Author's Note: This chapter is a short flashback, explaining John and how he got into the rebellion. There will be a few more of these as the story progresses, but I'll always leave a little note like this so you don't have to worry about getting confused.

Two years prior to that fated meeting of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, but on the same street on which they had made their meeting, there was a night robbery of a very wealthy man's house. Not much was thought of it; it was a city, after all, and crime was simply a part of life when you lived in a city. No one guessed that the break-in that night would start a war that changed the course of history.

Soon, the robberies were happening every night. They never seemed to happen to poor people, or even middle-class. Only the very wealthy, and mostly members of government, were stolen from. Many of them increased their security, but the bandits moved like smoke, in and out of the houses before anyone knew what had happened. Scotland Yard was baffled, and though no one wanted to say it, they knew that it was only a matter of time before the government took action.

The sanctions were harsh from the beginning. Anyone caught out between the hours of 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. without a permit would be put in prison for a minimum of a month, no questions asked. Anyone with "a suspicious amount of valuables" in their possession without a good excuse was sentenced to six months in prison, and stripped of all valuable items, even those that they could prove they owned. Then, Lord Haslam was found slain in his kitchen, stabbed to death in a botched robbery.

The laws got worse. Anyone caught with any kind of weapon, no matter how small, was automatically imprisoned for a month and fined £500. Anyone with any handbag or messenger bag not required for a government job was fined £1,000 and had their bag and all belongings confiscated. All cars not required for government purposes were banned. Then the separation of classes came, and it became illegal to walk in a neighborhood where you did not live or work. Between the number of people in jail, the higher tax rate to support the Peacekeeping Force, and the ever-declining state of the global economy, it became nearly impossible for families to support themselves. Not just in London, either; the entire island had been affected by the strict legislation.

So, the government took action again, and set up Relief Centers, where secretaries working for the Peacekeeping Force determined, based solely on looks, how much aid you they thought you deserved. Businesses were slowly bought out by the government, under the guise of a bailout system. Soon, nearly all families lived in government housing and had jobs owned by the government. The housing was substandard at best, and most people weren't even paid close to what they made before the relief program. The only people thriving from the system were government officials. Anyone who dared to disagree with the system, was shot. Families attempting to escape the country were shot or imprisoned, and anyone suspected of helping them was shot. The Peacekeeping Force, once a laughing stock, became something to be feared.

Enter stage right, the New British Rebellion. What started as a few guys having a pint and bitching about the government after work had grown underground into a force nearly two thousand strong. John had heard rumors of them, and there had even been a skirmish in Bath that everyone swore was started by the Rebellion, but he knew that it was safer to just obey what the authorities said to do. It wasn't the best life, but it was survival, and with a world war going on, survival was good enough for him.

On June 3rd, 1943 at 4:53 p.m., Mary Elizabeth Watson was seven months, three weeks, and one day pregnant. She and John lived together in apartment 3f, which was a great luxury in the ten-story walk-up. She was arranging the nursery, folding a tiny onesie, when they came in. John, who had been listening to the radio, was behind them, screaming something that Mary couldn't understand. She screamed, assault guns in her face.

"Where are the fugitives?!" One of the men at the front yelled loudly, stepping closer. A tear sprung from her eye.

"Fugitives? We don't have any f-" Suddenly, there was a round of fire into the newly painted walls. All of her hard work! She stood up, heaving her giant belly. "There is no one else here!" She yelled. The men kept firing, and suddenly, there was a spray of blood on the crib. Mary looked down, at the red hole in her chest.

The men stormed out, unknowing and uncaring, and John stormed in. He screamed, and caught his wife as she fell to the ground. He held his hand over her heart, blood pouring over his hand. "Mary! Mary speak to me! Mary!" He yelled, tears streaming down his face. He cried into her warm neck, still screaming for her to say something.

Two days later, at Mary's funeral, a man approached John as he walked back to the black carriage provided by the funeral home. He made small talk that annoyed John, who just wanted to get home and sleep for the rest of his life. "Well, if you ever want to start a new career, call me." The man said with a smile, and slipped John a black business card.

Rebel Souls

76 Lancaster

Brighton

7 p.m.

John slipped the card into his coat, smiled obligingly at the man, and rode off into the sun, dismissing the idea immediately. But when he got home, he took another look at it. He had nothing left. No Mary. No child. His apartment was only a dark memory. What did he have left to live for?

That night, John joined the New British Rebellion, and he never looked back.