In the night, London exists in the form of a man and as a city.
As a human, his name is John Watson.
"Haaa-!" A middle-aged man sits up in his bed, florescent street light from a window throwing his wrinkled face into sharp relief. (His window is shuttered; but that doesn't matter for the doctor—His light will never truly fade for him. So it shines light when he needs it.)
There will always be something, something in the night that wakes him up. Whether it's memories of war or something else altogether, London never actually sleeps-By default, he doesn't either.
(On his bedside, neon red letters proudly proclaim the time; He doesn't need to look at it to know it but he keeps it there for the sake of it being there. Sherlock could come up with his own reasons why he never touches it, he thinks.)
He shudders and pats his body, as if to be sure that is still there. His hand is shaking again; Mycroft Holmes wasn't quite right about the reasons for the symptom existing—But the man was close enough, and it is simply for John that when things are too normal, his hands begin to shake.
The dreams he has are part of him: He has always had more than just the duties he carries during the waking hours; he dreams in duty as well and sees. He dreams of being a butcher in a half-forgotten time of war, then having been a child in a lord's lap. He remembers peace documents to be drafted, sees dead men on the tube as they leap in front of the train, and gazes over empty coffins of the dead men that served home and country.
(When he was younger, he was driven mad with it.)
Tonight, he dreams of an old title that has risen from the past; a title that had been forgotten by many. "The Queen's Watchdog."
His dreaming wasn't usually this useful, but he supposed something had to give eventually.
He reaches up into the darkness...And aims a gun he doesn't keep with him that he's summoned from under the pillow. An L9A1 that he's not supposed to have. He thinks that there are benefits to being him, at times. He thinks about a similar gun that was about to be handled by that thirteen year old.
"I, I follow, I follow you...Deep sea baby, I follow you...I, I follow, I follow you" A loud blast of music came presumably from a car from the street below, startling him from his thoughts; drunken giggling and "Shut it off,"-s float up to his flat and make him frown. Of course, there are some things that he doesn't have benefits in while living in a body.
Sighing, he falls limply across his colorless, dust-mite filled headboard, not even bothering to be careful with the manufactured war wound of his own making. Ignoring the burning feeling spreading in his shoulder, he passes a hand over his beaded brow.
In meeting Sherlock Holmes, he considers that he has damned his flatmate to becoming a true part of London; a Landmark. Sometimes, he thinks it would have happened at any rate. But he did pick the best choice for all of them-The darker futures that loomed were always worse.
In truth, he hated dreaming for Queen and Country.
With a grunt, he shifts the weight off of his wound and tries to go back to sleep. Tomorrow, he will have to fulfill his new job.
But in the morning, the subject of his dreams is calmly sitting in his favorite chair.
The subject is sipping tea from a cup like there is nothing wrong with the world, so John blinks to ensure it's reality. He doesn't quite take a step back; the subject is not a zombie nor a Dalek and should not be treated as such. But it is rather unexpected, and he finds himself asking: "Sorry, wh-"
"Doctor John Watson, served for Queen and Country in Afghanistan." The Earl didn't even glance at the Doctor, and the tall man dressed in all black standing next to him was the one interrupting. "A most commendable service, only that it doesn't exist. Or rather it does, but it doesn't in the ways that matter."
"How-" Because this morning, John Watson got up expecting that he was going to have to take the tube into the furthest reaches that he, London was extended to, and then take a cab to break into his Watchdog's mansion so that he could fulfill his dream and get a free breakfast. Instead, he found that things have gone all wrong and Earl Phantomhive and Sebastian Michaelis are now in his bloody flat, and where is Sherlock and why is Murphy's law working again?
He decides he needs tea, too. Lots of it.
"Why are you here?" The query is rather more irritated than he expects, marching as he does through the cluttered kitchen to go find the last tin of English Breakfast and god where is Sherlock at and can he make his morning even a little better? Moriarty hadn't even begun on his little streak of idi-Well, no that wasn't true, there was that Study in Pink case and Blind Banker case (They were good names, whether Sherlock liked it or not; He was ruddy London and he knew what his populace liked, thanks) and really, sometimes a bloke just needed to lend his flatmate a really dangerous criminal for a little while so that he could just stop using his not-legal gun to shoot holes in the wall.
And so alright, it unnerved him that someone found him without him revealing himself first. He was entitled to that much. He yanked open the cupboard doors.
"We are here because you have summoned us." There wasn't a tin of English Breakfast anywhere. He erupted into a steady stream of silent curses, then rounded around to look at the two intruders. "I haven't summoned you yet. And-How do you know to come into my house, anyway?" He pauses, cocking his head to the side, chest heaving.
The boy withdraws an envelope of something or the other from his coat, and the servant took it from him. "London's occupants—Should they need to find London, they will." Sebastian said in a remarkably serene voice, seeing as what he just suggested just probably broke the fourth wall—then, offered the envelope to John.
John thinks that it's too bloody early in the day for this, personally. He still strides forward and nips it out of the gloved fingers, shoving it in his dressing gown. "Where's Sherlock?"
"Out." The boy spoke for the first time, shifting in his seat. "Out where?" John asked. "You'll be seeing him by noon, Doctor." The Butler said politely, smiling. "Please do sit."
John does so, feeling mildly irritated. "So I suppose you know what I would have summoned you for, seeing as you knew enough to break into my ruddy flat and rid me of the last tin of tea." He said in a barely polite tone, restraining himself from snapping. Then he saw both the Butler and his master hide a smile at his expense, lifting a gloved hand and a cup each respectively.
His irritation died away to nothing, leaving a sort of weary resignation in it's place.
"You want me to depose of James Moriarty, then?" The Earl asked, leaning forward to place the teacup in between them and to place his chin on his wrists.
London, also known as Doctor John Watson huffs. Well, obviously. You'd know, you broke into my flat and I'm not forgiving that one anytime soon,his expression suggests.
"You'll have to forgive me, Doctor. It has been a few hundred years." Ciel Phantomhive leans back now, a muted gleam of amusement shining in his eyes. "I do hope that this one is more interesting than the last one."
The doctor smiled wryly, slightly shaking it. "You'll find him interesting, no doubt. That man...Is an absolute psycho." He rolls his head, and in doing so hears the popping of two streets into place. There'd be a traffic block by noon somewhere in the north of London, best not go that route to work today... "I'd warn you to be cautious, but we both know you have the luck and skill of the devil with you." The Earl nodded at this, taking the teacup back to sip from.
"I expect payment in a week's time."
"I would...Expect no less from you, Ciel Phantomhive." John makes a funny half-nod, and rises. "Right, so...I'll just leave you to it, then."
He received a call from a rather irate British Government in a cafe down in the north end of London by midmorning; he'd ended up using the tube to get to work after all. But the poor waitress working at the cafe was handing over her personal cell phone to him by the time he had reached availability, so while he lifted the phone to his ear John was seriously contemplating the pros and cons of getting a secured-line cell phone. "Hello?"
"Doctor Watson, why wasn't I informed that a dead family name had recently come back to life?" In the original vision, John would have remedied this telling Mycroft by now. Odd, that things were happening this way, He considered. He swallowed a piece of scone, and gulped down some of the much-needed tea with it. "Ah, sorry? You did kidnap me and put me in a warehouse." He frowns, turns his head.
"Get in the car, Doctor Watson." The stereotypical black car slid up in front of the cafe, and London snorted. "Windsor uses a cab service that looks remarkably like yours, you know." As he begins walking, he adds: "Don't infect the new boy with a need to kidnap embodiments with unmarked black cars, yeah?"
"I will make no promises." Mycroft was grumpy today, John notes and hurriedly crams the rest of his scone into his mouth.
"Look, Mycroft. I said I was sorry." John was futilely trying to calm the irate representation of Government, knowing that if he so chose to, he could very well shut away the Queen's Guard Dog in a prison cell. And then that would only lead to bad things, and Ciel Phantomhive could very well end up actually threatening the entirety of Government, including the Houses of Parliament. John wanted to avoid that headache if he could. So far, it wasn't looking like it was working.
"Who is he, London?" Mycroft finally snapped from the front seat—An emergency like this dictated that he not only drove himself, but that there were no others that were around him. John bowed his head and put it between his knees, and tried to breath. Standard procedure for panic. Because of this, he didn't note the title of London being used. "Mycroft, we needed him."
"I asked who is he, London?" This time, John did note it. He sighed and raised his head. "He is Ciel Phantomhive, Mycroft. The Ciel Phantomhive, last of the Phantomhive family. Son of Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive, Queen's Guard dog. He's from Victoria's reign."
The car actually skidded to a stop, and Mycroft turned slowly in his seat to stare at John.
"He time traveled?"
"No, of cou-No." John frowned, and shook his head. "He's... re-incarnated."
Mycroft's mouth thinned into a white, hard line. "Typically Dr. Watson, people don't duplicate themselves exactly as they were. And I have a very distinct feeling that he is replicated; hard to mistake that personality." He added with a dry tone. "As it is Dr. Watson, this is an anomaly."
"Not so much, he has a demon in his employ." John felt it was helpful to add this—Just seeing Mycroft go rigid was a pleasure of its own.
"You had best not be joking, Dr. Watson." John smiled smugly, folding his hands. He didn't often get to surprise Mycroft, and he was going to milk it for what it was worth. "I do not joke about my demonic inhabitants, Mycroft. Remember the fellow that kidnapped you? The one with the ducks?"
Mycroft grimaced. "Yes, the fellow with Queen's music."
"Exactly."
There was a beat of silence before Mycroft turned to face the wheel again. "I do hope you know what you're doing, London."
"I do."
And at that moment, the phone in John's pocket buzzed. A tiny frown creased his forehead, and he picked it up.
He sends his greetings, and I say that if you waited longer you could have gotten some excellent tea for free.
-Q
John swore.