Needles and Handguns.
Ares, with all his patriotism and single-mindedness, hardly ever ventured out of America. Once or twice, and once to a little town in England. The woman he met was a strong-willed, adventurous woman who laughed when he tried to pick her up at a bar. Challenge accepted, he wooed her for weeks, found out she was going through a rough patch in her marriage. She went back to the man, then she found out she was pregnant and it was Ares's—or, Hamish's, because seriously nobody would buy his name being Ares anymore.
He never told her who he was, and she didn't care. She lived outside the U.S., and while the kid may be one hell of a fighter, he'd never have to worry about the monsters and myth and shit. John Hamish Watson was a scrapper from a young age, but nice, not a nasty piece of work like most of Ares's other kids.
He watched the man, his son, a couple of times on the field. Medical doctor, saw a lot of combat and injuries. A soldier, a warrior, someone everyone knew instinctively not to mess with. He could handle a needle the way most of his children handled swords—he was a dead-eye with a hand gun and never shook when it counted.
He wasn't surprised when John fell in with that Sherlock fellow; even if he was taken a bit off guard when he figured out it was Hermes's brat.
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