I don't own Sherlock again.
I absolutly love yoiu guys and hope you bear with my random ramblings in this chapter. And I'm so glad I made some of you who don't normally comment, comment.
And I wasn't sure this belonged in this story. I might make a whole other story called, The Watson Generations. And this would be part of it. And I'm working on the official next chapter for this story (Mortuary), but to be honest, I didn't plan this out at all so I'm kind of floundering as to what to do next.
John still hears Sherlock even though he is not there. He knows Sherlock is gone, not dead, just gone. John became too normal, to average, to hold Sherlock's attention anymore so he was going about to regain it. He had remembered his sister and a family history dark enough to interest Sherlock. Of course Mycroft would not have approved of his little brother moving in with the next heir to the high throne of crime, but allowances must be made and John doubted that Mycroft did not know of his dubious family history. Though he supposed in some humorous ways the Watson family mirrored the Holmes family and John would bet that Christmas dinners was hell for both families. John did have his doubts, though that Mummy Holmes Christmas list was a list of people who needed to die or be robbed and destroyed.
The Watson's had always been a crime family so deeply imbued with the raw human needs of blood, lust, and drugs it was a large surprise that no one connected one to two. John was hardly an exception; he had just chosen another path that filled his carnal needs. A medical soldier supplied him with everything he needed, blood from the wounds he cared, his lust was sated with the random relationships that happened in the army, and adrenaline worked well as a substitute for drugs.
Moving in with Sherlock had been probably the best thing that could have ever happen to this Watson. A single man who could take a single look at you and calmly explain your history and every single mistake you ever made. It also meant that he was unable to take the Job of becoming head of the Watson crime family. The honor was passed onto his sister who already had an affinity for the criminal arts. Her wife had not approved of that or Harry's drinking habits and so left her. But even a criminal empire is fragile and so Harry Watson lost herself among drink and deals made in dark cellars. She never forgot her little brother, though and was quite happy to see him at her door so many years later. The phone (wired, of course) in his hand and a grim smile on his face. He did not even need to tell her why he was there, like any older sister she knew. She also knew that if this Sherlock Holmes ever showed his face here before bending on hand and knee and apologizing to her brother, that he might end up a bit more bloodied then before. The Watson family was nothing if not protective of what was theirs.
It was expected that at some point in your life you needed to die while still living, and right now it was John's turn and Harry promised she would make it perfect, for her baby brother if nothing else.
So yeah, please forgive me for the rambling mess that might be turning into a pivitol plot point?