, figuratively speaking.
Even though he had a sinking feeling he wouldn't make it.
And he didn't.
He stood at the side of the pool, watching as Sherlock stepped out and so did Moriarty. He watched as the two men battled it out with their wits. He watched as Moriarty taunted and threatened and restrained Sherlock, one of his men stepping out of the shadows at Moriarty's command.
"Now you're just getting in my way." Moriarty sighed, sounding disappointed. "And don't fret darling, I'm going to have you killed eventually, obviously." he rolled his eyes at the pair of men staring at him in horror and hatred. "But for now, I think, I just need you out of my way and otherwise preoccupied." Moriarty waved his hand, "Sebbie."
John watched with horror as the man proceeded to attack Sherlock, brutally bashing the man up without a lick of finesse or art that one would have expected with Moriarty. Just brutal violence.
"That's enough. Don't kill him. I want him to play with again." Moriarty ordered.
Sherlock was left on the floor, unconscious and bleeding. The moment Moriarty, Moran and the snipers were gone, John threw the jacket off him and into the pool. He crouched at Sherlock's side and debated the risks of moving him against staying in a building with a bomb which could be set off at any time by a psychopath.
He was saved from making the decision when Mycroft and his men burst in and soon brought in an ambulance and a stretcher.
xxx
John didn't leave Sherlock's side in the hospital the entire time. The doctors knew there was a near impossible chance the man wouldn't have brain damage, with the amount of damage down to his head, but had hopes it would only be slight, and possibly temporary.
Sherlock waking up would reveal the truth.
And when he woke, it was spectacular. Spectacularly horrific.
He didn't open his eyes, when he woke, but the machines belied his state.
"Sherlock?" John asked.
"Piss off." Sherlock muttered. "Leave me."
"What?" John demanded, confused and hurt by the man.
"Leave me be!" Sherlock screamed.
John gripped his shoulder, pushing down to force Sherlock to roll onto his side to face John. "What's wrong?"
"Put two and two together John. Moriarty took the one thing I had away."
"There was a risk of permanent damage of some sort, but no one could tell what it would be or to what extent until you woke, and there is always the chance it is temporary. We won't know until you say what is wrong." John interrupted.
"If you weren't such a bumbling idiot you'd be able to tell. Or are your skills as a doctor not up to scratch that you can't tell what is wrong by observing your patient?" Sherlock snapped.
John stared at Sherlock, "Sher,"
"I don't want you here. I don't need you. I don't care about you. Now leave. Me. Alone." Sherlock spat.
John stood and left.
xxx
He waited outside for Mycroft to leave his brother's room.
"He is blind. It looks to be permanent, but it may not be." Mycroft told John, once the door was shut. "He is sulking. You should go in and see him."
"He doesn't want me in there." John shook his head.
"You know my brother better than most. He didn't mean what he said to you."
John still shook his head.
Mycroft sighed, "The doctors are saying he should be allowed to be released in a three or four days, but it will take time to adjust to his new condition."
"That's putting it lightly." John sighed.
"Let me know if you need anything." Mycroft told the man, who nodded and thanked him.
John sighed and slid down the wall into the chair. This was going to get bad.
xxx
John spent the entire night outside his room. The next morning, he went inside and sat next to the bed.
Sherlock had been awake, but hadn't said anything.
The doctors had come in and checked on him and had left before Sherlock spoke.
"I said to leave." Sherlock eventually said, the silence getting to the man for once.
"Like hell am I going to leave you here alone." John scoffed.
Sherlock didn't reply.
"This isn't going to be easy. It is a massive loss, it'll be hard to adapt and we'll have to change. But you're my best mate Sher, I'm not going to abandon you simply because you are hurt, angry and grieving. Now accept the fact I'm not going to budge and learn to deal with it. Because nothing you say can drive me away."
Sherlock let out a shaky breath, and looked away.
"So, budge up. This chair is ridiculously uncomfortable."
xxx
Sherlock was released, and was faced with the harsh truth of adjusting when he walked into 221B Baker street, the place still a mess from before all this. John hadn't been home at all since the pool, and it showed. Sherlock tripped over several things on his way to the couch, rejecting John's guidance.
He didn't say anything, but when John went down to Mrs Hudson to get some milk for some tea, there was a sudden violent crash and John spun to race upstairs, only to find Sherlock standing in the living room, panting, fingers curled tightly. He had pushed John's armchair over, knocking into the corner table which had flipped over as well.
"Sher," John said.
Sherlock spun and stormed off to his room, hands out in front of him.
xxx
Sherlock didn't get better. He refused to leave his room, he refused to move and sit up and even open his broken eyes. He never spoke to John, only insulted him until he left.
Sherlock's behaviour had been frustrating and made John feel like Sherlock was giving up, and it drove John to the point of breaking, but he had maintained control of himself through sheer stubbornness and the fact that the man he was trying to help had to adjust from being the one to see everything and being the one to observe every little thing to not being able to physically see.
John could forgive him for swearing and yelling and sulking and being depressed.
But he couldn't stand seeing the man he cared for, the brilliant, genius of a man, lay in bed doing nothing, not caring to do anything. Not caring to eat, to move, to think, to sleep, to shower, to live. He couldn't stand seeing Sherlock giving up.
He had to do something.
But he wasn't sure if it would work, nor if he should.
xxx
His mind was made up when he walked into his bedroom, after heading downstairs to get the groceries off Mrs Hudson. He had been giving her the money for the shopping, uneasy about leaving Sherlock alone for a long period of time in the state the man was in.
He walked into his bedroom to find Sherlock sitting on his bed. His closet door was open, the shoe box that held a few precious items was tipped over on the floor, the picture, medal and pendant spilling out. The gun wasn't there though. It was in Sherlock's hand.
"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" John demanded, storming over to him and taking the metal object out of his hand and checking the safety. John was horrified to find the safety off, and flicked it back on before putting the gun in his bedside table draw.
"What's the point?" Sherlock snapped. "I am a consulting detective because I observe and see what you ordinary people don't. How can I do that if I can't see?"
John broke.
He gripped Sherlock's shoulders tightly and leaned over him, all but smashing his head against Sherlock's forehead.
"What are you doin-" Sherlock began to argue, but was cut off as his eyes rolled up and backwards and then slid shut as he fell backwards, unconscious.
The last thing John saw was Sherlock laying flat, eyes shut, looking pale.
xxx
John heard the beeping of his heart from the machines, and another beeping over the top of his, signalling Sherlock was in the same room as well.
"Sherlock, keep your voice down, Dr Watson is still sleeping." Mycroft was speaking softly.
"He'll want to be awake. His abilities have always been limited to minor injuries. We need to explore what gave him the power to heal such a large injury. I can see again Mycroft, when the doctors said it was permanent. That isn't simply a cut or bruise. This is a major find. He'll want to know what caused the healing to work." Sherlock told his brother, the excitement and life back in his voice made John feel as if everything was worth it. That what John had given up was worth it, just to hear the joy back in his consulting detective's voice.
Mycroft remained silent, and John knew that the man knew what John had done. That Mycroft had known the truth all along. "I have matters to attend to. I shall return to check on you when I can."
"Go stuff your face. I don't need you here to babysit me. John's done nothing but babysit me since the pool." Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft's footsteps creaked as he left.
John remained 'asleep' for longer, able to remain in the daydream that he hadn't broken his promise to his grandpa's and caused permanent damage to himself.
Mrs Hudson and Lestrade came to visit next. They walked in together, and Mrs Hudson let out a cry of relief at the sight of Sherlock awake and on his phone.
"Oh my dear, I was so worried when I heard a noise and found you both unconscious." Mrs Hudson all but sobbed with relief.
"I'm fine." Sherlock sounded annoyed at his landlady, but John knew he was probably tolerating the hug that Mrs Hudson was probably giving him with a fake and forced frown, secretly enjoying the attention.
"Good to see you awake and happy again." Lestrade said, having noticed the man's previous depression.
"I'll be happy again when you give me a case." Sherlock pointed out.
"John, my dear, I know you are awake." Mrs Hudson grinned, leaning over his bed and hugging the man.
"Hi Mrs Hudson, thanks for visiting." John smiled gently at the woman, eyes firmly shut.
"John?" Sherlock asked.
"I'm fine Sherlock, just have a headache. The light isn't helping." John spoke up. "Thanks for coming in as well, Greg."
"No problem, mate. Sherlock, when you're released I'll see what I can do about cold cases."
"They're releasing us tomorrow. They said so." Sherlock told the man as he waved goodbye and left for work.
Sherlock was released the next day, but tried to kick up a fuss when they refused to let John go, moving the man to a private room.
"Sher, it's fine. I'm still exhausted, and have a constant headache and the light still hurts, they just want to make sure I'm OK, after the stunt I pulled." John calmed Sherlock down, eyes still firmly shut.
Sherlock grumbled and complained, but stopped ranting.
John drifted off to sleep often, his body exhausted as it adjusted to it's new state. When he woke, it was 5 in the afternoon, and Sherlock wasn't by his side for once, John couldn't hear his fidgeting.
"Dr Watson."
John hid his jump as Mycroft spoke, but not very well.
"Mycroft. How are you? I am touched you would come to visit."
"John," Mycroft sighed, moving to sit at his bedside. The chair creaked as he sat. "Whatever it is you want in return for what you have done for my brother, I will do all I can to give you it. You restored his vision and his life."
John shook his head, "I don't want anything. I only did it so Sherlock had his life back."
"Yet the consequences for you aren't favourable. No one was asking or expecting you to do this, it was your decision, and you knew what it would mean for you, yet you did it anyway." Mycroft spoke slowly, obviously confused about John's motivation.
"I'm not sure you would understand, you are a Holmes as well, and are very similar to Sherlock in certain regards, not that he would ever admit or even listen to me say that." John sighed, "But I did it because I care for him. He's my best friend. I knew I could do this for him, so I did. I'm nothing special, he needs his vision for his deductions and brilliance."
"Yet you have not even told him." Mycroft added.
"No, because the moment he knows, the moment it becomes the truth." John whispered. "The moment he knows is the moment I have to accept that he is going to want me to leave and not bother him any more. I was barely useful to him when I could see and examine bodies, and run after him. Now I can't do any of that."
"I think you'll find that you are wrong. My brother cares too much for you to leave you." Mycroft corrected.
"He cared for me, as long as I could help with the Work. I knew how this would pan out when I chose to heal him, do not pity me, Mycroft. And promise me you won't tell him yourself." John asked.
"I give you my word, I will wait until you have told him to talk to him about it." Mycroft agreed. "Now I must be off before he returns and yells at me. Good luck, John. And again, thank you."
xxx
John fooled Sherlock for only another day and half. The consulting detective was sitting on the end of John's bed, shoes having been kicked off, legs folded under him. He was talking about a case, the folder in his lap as he studied it.
John had heard Sherlock pull the blinds shut as he had walked in, so knew there was limited light in the room, but still kept his eyes shut, head tipped back as if asleep.
"I know you're awake, you aren't snoring. Look at this picture and tell me what you think."
"I can't Sher, it hurts my head." John hid his frustration from his voice.
"The light is dim in here, the doctors have been saying you are nearly ready to be released, which means you are getting better, and you aren't showing any signs of extreme pain. You can handle looking at a picture for a few moments." Sherlock sighed and rambled off.
John realised with a sinking feeling Sherlock was not going to let this one go.
Sherlock shoved the picture into John's hand, their fingers brushing as he did so, and John cherished that touch, aware that things were all about to change. "Look at it." Sherlock ordered.
John sighed, "I can't look at it Sherlock."
John knew Sherlock's mouth would be opening to argue back, but John lifted a hand, signalling stop. "I've never had a limited gift. I've been able to 'heal' whatever I chose to. But the way I heal it isn't simply repairing the injury. My body takes on whatever it is I am trying to heal, while the other person is healed instantly. I give them my health, basically." John explained. "I can't look at your picture, because, I'm," John stumbled over saying it, and swallowed hard before finishing, forcing himself to open his eyes properly for the first time, "I'm blind now."
Sherlock was silent.
And silent.
And silent.
"No."
John frowned, "I am though, I'm sorry to make you stick around this long when there was no point waiting for me to get released, since I'm useless to you now."
"No." Sherlock spat again, before John felt his weight shift off the bed, and then the door slammed shut.
"I'm sorry." John whispered to the now empty room.
xxx
John heard the Holmes' brothers arguing before they entered his room, giving him the chance to sit up and school his face into something bland, rather than the hurt that was inside him.
"You'll have to forgive my brother, Dr Watson," Mycroft began, bursting into the room, "The idiot didn't think you would be hurt by him storming out of the room when being told the news."
"Fuck off Mycroft, you don't have any say about John and I," Sherlock argued back.
"I appreciate the concern, but I am fine." John interrupted. "I was resting, so if that was all you had to say, I would appreciate you leaving me to some peace."
"In other words, get lost." Sherlock snapped to Mycroft.
"You too Sherlock." John added. He felt his eyelids blink several times over his blank eyes, but ignored the fact that tears were building under his mask of nothing.
"What?" Sherlock asked, shocked.
"You heard me. Please." John repeated, feeling his resolve begin to crumble.
There was silence, and John guessed Sherlock was studying his face intently, but didn't know.
"You're acting like I'm going to just leave now that you can't see." Sherlock finally said.
"Sherlock, please don't draw this out, it is painful enough as it is." John whispered.
"I'm not leaving. You still live with me at Baker street, do you not?" Sherlock stubbornly argued.
"Sherlock, I'm useless to you now. I can't help with cases, I can't run after you. If I go out with you to crime scenes, I'd just be a waste of space, and have to wait outside so I didn't contaminate the evidence accidently. I can't even work to pay for myself." John let his eyes shut, as a tear escaped. He wiped it away roughly.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, then he sat on the edge of the bed, "I did not realise you thought so little of me. John, you are important to me. I am not going to just dump you because you gave up your sight for me. Aren't friends meant to be there for one another or something?" Sherlock asked, sounding extremely uncomfortable.
"I'm going to rely a lot on you." John pointed out, not quite daring to accept Sherlock at his word. He knew the man well. He didn't do emotion, he didn't think about other people, unless it affected the Work.
"And I was relying a fair bit on you before you healed me." Sherlock countered. "I cannot imagine Baker street without you John. You aren't allowed to leave. I still need a blogger. You can learn to type without looking, and there is software available that will be helpful, I can explain the cases to you, and you can still accompany me to the yard and to interview victims."
John smiled weakly at the man, appreciative of the fact Sherlock had just tried to show that he would incorporate John somehow into their old life.
Sherlock's fingers threaded through his and squeezed, as Sherlock turned to insult his brother out of the room.
John squeezed back. Things were going to change and it was going to be a struggle, adapting, but he knew he could do it. The hardest part was going to be finding ways to keep Sherlock occupied between cases now.
The End