Captain John Watson, M.D., of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was over-qualified on paper. But what the paper work never said- what no one realized- was that in addition to his military service and his doctorate degree in medicine, he was also a Balancer. Not many people knew that about this, (actually, only three people: himself, Harry, and his mum. His da had known too, but he was dead now.)
He didn't look like most Balancers. He dressed in soft, homely jumpers and cheap, button-up shirts. His blonde (or was it light brown? greying?) hair and height hardly stood out. And he walked with a limp, leaning almost resentfully against a utilitarian cane as he ambled along his way, strong and steady. He was nothing like most Balancers- dressed in designer clothing, rich, beautiful, picture-perfect. But where he differed most from the average Balancer was his eyes. Balancers are beautiful to look at, envied by many for their rich lifestyle and appearance. But the one thing that gave people pause was their eyes- cold and dull and empty and always, always grey in color. John's eyes were different- they could be cold, sure. But as they changed color nearly daily, from deep blue to ice to a seafoam, almost green color his emotions were in them reflected. They shifted constantly- but were never grey. Never lifeless.
Being a secret Balancer was all good and well -what no one knew couldn't harm them- but that wasn't all he'd been back then. He'd been an OverBalanced Balancer and that was just straight-up dangerous. He hadn't meant to OverBalance but there had just been so much of it- so much awful, all-consuming STUFF and he just had to try to help. He was one man though, just one single Balancer, amidst all of it and he couldn't contain that much, not for long. God knows he tried. It was killing him, and he knew it, couldn't help it. Couldn't help anyone, it felt like. Useless, that's him. It got so bad that he barely registered human weapons as threats anymore. He was in the middle of a bloody BATTLEFIELD, (in every sense of the words), but he couldn't fight two wars at once. He gave his all to the wrong battle, the hopeless, endless fight, (someone had to! ) and he lost, as inevitable as a falling rain drop inches from wet pavement. Nearly as quiet too- the sniper's gun had a silencer and he was too busy mentally Balancing Bill Murray where he'd been UnBalanced by it while tending to another man's gut wound to use the naturally heightened senses of a Balancer to notice the bullet as it came rocketing toward him until the last second. He jerked his heart out of the bullet's trajectory, just barely. But as he lay there in what should have been a pool of his own blood -but wasn't because the hot sand and the hot sun stole all liquid from existance within seconds- he wasn't sure it actually mattered. He could feel blood flowing out and it crowding in- too much of it, too fast. He was dying-
And then he wasn't. Then he was back in England and it was like his surroundings were trying to make up for the lack of grey in his eyes. Boring beige and drab, dull-minded grey everywhere he looked. He walked the streets of London, looking for an escape from his tiny torture chamber of a bedsit but with every step he felt himself teeter near the edge of collapsing. He was running out of money and patience and now, after being seen to by the country's registered Balancer, now he was UnBalanced. The Balancer had taken far too much, (an easy mistake, he wasn't too know; Balancers need more of it than normal people can stand) and now he was dying all over again, albeit much, much more slowly.
He needed someone to Balance, to take it away from. He tried to discreetly Balance a few people just a little bit but Balancing wasn't an entirely discreet act and he really, really couldn't afford discovery. That would be very Not Good. Not to mention, he wasn't immoral; stealing it from people who needed it would UnBalance them too.
He needed people to Balance, and soon, because he was getting tired of dying- having no control over anything rubbed him entirely the wrong way. (Taking things into his own hands hadn't just occurred to him- it haunted his every thought.) How was he to know that it'd take just one person, a someone with a desperately OverBalanced soul, to save him?
***A/N: Inspiration for eye colors of John Watson: post/23734250350/martin-freemans-eyes
Usually I don't continue the other ideas unless people want me to, so if you'd like this to be continued please tell me and I will:) Comments are love and happiness, please comment! (Whether it's about mistakes, grammar, what you like, dislike, suggestions, plot ideas, style, etc.) All feedback is appreciated! :D Thanks!