John's 500 Years:
The first time he didn't die it was 1138 and he was fighting in a civil war later known as The Anarchy.
He's only 19 and doesn't know much of anything, but he thinks he does - or at least, he knows the important things. He's not educated, not especially wealthy either for that matter, but he's alive and he's determined to keep it that way.
His father always told him he had strong opinions and a fire to do whatever it was he felt was right, and maybe that's why it isn't so surprising when he's joining the bloodshed of war.
His father had died three years back and while that meant he was man of the house, that was a title he left to his younger brother for the meantime while he was off fighting. His mother needed someone to stay and help her with the rest of his siblings - two sisters and another brother - but that wasn't at all what John wanted to do. He wanted to fight, he wanted to be useful, and staying in their little town looking for odd jobs and scraps wasn't how he wanted to live his life.
It felt a bit like running away. It felt a lot like abandonment. He didn't let himself think about that, though.
Instead, he marched alongside others of similar minds and learned how to best be useful in combat. He learned the difference between fighting to live and fighting to survive. And he'd never felt more alive than he did when he had a sword in hand and was running into battle.
Of course, as is natural in battle, he was wounded.
It had been bad luck, really, that the man he'd just sliced down had happened to stab his sword right through John's leg, and with the sudden dead weight of the man falling onto him, he hadn't had a chance to dodge. Instead, he fell on his back, knocking the air from his lungs, and stifled the urge to cry out as he pulled the blade from his leg and a sharp, intense, flair of pain radiated from the wound.
He was so lost in it, that he didn't even bother shoving the gurgling, dying man from off top of him.
With how much blood was gushing from his leg, he knew there was nothing to be done for him. Instead, he was left to stare at the sky and listen to the screams and yells around him, the clashing of metal against metal, the thump of bodies falling and footsteps running.
He thought about his family, his mother and siblings, and about how they would fair in their lives. Anna was soon to be with child and that would certainly complicate matters since her husband had also run off to war. Likewise, there had been rumour that Elizabeth was expecting - though he hadn't stuck around to see if it were true or not. Elias was surely going to have his hands full with all of them, that was for sure. Not to mention Nicholas, the youngest of them all, who was only just learning what it was to be a man and forge one's own path in the world.
A part of him wished to go and see them, one last time, but he knew that wasn't possible. Not now, with the blood gushing from his leg and pooling on the ground beneath him. Not when he was pinned beneath a dead man.
Letting out a heavy sigh, John closed his eyes and prayed to God he somehow managed to make it out of this ordeal alive.
And as minutes passed into a half hour, he realised that, in some strange miracle, his leg didn't hurt so bad anymore. He'd thought it might be some last miracle, a dying man's bliss to no longer feel the pain before death, but as he brushed his fingers over the wound, he was startled to find that his fingers slipped through drying blood and smooth, unmarred skin.
With a sudden burst of adrenaline, he pushed the dead man off of him and looked at his leg, amazed to see that there wasn't even a scratch or any discoloured skin from a healing wound.
It was a blessing. A miracle.
Without thinking twice about it, John grabbed his sword and joined the battle anew.
0-0-0-0-0
The second time John didn't die it was 1146 and he'd been stabbed in the heart.
It hadn't been all that long since his fight in The Anarchy, and while he'd never had an explanation as to how he had survived, he had also never tried all that hard to figure it out either. Instead, he had been pleased to chalk it up as a gift from God and kept his mouth shut about it.
Because that wasn't something that happened to normal people, and he hated that there was a part of him that was terrified of what it might mean.
After all, there was no way of proving it had been God that had answered his prayers, and there was a chance it could just as easily have been the work of the Devil. He was worried that, should he tell others about it, they might accost him and his family for taking part in deals with such a sinful creature, and while he wouldn't mind taking the fall, he knew there was no way his family would be able to survive the likely shunning they would receive from the town.
Instead, John tried his best to live without calling attention to himself. He returned home from the war and took over as head of the household and provided a stable life - or as stable as he could provide - for his mother and siblings and newborn niece and nephew.
It was mind-numbing work, but it was what he'd promised in return for life. In his prayer to God to let him live, he'd promised to go and provide for his family, just so long as he had the opportunity to return to them, and he wasn't going to be the one to go back on his word given to God.
For a while, things were alright. He found work as a blacksmith - following in his father's footsteps in that respect - and taught his brothers the trade as well. He was relatively well-liked within their small community, along with the rest of his family, and while Anna's husband never returned from war, Elizabeth and her man had gone and gotten themselves a home nearby to continue growing their family. In fact, their fourth would be on their way soon.
So naturally, the town was raided.
It had all happened rather fast, all things considered. John had hardly had the time to get Anna and her daughter out of their home and running for the nearest town before their door was crashing down and flames were engulfing the room.
Elias had been quick to find him though and the two of them stuck together, fighting against the invaders as best they could. As they made their way toward their youngest brother Nicholas and their mother, they were dismayed to see that they had been too late to save her, but thankfully Nicholas still had his wits about him. They had sent him to go check on Elizabeth and her children and ordered him to go after Anna afterwards while they did their best to help the rest of the town.
It was inevitable, though, that they would die as well. Or, at least, should have died.
Elias had had his head cut near clean off while John had been stabbed through the heart, and it had been so quick and sudden that he had been pleased that he wouldn't feel the pain come before his death. The same could be said for Elias who lay with lifeless eyes just to his right.
Still, he'd done all he could to fulfil his promise. He'd protected his family as best he could; provided all he had to ensure that they thrived. He wasn't sure if Anna and the rest had made it to the next town, or if that town would then be next, but he had fought as many invaders as possible in an attempt at stopping them from doing so.
Surely that had been enough.
And when everything began dimming and he felt his breath shudder out of him in one last gust, he felt content in the life he had led and the death he had received.
It wasn't until he was gasping awake, hours later, in the dim moonlight that he truly began to worry.
0-0-0-0-0
Upon discovering he really had beaten death yet again, John had shot to his feet and peeled his tattered bloody shirt aside to look at the skin of his chest and marvel at the lack of injury.
He stared far longer than was safe at the skin seeing as there were signs of a camp nearby that the invaders had likely settled at for the night. Instead, he forced himself to push that all aside in favour of dragging his brother's body away from the ruined town and toward the tree line where he buried him the best he could with what little resources he had. He thought of going back for his mother's body as well but didn't want to take the risk as he saw a few people heading his way.
They weren't in a rush from what he could tell which indicated to him that they didn't know he was there. Still, if he didn't leave, they would know soon enough, and he didn't need another lesson in just how unkillable he was.
Two was enough for him.
Picking his way carefully through the leaves and twigs, John skirted the men while sticking to the trees until he had made it safely around to where he had seen Anna running off earlier. There was another town like there's just a day's walk inland, and if he could make it there he would be able to-
Be able to what, exactly? Continue on with life, yet again omitting the fact that he couldn't seem to die? Hide the fact that he had been stabbed in the heart but hadn't succumbed to death and that, oh, there wasn't even a wound to tell the tale either?
No. That wasn't an option. They couldn't know about what had happened to him.
As he trudged slowly through the trees he contemplated what this was going to mean for him now.
Had he fulfilled his promise to God after all? Or had it been determined that he hadn't done enough and had been sent back to continue his work? Had this been God's work at all? The Devil's? How was he to know for sure? Did this mean he would live no matter what injury he sustained? No matter how many times he was stabbed? Would he die of drowning? Or fire? What were his limits? Did he have a number of lives to live, only to die permanently once he'd used them up?
The questions were maddening and he had yet to make up his mind on his next course of action as he reached the top of a hill and saw the town in the distance that his family had run to. At some point, the sun had risen and the birds had begun chirping and singing around him.
Almost numb, he had begun walking toward the town without thought, only to think better of it just before he reached the outskirts.
Surely, if he showed up they would see his bloodied clothing and know he'd come from the raided town just as other survivors had. They would find his family and reunite them and his sisters and Nicholas would rejoice at his return.
And he would yet again be head of the household, with so many mouths to feed in a new town without any of their past possessions. Elizabeth's husband had died in the raid, John had seen, which meant that only he and Nicholas were what was left of the men in their family aside from Elizabeth's sons.
It was going to be a lot of work, rebuilding their lives from scratch, and John wasn't sure he was up to the task. Especially when he had come to terms with death and relinquished all of his obligations to the family in his dying breath.
Betrayal. Cowardice. Running away yet again.
Running was something he was good at. Running from his feelings and running from the unexplained and running from responsibility. Leaving those he left behind to pick up the pieces without him and fend for themselves.
It was an awful thing to do, and yet his feet had already led him passed the town and back into the trees.
0-0-0-0-0
He had wandered around in a stupor for a long time. So out of it was he that it took him a week until he realised he hadn't had a single thing to eat in all that time, and despite the fact that he could feel the hunger eating away at him, his legs still moved and his heart still beat.
When he finally allowed himself to stop off at a town, he ignored the looks he got for his lack of shirt and his ruined trousers and purchased what he could with the measly coin he'd had in his pockets. It hadn't been much, hardly enough for the new shirt he wore, but it stopped some of the stranger looks he received and he left shortly thereafter.
He still had a small dagger with him and so he went off hunting with it. It wasn't his best work - he was clumsy and uncoordinated and lost track of far too many animals before finally finding any, of which he spooked more than he didn't - but finally, he'd managed to sneak up on a deer and injure it enough to eventually kill it.
For a while, that was all he did. He stayed in the forest, hunting and doing his best to move on from the life he had known.
As time passed, he eventually kicked himself into gear and embraced what had happened.
So he couldn't die. Men and women all over would do anything for that kind of blessing, and here he was, squandering it. Running from it.
He's very good at running.
But it was time to stop that. He was going to make the best of his life - never ending as it was. To begin with, that meant integrating himself back into society and painstakingly restarting his life over again, which he did with quickly practiced ease.
A boring man with a boring life with boring dreams.
It didn't take long for him to grow tired of this lifestyle and move on to another town where he hoped to reinvent himself once more into something better this time. He went through this process five times until it was 1161 and he was living his life as a farm hand - not very good a life, that one - and caught a glimpse of who he knew to be his sister Elizabeth.
There was no mistaking it was her, with her grown son Harry at her side. Time may have aged her in a way it hadn't John, but under the grey hair and wrinkles of the 38-year-old, he would know her face anywhere.
He'd been so surprised to see her that he'd nearly gone up to talk to her without a second thought. It was only as he was closing the gap between them, reaching a hand out to grab her shoulder, that he realised what a shock it would be for her to see him, still as young as a man of his thirties despite being only a few years older than her at 42. Not to mention the fact that he was meant to be dead and was known as Christopher in this town.
So he backed off. He let the two get further ahead and followed them back into town and into one of the taverns where they stopped for some food. Sitting close enough to listen in, he heard them talk about 'Aunt Anna' and 'Cousin Walter' and Harry's wife Sarah and their children Robert, Alice, and John.
It had been a punch in the gut, to be memorialised in his family into the next generation, because he had left them. He had deceived them into believing he was dead, and he hadn't spared a single thought for them.
He left the tavern shortly after that, returning home and heading to bed despite the daylight still peeking through his window.
It took another couple of decades before he worked up the courage to go see what remained of his family.
0-0-0-0-0
In 1183, John finally makes his way back to his family.
Anna, the third born, had passed, along with Elizabeth and Nicholas respectively. Left behind were the next generation of Watson's - four from Anna, five from Elizabeth, and three from Nicholas. And then there was the newest generation - Harry's three, ten total from Anna's children, eight from Nicholas's, and eleven more from the rest of Elizabeth's. They seemed to sprout like weeds, and what was once a dying lineage was now growing healthy and strong yet again.
Many had stayed in the town that his family had sought refuge in after their town had burned, but there were quite a few who decided to travel away that John didn't get to see.
All of this information had been found out from the townspeople rather than his family themselves because John wasn't quite sure how he was meant to introduce himself to them.
Did he reveal that he was the long thought dead John Watson? Or did he introduce himself as someone else entirely? It was possible Harry and Anna's oldest Agnes might recognise him regardless and take the decision out of his hands. That meant that he then had to answer the question of whether he introduced himself at all.
Maybe it was safer for everyone if he just stayed away.
He had yet to come to a decision when he ran into Harry on the street, and after a minute where his nephew scrutinised him heavily, he mentioned his likeness to his 'Uncle John'.
For a brief moment, John's mouth moved, forming a reply filled with laughter and dismissiveness, but then he was suddenly telling Harry about the raid and his death and his run-in with Elizabeth and him back at the town where he'd been a farmer rather than a soldier or a blacksmith.
It had been a rather stupid thing of him to do, and yet, when Harry's pallor returned to normal rather than the ghastly grey, he'd ushered him home to his wife and children and talked with her in hushed tones and with many glances thrown his way.
It was tense for a while after that.
His wife, Isabella, had wanted to turn him in, feeling he was a bad omen of what was to come, while Harry had defended him despite also seeming to have his own reservations about John's story. There were many nights when John thought he would wake to find Isabella had gone and turned him in regardless, but thankfully it never came down to that.
Instead, he got to know this small bit of his family, their children and their children's children, and while there were plenty that were hesitant to get to know him after finding out who he was, there were some, like the younger children, who readily accepted him.
It had been an amazing feeling, to once again feel love, both for someone, and from.
And yet, he knew he couldn't stay. Not when his family would continue growing old while he never so much as got a wrinkle in his skin. And so, he moved on, determined to keep in touch this time with those he was leaving behind and went off to start yet another life.
0-0-0-0-0
The 1200's were a century of wandering. A century of the loneliness he would have to grow used to. While he now had members of his family that he would go and catch up with every few decades, he was largely alone for the many years to come.
There wasn't anyone else like him, that he'd noticed. None of his siblings, parents, nieces, nephews, great nephews or nieces, etc. had shown any signs of being the same unkillable being that he was. They all aged and died while he did neither.
And all the while, he still had no answer for anything that had happened.
Why couldn't he die?
Was this God's will?
Or was it the Devil's?
Those three questions were of the most prominent in his mind at any given time, because to him, if he got the answer to any of those three, he would be content.
Still, no answer was forthcoming, and as time passed, he wondered if there really truly was a Devil or a God at all. He hadn't called on Satan after all, when he had been dying out on the battlefield. He hadn't offered up his soul or provided sacrifice for any sort of demon to take.
Just as he hadn't become something that God would approve of. He had become an abomination, and there was surely no way God would have allowed something like that. Not without any sort of guidance on what he was meant to be doing with this unending life.
This lack of guidance, this lack of answers, meant that John was quickly beginning to struggle with his faith, and by 1239, he had all but given it up.
It hadn't been an easy decision, and as time passed he found himself battling with the idea of going back to church or participating in prayer or confessing his sins, such as they were. He struggled with staying away, just as he struggled to remain. A man of duality, he was; not fully believing in a higher power any longer, and yet having conflicting thoughts that that was the only answer to everything after all.
In the end, it was a subject on which he was forced to agree to disagree with himself.
0-0-0-0-0
And then, in 1384, everything changes yet again.
In 1384 he's meandering through a small town, thinking fondly of the next generation of Watson's only just born a few months prior, when he stumbles across a hanging.
He hadn't stayed in the town long, but it had been long enough to have heard whispers and warnings about one of the men there who went by the name of Sherlock Holmes. Supposedly, he was an odd sort and not one you wanted to cross paths with. There was discussion over his lack of religion, talk of the mad words that he would spout, and most interesting of them all, the fact that he may have dabbled in deals with devils and witchcraft.
It was that point that had made John curious, and despite the fact that that surely isn't something that should have called to him, he couldn't say that he hadn't been on an eager lookout for this Sherlock during his time spent there.
In a way, he got his wish when he heard they had locked Holmes up for his supposed witchcraft, and after attending the hanging out of morbid curiosity, he hadn't had to fake his shock when he saw the man struggling, clinging to life, despite the extreme length of time in which he hung.
Because right in front of his eyes, he had seen someone like him. Someone who was faced with death, and yet lived on despite it.
That night he hadn't even thought twice about breaking that man out of his prison and running off with him. At first, he had been slightly worried that Sherlock would confirm his worst fears - that he had made deals with the devil, and it was likely John had as well as a result - but when he told the man about how he himself was unkillable, immortal, Sherlock had seemed genuinely surprised.
And if he hadn't known either, about his state of being, then this hadn't been something he'd asked for either.
As they travelled together, John was quick to find himself enamoured with the man. Not only was he like him in that they were outcasts due to their immortality, but he was a genius to boot. Probably one of the smartest men John had and would ever meet. He knew something about everything, and what he didn't know, he strived to. He based himself in the observable and the facts and refused to be distracted by superstition and imagination.
It wasn't long after that John realised his fondness for Sherlock was more than just platonic, but he kept his mouth shut about that. He had always known that, despite the way society thought, he felt the same attraction to women as he did men, but whereas he had buried that side of him away deep down when he was younger, he had slowly come to accept that of himself.
If he couldn't die, why not make the most of life, right? No reason to be hung up on all those silly societal norms when his continued living was already such a diversion away from what was expected.
Still, while he had had years, centuries, to come to terms with this way of thinking, Sherlock was all but a child in comparison. He had only lived a handful of decades in comparison to John's two hundred plus years - not even a full century yet - and while Sherlock was an adult - maybe even an elder, despite his youthful looks - by the times standards, they were anything but.
Which is to say, while Sherlock is eccentric in many ways, his openness to same-sex relationships may not be, and John refused to do anything that could possibly drive away his companion. Not after he had travelled alone for so long already.
And so, they continued on together, making wonderful memories as they walked through forests and over hills and rocky cliffs and even oceans when they had the chance.
And when Sherlock confessed his reciprocated feelings in 1438, there was no way John could have denied him.
0-0-0-0-0
Where August 17, 1438, was marked in John's calendar as the happiest day of his life, January 30, 1510, was cemented as the worst.
It could be argued that this title should belong to January 29, 1510, because that is the day that he and Sherlock were cursed to be apart for the next 500 years, but he stayed firm in his previous decision.
Sure, the day of the curse hadn't been pleasant, and it led to many long, agonising years of wandering alone and awaiting the day he could finally reunite with his husband, but it had all happened so fast then. At first, they hadn't known whether there was any truth to the curse placed on them or if it had all been some sort of bluff; a scare tactic.
But by January 30th, they knew. That was the first day of the next five hundred years to come of being alone.
At first, he hadn't known what to do with himself. It had been such a long time since he'd last travelled alone and he and Sherlock had had so many plans and ideas of what they wanted to do or see next that it didn't feel right going off and doing them alone.
For the first three months, he wandered.
Even though there were many times when he would reach a town that seemed nice enough to stay in for a while, he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that it wasn't right. Of course, it would never be right, not unless Sherlock was with him, but he persisted anyway.
It isn't until 1527 that he finally decides that maybe he should stop wandering and just stay in one place for a bit.
It reminds him of a time long since passed. When he thought he had been the only person on this Earth stuck to wander until the end of time. When he would travel aimlessly into a town and make good with the townspeople and hope that they didn't see him as the monster that he was.
Because no one was meant to live forever. It went against nature, against God, against everything life was meant to stand for.
But maybe it wasn't so unnatural, after all, he'd thought after meeting Sherlock. There; there was the evidence that there was someone else just like him, just as stuck as he was. Unable to age, unable to die, unable to follow the natural order of things. It was a relief, a giant weight off his shoulders, to know that he wasn't the only one anymore.
But now he's alone again, with no one to travel with aside from himself.
It's fine though, really. He did this once before, he can do it again. Just put one foot in front of the other, take it one day at a time, and before he knows it, it will be time to reunite with Sherlock. Who knows, maybe in the future they'll be able to look back on this sliver of their life and laugh.
He highly doubts that though, what with the anger and irritation boiling low in his gut at the thought of what led to this, but he pushes that aside and allows himself to believe it anyway.
The first town he settles in after the separation is almost large enough to be classified a city, but not quite. Still, it's sleepy and quiet and he could see himself staying here for quite some time before finding the need to move on.
Which is exactly what he does. He finds work here and there, helping where needed and focusing on his skills rather than his past. He hedges around questions of his past and makes new friends - friends he'll one day leave behind forever. He gets himself some property, creates a routine, and finds that, for the first time in a decade, he can finally breathe again without the lingering pain and anger of the curse haunting him.
And when he hears about the founding of the Royal College of Physicians a few years back, he finds that spark he needed.
Of the two of them, John had been the one more interested in healing. While they had never needed to worry about illness and death, there had been times when a major injury would take longer to heal, and as such, it had been useful to have knowledge about how to treat various wounds and injuries. This type of work fell to John, who had always been interested in caring for the sick and injured. It spoke to him just as much as joining wars and battles did.
And so, John went off to learn more. Of course, for it being the 1500's, it wasn't anything amazing, or even all that helpful actually. It was information based more on a guesswork and a wish more than it was based in actual fact, but for the time, it was the best they could do.
And before he knew it, they were passing into a new century.
0-0-0-0-0
"Come now, John! Surely you must see one you like!" John takes the words and the slap on the back with a smile and swigs another mouthful of ale.
"I assure you, Thomas, I only have eyes for mine." He reiterates as he holds his left hand up and wiggles his fingers, specifically the ring finger.
"The missus surely wouldn't mind a wandering eye now, would she? After all, a man cannot be blamed in this situation!" Richard announces next as he sweeps his arm in gesture of the festivities.
They're celebrating Lammas Day and the festivities have been moved to the town centre where there's food and dancing and laughing. John hasn't been in town long, barely even a month yet, but he's made strong bonds with some of the townsfolk and had been eagerly invited to the celebrations despite his hesitance on the matter.
It still felt strange for him to celebrate things that held religious ties and he hadn't in such a long time that he wasn't sure how he was meant to act at them anymore.
For everyone's safety, when he'd travelled with Sherlock, they'd avoided these types of festivals like the plague. Sherlock - long before his revelation that he was immortal - had put the existence of God into question. After finding out he could not die, that way of thinking had only strengthened, and as such, he had little patience for those who did, especially when done so with such blind devotion. It grated on the man's patience to the point that he couldn't help but spout nonsense about the unlikelihood of a greater power and the naivety they held for believing in such.
For John's part, while he may have firmly decided on the idea that God might not really exist, he doesn't fault anyone else for believing so. In fact, he encourages it. He remembers a time when he had had piece of mind in the idea that there was someone out there watching out for all of them, even someone as insignificant as him. The presence of an almighty being in his life had given him the strength and courage to make tough decisions and persevere through hardship.
It had been rather a slap in the face to find out he went against God's true path with his immortality, but that's something he's long since come to terms with.
All this is to say that, while he doesn't mind everyone else revelling in the festival, it feels wrong for him to be doing the same when he doesn't share the same feelings as they do. It feels like a sham, like he's deceiving them all, and in a way, he is.
Still, it's a nice time despite the badgering of Thomas and Richard. The two are attempting to egg him on into chatting up one of the women, but all it does is dredge up old feelings of longing and pain and anger.
"A man is surely to blame for the way you two think." John retorts as he shoves back at Richard with his shoulder. This elicits a round of boisterous laughter and they all take another swig of their drinks.
"Really though, what's yours like, then? Must be something if you're this devoted." Thomas asks. John swallows and blinks at the question but tries to mask it as a result of his drink rather than the strong, heavy emotion rising in his throat.
"Beautiful. Nothing compares." He says first, his lips moving without thought as he looks off in the distance.
"And quick-witted, too. Much more than I am, that's for sure. A pain though, most days." He says with the twitch of a smile on his lips, allowing for more chuckles.
"Sounds like a keeper, her. Makes me wonder why you would be here of all places." Thomas says. With a sigh, John sets his drink down and glances to the festivities once more.
"Have to go where there's money. Better opportunities here than back home. Still, I didn't want to leave permanently, not when all my family is back there." None of what he said was a lie, per se. His home town, the one raided and burned to the ground, had had awful pay compared to the pay of today, and his family was still there, even if buried under the dirt.
Every once in a while, he would make the trek back to visit them and check on the land. Since the days of his small town, the area had remained untouched by civilisation until about a century ago, wherein a new settlement had taken form and built up a new town.
It was as disheartening as it was inspiring, to see life move along without any care for the past.
"Alright Thomas, you're ruining the fun!" Richard protested with a slap on the man's back. John smiled while everyone else laughed, and while Thomas apologised for dampening the mood, they moved on to lighter topics.
And they were entirely oblivious when John stood and left the table.
0-0-0-0-0
In 1708, John is fed up.
It feels as if the rage has only been building since 1510, when he found out that witchcraft was in fact real just as immortality was and his stubborn, pea-brained partner had gone and antagonised a witch.
The subsequent curse had been the final nail in the coffin.
For a long period of the 1500's, he spent many nights ranting and raving in the seclusion of the forest about how much of an idiot Sherlock Holmes was, and if only he had taken two seconds to actually listen to John, they wouldn't be in this situation. He would scream about how unfair it was that he had been caught up in all this mess when he'd only tried to calm the situation. He shook as he spouted venom over how stupid Sherlock could be. How blind he could become.
For a long time, all he could feel when he thought of Sherlock was anger. It had hurt, to feel such a way about someone he simultaneously loved whole-heartedly, but this really had been a step too far.
It isn't until he meets Mary Morstan that he really, truly, has a moment of peace. A time in which he doesn't constantly think about Sherlock Holmes and the fact that there were still centuries to go in their curse until they would once again be able to stand face to face.
He thinks Mary might be the closest he's ever gotten to loving anyone else.
And that thought brings along a whole new slew of unwanted emotion.
The two had crossed paths in Dover and had gotten to chatting. John hadn't intended on connecting with the woman any more than just being acquaintances, but they continued seeing each other enough that they slowly grew closer and closer. Whenever they saw each other in public, they would stop to chat, to get to know each other, and John would be lying if he said he hadn't looked forward to every happenstance meeting.
And eventually, the two were setting up times to go and meet each other.
Mary Morstan had a bit of a reputation in town for being an outspoken woman without any family to get a handle on her, and while their conversations led John to believe that these rumours were true, he found that he didn't much mind.
Maybe he really was just lonely. Maybe he was just seeking some type of companionship after so long. Whatever the case, John took to Mary like a moth to a flame.
As the two got to talking though, John realised that there may be more to Mary than he first suspected. He had assumed her lack of family had come from death, but according to her, it was instead abandonment. That wasn't to mention, they supposedly wanted to be so far from her that her father had purchased property here in Dover for her to live in under the stipulation that she no longer return to her home town.
It begged the question of what had caused such bad blood between the two parties, but Mary hadn't been as forthcoming with the reasoning as she had been the result.
Still, it became known to him soon enough as, one afternoon, they walked through a park together chatting.
"Dr. Watson, you're rather open-minded, yes?" She had asked, to which John nodded carefully.
"I like to believe so, yes. Why do you ask?" He had answered, looking curiously at the small wistful smile on Mary's face as she contemplated her next words.
"I feel as if I should share something with you before we continue our relationship any further than we have already." She admitted, folding her hands together in front of herself as she walked steadily. She had no longer been looking at him, but it hadn't been out of fear or worry for how he would receive whatever she had wished to share.
"Promise not to react harshly? If you would prefer I leave town after, I can arrange that, but I hope you won't go alerting the authorities before I have the chance." This concerned John as he stopped walking to face her, giving her his full attention.
"Are you in some sort of trouble?" He asked, unclear as to what she could possibly be hiding.
"No, no, nothing of that sort. Still, people don't take too kindly to what I am to say. But John, you're different, I know it. I feel... If there's anyone I can tell this to, it will be you." Still unsure, John only nodded slowly, glancing for anyone who might listen in on their conversation. Seeing no one, he looked back to Mary who smiles and took a breath.
"You see, the thing about me is... Well, I'm a witch." For a moment, John hadn't known how to react. His initial thought was that he should be scared; terrified even. not only because of the stigma surrounding witchcraft at the time - though that had steadily been dying down over time - but because of his own experience with a witch in the past.
However, he hadn't been scared. He had heard those words, 'I'm a witch' and accepted them with hardly a blink. It was as baffling as it was concerning, but he hadn't wanted to dwell on the odd reaction.
"And I know witches and witchcraft aren't exactly acceptable practice. I know that. But I don't partake in it, I promise you, Dr. Watson. John. I don't." He hadn't needed the reassurances, but he had appreciated them all the same.
"How?" It had been the only question that he could think to answer.
"I was born one. But I don't hurt anyone, I swear it." She had continued trying to reassure. Realising that she was worried about his reaction still, he forced himself to get over his shock and nod slowly. His face was still scrunched in thought, but he attempted a smile regardless.
"I know. I believe you, Ms. Morstan." He assured which had only confused her all the more.
"Really? I knew you were an accepting sort, Dr. Watson, but even then I hadn't imagined this sort of reaction." She admitted softly, squeezing her hands together briefly.
"Well, I may have had the pleasure of coming across another witch before. In fact, I was also born with, ah... abnormalities, one might say." He admitted next, his heart suddenly racing at the implication that he might be telling someone else, someone who wasn't also immortal, someone with the power to hurt him, despite what he was.
"You're a witch as well?" She had asked in breathy amazement, her eyes wide as she stepped back from him in shock, but John was quick to disabuse her of that idea.
"No, no, nothing like that. Or, at least, it hasn't anything to do with magic as far as I am aware. You might know more about it than I do, honestly." He said as he placed his hands on her shoulders for reassurance.
"The truth is that... I can't die. Haven't been able to since I was born in 1119." Her eyes, which had only just gone back to their normal size, had widened once more.
And after that confession, the two grew closer than ever. John went on to tell Mary all about Sherlock and the curse that had been placed on them and she explained to him that, despite his hopes, there was nothing she could do to circumvent it. A witch's curse was permanent until it had fulfilled its purpose, and as such, that meant that there was nothing to be done but wait.
It wasn't what he had been hoping for, but it was what he had expected all the same.
The two spent more and more time together as the days and months passed, and eventually, the two decided that they would marry.
It wasn't done out of any sort of romantic interest in the other, but instead for safety. Mary's in particular. She already was seen as an outcast within their society, and being a woman at the time was difficult enough as is. With John at her side, he was able to provide her with a more comfortable life than she otherwise would have had, and in turn, he was finally able to enjoy someone else's company, someone he could talk to about his immortality and his love for a man he could not be with.
Their friendship was strong, just as the metal band on Mary's ring finger was. They lived together in the same house, they socialised with neighbours, they threw parties and flaunted the wealth they had as was customary of the time.
They integrated themselves neatly into society, so much so that John was the receiver of many a praise for, 'Taming the beast that had been Mary Morstan'. John could never quite stop the thinly pressed smile at the condescending praise as if there had ever been something wrong with Mary. She was strong-willed, yes, and a witch - definitely a problem for many - but she was kind and gentle and loved fiercely. She accepted John for his abnormalities, just as he accepted hers and patronising comments made by others who never bothered to get to know her before made his blood boil.
Still, there was only so much he could push about that issue, and so he took the praise, faked a laugh, and quickly changed the topic before he had any chance to work himself up.
For a time, life was almost perfect. It was at least passing quicker and with more joy than it had been previously, and his fondness for Mary only ever grew as a result. Never did it encroach into anything deemed romantic, though. He would never do Sherlock the disservice of finding another just because he was a little lonely.
He was at ease with how things were though, and he supposed Mary was as well. So much so, that they were completely blindsided by the sudden mob of people demanding Mary hang for being a witch.
It had been sudden, hardly even a warning present before the event took place, but from what John was able to later garner, Mary's family had heard of her marriage and, feeling as if she were back to her old 'witchy' ways, they had sent notice to the press of her abilities. They claimed she had bewitched John into loving her, and claimed that their daughter was otherwise unlovable. An abomination.
While witch trials and executions had died down considerably since the more crazed days of old, they still occurred every now and then. With the press having pushed the news out at once, it had taken all but a morning for their neighbours and friends to come out in droves with the police at the head of it all.
In the end, there had been nothing that John could do without getting himself jailed alongside his wife.
The trial had been more civil than previous witch trials he'd attended in the past, namely Sherlock's. While the town was certainly working its way into a frenzy, it was nowhere near the mass hysteria of Sherlock's town upon judging him. During Mary's trial, there seemed to be an actual attempt at discovering the truth, and with some doubt lingering within some of their closest friends, it seemed Mary might have had a chance.
But as Sherlock would say later to Mycroft, the people did have a way of picking out those who were different, and while it shouldn't be a crime, Mary really was the witch they were claiming her to be.
Despite there not being sufficient evidence of such, there also hadn't been sufficient evidence that she wasn't one either, and with her previous background of being a woman outcasted by society and her own parents coming to condemn her, enough people were swayed into believing his friend guilty.
And as such, she was to be hung.
There had been talk about what should be done about John, but when it had become clear to them both on what Mary's fate would be, she had stood in front of her judge and plead guilty, claiming that her parent's words had been true and that she had cast a love spell on John, and as such, absolved him from any claims that he may have been working in cahoots with his wife.
Throughout the entire process, John had done all he could to change Mary's fate, and yet, it hadn't been enough.
And in the end, he watched yet another person he loved dearly hang.
0-0-0-0-0
In 1840, he was sorely missing the days of daggers and swords as opposed to guns and bullets.
He was fighting in yet another war; the first of three Anglo-Afghan wars. If there was one thing humanity was good at, it was war.
But that's beside the point.
The point is, he's fighting in yet another war when he is suddenly shot in the shoulder. It's a painful experience, but he's had much experience with pain at this point in his life, physical or otherwise.
The thing about guns and bullets as opposed to daggers and swords though is that sometimes, the bullet sticks. It gets caught in the flesh and the muscle, and when his accelerated healing attempts to mend the damage done to him, it ignores the fact that there is a foreign object within it.
With a sword or a dagger, it is easy to remove the object. Just pull the it out and it's all good. With bullets, however, they're small and difficult to get a hold of before the healing tries to take place, and as a result, the pain is extensive and leaves John's hands trembling - only serving to make the process all the more difficult.
While it wouldn't be detrimental to his health for the bullet to be stuck inside his shoulder forever, that wouldn't alleviate his discomfort. He would be able to feel it still, and the long-term discomfort would not be worth the short-term of just digging the bloody thing out.
Which is how he found himself lying on the battlefield, fingers scrabbling inside his shoulder for any hint of the metal lodged within. There's blood everywhere - not all of it being his - and screaming, and yelling, and the sound of guns going off all around him. It's an awfully familiar sound, and despite himself, it almost puts him at ease.
He once told Sherlock, long ago, that he felt safest on the battlefield, as counter-intuitive as that was. It was the one place where he didn't have to worry so much about his immortality being revealed, which, when he thought about it, also seemed counter-intuitive.
It was true though. Sure, as times were changing and technology advanced, he was coming to find that this might not be the case for much longer, but for now, war was where he could blend easily into the crowd.
War is chaotic and people are being killed or wounded constantly. Long ago, they would be ignored in favour of continuing the battle. People couldn't afford to stop and help fallen comrades when there wasn't much to be done for them. That was changing with the advent of army doctors, but even then, there were so many casualties that it was only natural some fell through the cracks.
So no, war wasn't as risky as it may seem for the immortal. It was easy to hide amongst the many other recruits. It was easy to jump back to his feet and rush back into the fight after being hurt.
If anything, the riskiest part of war was when it was over. When everyone was being checked over and everyone's focus was helping those who were hurt. There had been a few times in which John had gotten hurt just before the end of a battle, and being covered in blood, while not unusual, still made his comrades question his health.
Pushing those thoughts aside, John finally located the bullet just as he caught a glimpse of someone rushing over to his side, shouting his name and looking to assess what sort of damage might have been done.
Cursing, he tugged the bullet out and covered his wound with his hand, as if attempting to staunch the blood.
It felt wrong of him to say he felt lucky that his comrade was shot and killed before he could reach him.
0-0-0-0-0
Harriet Watson, born in 1974, was a rather amusing child. She was loud, impulsive, and had no qualms about telling you exactly what she thought about you. It was refreshing, to see the strong spirit of the child and John found himself spending quite a bit of time with his distant relatives after her birth.
He wasn't quite sure what had caused him to do so in all honesty. While he, like Sherlock, had taken to watching over their family lines, he, along with the rest of the Watson's, had never held the same significance in family sticking together. While they knew of John and his immortality, it was rare that any of the members actually came into contact with him. Whole generations sometimes went by without a single member seeing him in person.
There had even been a point where, in a stint of cynicism, John had decided to never darken their doorstep again. He had resolved to let his name fall into myth and legend, an old fairy tale his descendants might tell their children, but nothing they would ever think to be real.
With Harriet Watson's birth, he was thankful he hadn't done so.
The girl was taken with him, and every time he would visit she would rush over and grab the hem of his shirt, dragging him this way and that as she told him all about her day and introduced him to her newest doll or stuffed toy.
Maybe it was that he missed having someone who was actually happy to see him. Maybe it was a latent regret over never having children of his own, but John Watson found himself as taken with Harriet as she was of him.
He would come visit, baring gifts from his travels, and patiently play with the little girl during the day while making conversation with her parents in the afternoon. It was something he looked forward to doing as the never ending days passed by. A break in the monotony.
It was during one of these visits that Harriet - Harry, she had begun insisting lately - asked about his immortality.
"Uncle John?" She asked suddenly. They had been playing with her dolls together - she had delegated him to playing the role of bodyguard while she was the ultra-famous pop star - when she said this. Assuming he was about to be reprimanded for veering from the storyline the girl had planned out in her head, he was ready to take the words in stride and adjust his character accordingly. Looking expectantly at her with a smile, he was rather surprised that her next words had nothing to do with the dolls at all.
"Daddy says you live forever. Is that true?" She asks, seemingly having forgotten about the dolls altogether as she lets the pop star fall abandoned to the ground. Blinking, John sets his own doll down as well and turns his full attention her way.
It shouldn't be as surprising as it is to have been asked the question because this is about the time his relatives usually tell their children about him and his immortality; while they're still young and accepting of something as impossible as him. Young enough that if they went off telling their mates about their immortal uncle, parents and teachers alike would brush the comments off aside as hero-worship or some other such.
And with Harriet's tenth birthday having passed not so long ago, she was just within the range of having had that conversation.
And yet, he was still surprised all the same.
"It is true, in fact," John answers eventually, keeping the smile on his face as he does so. He doesn't think Harriet would dislike him for the abnormality, but it was best to remain as disarming as possible regardless.
"Really? How come?" She asks eagerly, leaning forward in interest as if he were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
"Well, as boring as it is, I don't know myself. It's quite the mystery, actually." He admits to his niece's displeasure. She moves on quickly though, clearly having had this series of questions on her mind already for them to have come so suddenly and succinctly.
"How old are you?" She asks, just as her mother comes into the sitting room with them from the kitchen, tea on a platter.
"Very old. Much older than I look." He responds with a wink. He thanks Harriet's mother for the tea and blows on it carefully before taking a sip while Harriet argues momentarily over the fact that she wasn't at all sleepy and that she had questions for her Uncle John.
"Be as that may, you've already asked for more time and I've given more than the promised half hour. Uncle John will be back again, I'm sure, you can ask him then." Laughing quietly to himself, John reaches over to ruffle Harriet's hair, ignoring the flapping hands as she attempts to stop him.
"Your mother's right, Harriet. Now off to bed with you; we'll talk again later." He tells her gently. Harriet pouts, maybe from the use of her name, maybe from the fact that he was on her mother's side, most probably from both. Still, she reluctantly stands up from the floor and stomps off toward her room to get ready for bed.
"Thank you, John. Sometimes Harry can be a right terror, but she can be the sweetest angel all the same." Harry's mother, Madeline, states as she begins picking up the scattered toys. Moving to help, John shrugs.
"She's not so bad. I never had kids myself, but there were always plenty around growing up, so I know a thing or two about taking care of them. Still, it's been a while since I've been near any. It's nice to experience it again." John says truthfully, thinking back to all of his brothers and sisters, as well as their children. Before everything had gone wrong, their village had children aplenty running and laughing about, and he'd adored each and every one of them.
"I'm sure. Some days I wish for at least a day without Harry's screaming, but then I realise that when that time comes, I'm going to sorely miss it." Madeline admits with a wistful look. John hums in agreement and the two work silently on cleaning the room, finishing just in time for Harry to come running back out with a beaming smile showing off her teeth.
"Teeth brushed, Mummy! Uncle John, can you read me a story?" She asks, running over and pulling his hand, trying to walk them to her room.
"Well, I don't see why not." He says cheerfully as he allows himself to be tugged away. Once in the little girl's room, she pulls out one of her storybooks and hands it to him before jumping into bed and squirming until she was ensconced within the covers, stuffed animals galore surrounding her and one of them, a small stuffed dog, tucked under her arm.
"Ready?" He asks her as he pulls over a nearby chair and settles in preparation to begin.
"Mhm!" Harriet hums, squeezing the dog closer as she watches him with bright eyes.
"Alright, then. 'In the great forest, a little elephant is born. His name is Babar.'" As John reads the story, Harriet's eyes grow heavier and heavier, until she's struggling to keep them open. By the final page, he's honestly amazed she's still holding on, but it's clear as to why when he shuts the book and sets it aside, just as she speaks up.
"Uncle John?" She asks quietly, her normally boisterous voice soft in her exhaustion.
"Yes, Harriet?" He asks, equally soft as to avoid breaking the sleepy spell surrounding them.
"Will I live forever?" She asks, to which he debates his answer.
"In all likelihood, no you will not." He tells her truthfully. She seems to contemplate this answer for a moment before nodding as if she had expected it but was disappointed regardless.
"Did you want to live forever?" She asks next. Blinking, John thinks that that may be the first time anyone has ever asked him that question. Normally, everyone assumes he had wanted this, assumed that this curse of his was instead a gift, and while in a way, maybe it was, John would never wish it upon his worst enemy.
"No, I didn't. But that's alright because it means that I was able to meet you, and that's something I would have been sad to miss." He says, carefully pushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead and into her eyes.
His answer seems to please Harry as she smiles and wiggles down further under her blankets, pulling her stuffed dog to her mouth.
"G'night, Uncle John." She mumbles, eyes already closed and breath deepening near instantly.
"Goodnight, Harriet."
0-0-0-0-0
America was everything Sherlock had dreamed it to be.
A cesspool of diversity, where people of all sorts dream of coming to live the 'American Dream'.
Of course, it wasn't always like that, and he had his doubts that this 'American Dream' was really all that worth it, but he could admit he was biased and would always rather be in London as opposed to anywhere else.
Still, America was a good change of pace from the overcrowded streets of England. America was large, larger than it had any right being, and there were a fair few places throughout the years that he had enjoyed staying and exploring.
As of 2009, that place happened to be Massachusetts. He had been there a few years now, working as a doctor in some of the best hospitals in America as he eagerly awaited the end of 500 long years of loneliness. It was easy to get lost in the work of a doctor - a surgeon no less. With his mind constantly focused on keeping his patients alive, he had no time to sit and reminisce about his past or anticipate the future. It was the perfect way to spend his last few years alone, as he was able to pass through the days with ease.
And at one point, he had all but forgotten to keep track of the time.
It was only because of Harriet that he thought to check at all. He had been so determined to focus on only his work, only his patients, that he hadn't known it was time to slow down and get back on track.
Harriet, once the little girl that adored him, was now a grown woman who was as rebellious and determined as she had been in childhood. Only, that rebellion took the form of drinking and lashing out, whereas her determination left her unable to realise that she truly did have a problem. While John still kept in touch with her and her parents, their relationship had grown strained after one too many faults on Harry's part - one of which being cheating, which John could not stand for.
It hurt John, to lose yet another person in his life, but he couldn't continue coddling Harry and let her believe that her actions came without consequence. He didn't want to see his niece drink herself into an early grave, and he wasn't going to allow her to run around behind her wife's back either, so he gave her the ultimatum of telling Clara what she had done and going to rehab, or else he would cut contact with her entirely.
And determined as ever, Harry strove to prove she had no problem, and that, because of this, she could accomplish both tasks without issue.
He was sure it had been a harsh awakening for her to find that not to be the case.
She had told Clara about the affairs promptly, and upon Clara demanding they separate, had realised that maybe everything wasn't going to be as easy as she had assumed. Still, Harry fulfilled her end of the bargain and went off to rehab.
The call from her rehab centre telling him that she had abandoned the program told him that she was unable to see it through, however.
After the call, though, he had been surprised to see that it was the day before the New Year.
He had stood in stunned silence for a moment before his phone began going off with another call - a co-worker asking if he could come in for another shift.
Regardless to say, he quit right there and then.
It took time to get everything in order - as well as to track down Harry after many a missed call - but finally, he was off to Germany with the intention of dragging Harry's sorry behind back to London and into yet another rehab centre.
Through a drunken slur, she had tried to appeal to him, about how she had done a lot of thinking in rehab and that she only wanted to talk to Clara - who was now living in Germany - to apologise, and that the drinking had been to bolster her courage. John was having none of it though and mentioned their previous agreement.
"Three strikes, Harry. Three strikes are all you get and this was your first one. Get your act together or that's it." He'd told her sternly, and though her eyes welled with tears he held firm. Finally, she nodded and looked off out the train window, much to his relief.
While his initial plan had been to take her to London, he had realised quite quickly that there was the possibility of Sherlock lurking around the area, and while their time limit was near its end, it wasn't quite there yet. As such, he had decided to travel with Harry to Paris where he would then send her off alone to London while he stayed behind.
After all, he had a fondness for Paris. There were quite a few good memories there, and he was actually looking forward to returning for a short while, especially when he knew what was soon to come.
"Uncle John?" The words were quiet, and while still slurred, they were reminiscent of when Harry was only a little girl staring up at him with eyes alight in awe.
"What is it, Harriet?" He asks, words still firm, but not unkind. He watched as Harry shifted uncertainly in her seat for a moment, avoiding his eyes by continuing to stare out the window, before finally speaking once more.
"I don't think I would like to live forever. Not at all." She admits quietly, as if unsure whether the words would be insulting to him.
For a moment he remained silent, thinking over her words and remembering a time when he read Harry to sleep and answered all sorts of questions about his immortality. A time when Harry had looked disappointed to find she wouldn't live forever like him.
"Not many would, no."
0-0-0-0-0
Still, living forever had its perks when you were able to do so with someone like Sherlock Holmes.
Another story set within my Immortal AU series! These are a blast to write and I have so much fun creating them. This one is just a quick one-shot about what John's life was like throughout his separation with Sherlock, as well as some insight into his past and how he came to terms with his immortality.
There is still more yet to come with this AU, so look forward to more stories in the future! But for now, I hope you all enjoyed this little filler piece in the meantime.