This was recommended to me by TheImprobableOne.

Now, I know this is a one-shot collection, but I felt that this prompt required a bit more than just one chapter. So this is going to have more than one part to it.

"It's your turn to be the patient, Harry!"

"But I'm always the patient. Why can't you be the patient?"

"Because I'm the doctor. Now lay down, please, M'am. You're very sick."

Harry sighed and laid down on the bed.

"You'd better not put anymore bandages on my forehead, John."

Little John smiled and grabbed the plastic stethoscope from his play med-kit.

"Okay, Miss." He placed the end on top of Harry's chest and pretended to listen to her heart. "Very interesting," he said, deepening his voice to make himself sound a bit older.

Harry smirked.

"How does it sound, doctor?"

"Like a drum," John said. "It's got a nice rhythm."

"Am I dying?"

"I don't think so."

Harry nodded.

"Good."

John grabbed the fake thermometer.

"Say 'Ahhhh'."

His sister played along and opened up her mouth as wide as it would possibly go, making the requested noise.

John put the thermometer in her mouth and waited a moment before pulling it out again. He squinted at the plastic piece and wrinkled his nose.

"Harry?" he whispered. "Is this good or bad?"

Harry rolled her eyes.

"It always says 37 on the sticker, John. That's good."

"What's bad?"

Harry sighed.

"Let's go with 39 degrees."

John nodded and cleared his throat, regaining his authoritative tone of voice.

"You have a fever. But I know what to do. Don't worry."

Harry couldn't help but smile.

"I'm glad you're here to save me, doctor."

John stuck his tongue between his teeth and dug through his bag, pulling out a bandage.

"John..." his sister warned, giving the item an annoyed glance.

"Shh. I'm your doctor," John said, emphatically.

"I told you not to use those things on me."

"Shut up," John told her.

And then he stuck the bandage on her forehead, earning a groan from her.

"There," he said, kissing the bandage. "All better."

Despite her slight annoyance, Harry giggled and accepted the "treatment".

"Thanks, doctor. I feel much better."

She then sat up and tousled her brother's hair, causing the young boy to grunt in frustration.

"Stop it, Harry!"

John looked at his younger self and sister with a smile, remembering how strong their relationship had once been. God, how he missed those days. Why had he so easily put them behind him?

Suddenly, he heard rushed footsteps clamber up the stairs of his old home.

"John! Harry!" a woman with a light, sweet-sounding voice whispered. "Keep it down, please! Your father's just got home and he's very tired."

"Sorry, Mum," young Harry said. "We were only playing."

His mother, back then, was a naturally pretty woman, with dark blonde hair, fair skin, and kind features. She, in this memory, was sporting an orange, flowered dress with a white apron. John's mother always adored that apron.

"Wash up, dears. And quickly; supper's almost ready," she told her children, smiling softly before rushing back down the stairs.

"I call dibs on the bathroom first!" young John said to his sister before rushing out of the bedroom.

"Runt!" Harry teased, watching as her brother left.

The room suddenly shook as a blinding light leaked through the window. John covered his eyes with his arm and hissed.

"Patient has sustained a severe head injury and blood loss..." a foreign voice echoed throughout the bedroom.

"John, please..." another, more familiar-sounding voice said.

The light leaking through the window suddenly broke the glass, and the room was swallowed in it.

John opened his eyes blearily, struggling to focus on his surroundings. He noticed a white ceiling above him, moving quite quickly and making him dizzy.

"John!" a comforting voice called out to him.

It was unsettling how far away it seemed.

"John, can you hear me?"

John glanced down his nose, seeing the mask fixated over his mouth and nose.

"Sir, we'll need you to stay behind!" a female voice shouted across him.

He looked in the direction of the voice and could barely make out a frail figure with long brown hair.

"He's my friend!" the comforting voice said again.

John's head lolled in that direction. He could see the familiar outline of long, black curls and pale skin.

The figure looked down at him and reached out a hand, cupping his cheek.

"It's alright, John. I'm here. I'm right here."

Had John said something?

It was then that pain rocketed throughout his entire body. He could barely withhold the scream of pain that he emitted.

"Shh, John, it's alright. I know it hurts."

"Sir, you need to let us work!"

John watched as the figure was pushed away by the woman.

"We're losing him!" a man said beside him.

He heard a long, continuous beep sound next to him, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

"JOHN!"

With a huge bolt of pain, John was back in his childhood home, staring into his kitchen.

"Set the table, John."

Young John nodded to his mother and rushed over to the stack of plates on the kitchen counter, carefully picking them up and carrying them back over to the table. Quickly, he laid them out, taking care to avoid dropping any.

"Have a seat, you two," his mother told him and his sister.

They promptly sat in their designated chairs, folding their hands on their lap and silently watching as their mother laid out dinner.

"Is it ready, yet?" a gruff man shouted from the living space.

"Just a minute, darling!"

The elder John looked on with horror as his father came marching into the kitchen, looking slightly drunk and very agitated.

"I've been waiting for ages! What does a man have to do to get some bloody food in his belly?"

John's mother gulped and pulled out her husband's chair.

"So sorry, dear. Margie kept me a bit late a-"

"Just serve up whatever crap you've got there. I'm starving."

"Right. Sorry."

Without a word, dinner was served, and older John looked on with a sick feeling in his stomach.

He now remembered why he blocked out most of his childhood.

He watched as he and his family ate their peas and roast, not daring to look each other in the eye, for fear of angering the man of the house.

John's father, after a couple minutes of complete silence, sighed grumpily and dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter, causing the rest of the family to wince.

"My day was fine, thanks," he said.

His wife cleared her throat and gently set her glass of water down.

"How was your day, dear?"

"Like you fucking care."

"George, please. There's no need-"

"For what? Cursing? I can curse as much as I fucking want to! It's my house, ain't it?"

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

Young Harry cleared her throat, earning a rather scary glare from her father.

"Did you want to say somethin'?" he asked her.

Harry nervously licked her lips and fumbled with her peas.

"I, erm... I got an A on my spelling test in school today."

"So what? Do you want a medal?"

Harry shook her head and swallowed.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir."

John's father looked at him.

"Wanna say something too, Johnny?"

Young John stayed silent.

"Oi!" his father bellowed. "Answer me when I'm talking to you! And don't play with your food. You aren't a goddamned animal."

John still refused to speak.

"Leave him alone!" older John shouted at his father, of course without receiving a response.

"Dad, he doesn't have much to say," Harry said quietly.

"Harriet..." John's mother said from across the table, trying to shut her up.

"What did you say to me?"

"He doesn't have much to say... Sir," Harry gulped. "All we did was-"

Their father abruptly threw his chair back and stood, staring daggers at his daughter.

"Was I talking to you?!"

Harry shut her mouth.

Her father grabbed her by one of her braids and pulled slightly.

"Stop it!" the elder John screamed, helpless to do anything.

"Was. I. Talking. To. You?"

"No, Sir," Harry whimpered.

"I have nothing to say," John said from his chair.

His father looked at him and narrowed his eyes, releasing his hold on Harry.

"You have nothing to say, what?"

"Sir."

His father nodded and returned to his seat, scooting his chair up.

"You and your sister eat your food and then go upstairs. I don't want to hear another peep from you two tonight. Got me?"

John and Harry nodded.

"Good. Now shut up and eat."

The elder John glared at the memory of his father, rejoicing in the fact that he was dead.

"Good thing that arsehole's six feet under," he muttered.

He walked away from the kitchen and into the sitting room, immediately faced with another memory.

His younger self was seated closely in front of the television, watching his favourite cartoon (which was all just blurred colours; John couldn't remember exactly what it was).

"John, what are you doing up at this hour?" his mother asked, shuffling in with her purple slippers on and rubbing her eyes.

She clucked her tongue.

"Darling, don't sit so close to the tele. You'll destroy those lovely eyes of yours."

She walked over to the television and turned it off.

"Come on, now. Off to bed."

John stayed still.

"John?"

"I don't want to sleep."

His younger self sounded a bit older than in the last memory; probably about ten.

"Why ever not?" his mother asked him.

"I'm scared. And my face hurts."

His mother frowned and sat down next to him.

"What happened? Did Daddy hit you again?"

John nodded.

"Okay, dear, let me see."

His mother gently took hold of his chin and turned his head toward her. She grimaced at the cut on his lip and the bruise on his eye.

"John, what did you say to him?"

The young boy sniffed.

"He was trying to hit Harry."

"And you got in the way?"

"I don't like it when Harry gets hurt."

His mother wrapped and arm around his shoulder.

"That was very brave of you, John."

"Really?"

His mother smiled.

"A bit like a superhero, actually."

John laughed half-heartedly.

"I guess, yeah."

"Is Harriet alright?"

"Yeah. She's asleep."

His mother nodded.

"Good. So is your father."

John leaned into his mother and closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle touch of her hand gently combing through his hair.

"Mum?" he asked, sleepily.

"What is it?"

"I'm tired."

"Then sleep, darling."

"But I don't want to."

"Are you scared?"

John nodded.

"Well," his mother whispered, "Why don't I tell you a fairytale, then? One that will make you feel safe?"

John opened his eyes slightly.

"Aren't fairytales for girls?"

"Don't let the name deceive you. Fairytales can be quite manly, actually."

"Really?"

"Mhm. Like Jack and the Beanstalk."

"I've heard that one before."

"Did you like it?"

John nodded.

"Then I'll tell it to you. Why don't we sit on the sofa?"

John smiled and followed his mother over to the couch, letting her sit down before lying down beside her and resting his head on her lap.

"Now, where do we begin?"

"Once upon a time is a good place to start," older John said in sync with his younger self, smiling as he did so.

A good memory, this was.

"Good idea," his mother chuckled. "Alright. Once upon a time, there was a young lad named Jack..."

Older John suddenly keeled over and fell to the floor, gasping, feeling unable to breathe.

Then there was blinding pain.

"...the beanstalk grew and grew until it reached the heavens..."

The room started to shake.

Another shock of pain.

The bright light streamed through the windows again.

"...the giant chased him across the clouds..."

The room began to dissolve as another volt of pain shot throughout his body. Through teary eyes, he watched as his younger self and his mother disappeared.

"...and they all lived happily ever after."

One more shock, and the room exploded into white light again.

"We've got a pulse!"

John looked around the painfully white room, finding his breathing quite restricted and his body in an incredible amount of pain.

And then everything went dark again.

Just to let you know, this is Part 1/4. I've pre-written this story (so no worries there), but I wanted to be evil and keep you all waiting. So the next part won't be up for a couple of hours. You're welcome. :3