Halloween Fic: "I Can See You"
Title: “I Can See You...”
Genre: Horror, Supernatural, H/C, Slash
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty, Harry Watson, Mummy and Daddy Watson, other ;)
Warnings: PG-13 I think for the most part...
Word Count: Oh.... 5'953 words O.O
Summary: “John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...”
Author’s Note: Well this should be fun for me to write since I’m making it up as I go along (oh I love my mind!) and I should be doing Chem revision so... this is far more fun in my opinion! I thought that since we’re coming up to Halloween and such that I should get into the spirit of things and do something spooky!
P.S: The only difference between this little ‘verse and the Sherlock!Verse is the fact that I’ve made John into the oldest sibling (because it makes it SO MUCH EASIER for me!)
Tell me what you think of this please people and I hope you all enjoy it, Kasey >=]
....
“I Can See You” Part One
...
John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...
...
When Gemma Myers was in her late teens, just a month away from turning nineteen, she spent a night with her boyfriend which in turn resulted in her winding up married and with a small baby attached to her arm during every waking moment. Gemma Myers, before that fateful night, had been considered somewhat odd but ultimately kind and loveable; as was the girl’s nature. She was the type of young lady that would help the oldies to cross the street with their shopping, tend to an injured child that had fallen off their bike and skinned a knee, and offer assistance to a number of people regardless of their problems and professions. All-in-all Gemma Myers was the perfect girl, the perfect daughter and, most importantly, the perfect friend.
The young fellow with whom she had been seen holding hands with constantly had a less than reputable reputation, but all the locals knew that he was just a young lad who had lost his way due to the lack of a father-figure in his life. He was rugged and good-looking in a way not unlike that of James Dean; which needless to say made him into quite the love-interest of a fair number of star-struck girls. This James Dean lookalike ran with one of the big gangs of the city they lived in and was fairly high-up in regards to their social-structure; bearing the rank of being Second In Command of the gang and holding the rather disturbing nickname of Tommy Gunner. Obviously a nod to the favourite weapon of the Mafia; the Tommy Gun.
Together these two produced quite the beautiful, if a little plain, child who retained qualities from both of its parents; most notably the startling blue eyes of his father and the gentle blondie-brown of his mother’s fair hair. What was the most unusual thing about this small child was that it never cried after the initial shock of being unceremoniously dragged from the comforting warmth of the uterus; even when said child had been teething no sound ever passed its lips bar a whimper or whine of discomfort.
Though it was unusual both of its parents merely assumed that it merely a quirk of their child; after all, it was not uncommon for a child to have a quirk or two that they would eventually grow out of. However, it was uncommon, and something unnerving, that this child had so many little quirks which made themselves known as he continued to grow.
And so it seemed that the life of one John Watson would never be what is considered ‘normal’.
...
When John was five he, seemingly suddenly, developed the ability to speak; which wouldn’t have been so strange had it not been for the simple fact that everytime he had even opened his mouth no sound had escaped. Absolutely nothing.
So on the day that John, or Johnny-boy as his father affectionately called him, began to speak his mother had been quietly preparing him a birthday cake, as she had done for the last four years, and as result cut her finger on the large kitchen knife held in her hand as her son uttered the first words she’d ever heard from his mouth, “There’s a little boy standing next to you mammy.”
As Gemma Watson dropped the knife on the side, and hastily stemmed the blood running down her hand, she looked at her son and then down at her side. She froze at the sight before her because there was no ‘little boy’ anywhere near her except her own son.
And that was the first day that Gemma Watson realised that her son was more ‘odd’ than she had ever been.
...
Perhaps it was the fact that her first child was ‘abnormal’ or that Gemma Watson felt that he needed a sibling so as to distract John from his increasingly disturbing comments about little things; like dancing children in the middle of the M1 or the old lady who lived down the road sitting in their kitchen when she’d died a month ago, but by the time John turned six he suddenly discovered that he now had a little sister.
To some degree John didn’t like his little sister, she was loud and messy and constantly threw things at him, but he also felt very protective of her; moreso than he did of his toys that he kept hidden to stop the ‘other’ children from hurting them.
And maybe, in hindsight, Gemma Watson realised that having another child wasn’t all that good an idea; especially after the steps John took to keep her safe.
...
It was a sunny day and Gemma and Thomas; Tommy Gun’s Christian name, decided that it would be a good idea to take their two children for a stroll in the nearby park; after all, there was nothing stopping them from being a family apart from John’s occasional comments. After a promise made to his mother; resulting in John agreeing to not breathe a word about ‘other’ children and people that weren’t meant to be there, and they were off to the park.
Harriet was gurgling away in her pram and shaking her toy rattle which had been John’s when he’d been a baby; though, unlike Harriet, John had never shook it. Baby John had simply gripped it in an impossibly strong grip as though he were terrified of something. Gemma and Thomas were walking hand-in-hand whilst they both pushed the pram with their free hand and John trailed behind them, looking at the ground and scuffing his shoes on the soft tarmac path.
When John looked up to see where he was going he almost shouted out at what he saw, but he’d promised his mammy and he didn’t want to break his promise, so instead of shouting out he hurried up to the pram and gripped the side of it; ignoring his mammy and daddy asking him what he was doing, and whispered at his sister quiet enough so that his mammy couldn’t hear him, “cry Harry, cry please.”
And cry she did, baby Harriet began to bawl and sob as Gemma hurriedly swept her out of the pram and into her arm whilst John was told off for scaring Harriet by his daddy; but Harriet was safe, which was what mattered to John. But John wasn’t safe, he never was.
As his daddy pulled him home, his mammy trailing behind pushing the pram and trying to calm down the sobbing Harriet, John felt clammy hands pull his other arm and he felt like he was being pulled apart even though he was still moving in the direction of home. Sharp and tough nails dug into his arm and he whimpered quietly because John never cried, crying was bad, so no-one noticed that it wasn’t his daddy’s grip on his arm that he was whimpering at but rather the trails of scratch-marks which ran the length of his right arm.
By the time they arrived home John’s arm felt like it was on fire and, when his daddy ordered him to his room, John didn’t pause or try to explain anything as he fled and hid under his bed; gripping his favourite action-figurine tightly in his little hands as though it could protect him.
It couldn’t.
...
On John’s fourteenth birthday his parents treated him and took him to Alton Towers Amusement-Park for the day; he enjoyed the train journey they had to take to get there because his dad had complained about the cost of fuel. He had spent the majority of the journey watching people, and thinking about silly things like children in cupboards and dancing bears; his mam had often said that John had the “most unusual imagination” but John liked his imagination. He was the best in his English class because of his imagination, and in science he was the only one to figure out the answers quickest; but that might be because he had mithered his dad until he bought in the O-Levels; no they didn’t do O-Levels anymore, the GCSE-revision book he’d seen in the book shop over a month ago.
His dad had been checking his watch every few minutes and John knew without having to ask that his dad was worried about what was happening at ‘work’; John knew that his dad’s line of work wasn’t something he was allowed to discuss with people, especially the other kids who had copper’s for parents. His mam on the other hand had been looking out of the train window, watching the fast-moving trees, fields, cars and motorways passing them by; though John supposed that it was them passing the motorways by really. He avoided looking at his mam, she wasn’t well and she didn’t want dad to know; but she forgot that John could see it and he hated that she was hiding it from dad. But he had promised his mam that he wouldn’t talk about the things he just knew, and he wasn’t the type of person to break a promise; so he never did.
When they arrived at Alton Towers his dad gave him two, two, twenty-pound notes and told him to be careful, to not spend too much, and be at the cafe by four o’clock. John was excited but he knew his dad wouldn’t be happy with him if he didn’t listen so he recited everything his dad had told him before he ran off to buy his entry ticket and have the best day of his life.
And it was the best day of life; up until he went on the Skyride to get to the Forbidden Valley.
...
He clung onto the seat he was sitting in as the cabin shook and swung around almost crazily; he wasn’t crying but he wasn’t exactly calm either and he was sure that he was whimpering in fear. It was too high up, it was moving too much, it wasn’t safe and he couldn’t move. He was terrified, for more than one reason.
Inside the cabin was a shadow, and not the normal type of shadow either; it was so dark that he thought a black hole looked brighter than it, and it was so, so cold inside the cabin even though it was a healthy 22 degrees Celsius outside. He whimpered again and tried to shrink into the seat as the shadow reached for him; he was so scared, he wanted his dad and his mam, he wanted to be at home. Safe.
When the cabin had first stuttered to a halt John had seen out the window that some of the park attendants were trying to fix the ride and get him down but he knew, he just knew that they wouldn’t get him down anytime soon. When the shadow had appeared, oozing into the cabin through the edge of the door John realised that he wouldn’t be the same as he was before ever again.
A dark, cold and paralysing touch on his left ankle made John gasp and whine as he tried to scurry away from the shadow, but it was so so large and he was so so small that he had nowhere to scurry away too. He was penned in as the shadow reached for him, closer and closer, and John felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest and dive out the door. His breathing was rapid and haggard as a wispy-tentacle reached out and almost caressed his cheek causing him to flinch.
Though John had never cried in all his life, never screamed any louder than a whisper, when the wispy-tentacle became thicker and moved across to cover his mouth and nose he screamed for all his worth; but it didn’t do him a damn of good.
...
The cabin finally touched the terra firma over an hour after it had strangely frozen mid-way and as the door was prised open a strange cold sensation ran along the arms of the half-dozen people gathered around the door. The sight that met the eyes of the rescuers made them want to curse who had developed the Skyride because a small boy, who looked like he was barely twelve, was huddled in the corner furthest away from the door and looked absolutely terrified. As the only female person in attendance stepped into the cabin, thinking that she was the best to comfort the terrified child, she was startled when he began to scream at her and tell her to “GET AWAY!! NOO! STOP!!”
She wisely backed up and, once she was back outside the cabin, the boy calmed down away. Giving the boy a few minutes to calm himself, and hopefully realise he was safe, one of the rescuers decided to give it a go. He took a tentative step into the cabin, pausing and waiting for the boy to shout and scream at him, but all he got was a tear-stained stare filled with fear and hurt. It took him a minute and a half to reach the boy and crouch down so that he was on eye-level with him.
Not knowing what to say to the positively catatonic child the man fumbled about in his pockets until he came across a lollipop; which he’d forgot to give to his daughter this morning before he’d left for work, and offered it to the boy. It took the boy nearly five minutes to work up the courage to reach out and take the lollipop, but not before he whispered staring at the rescuer, “You’re too nice mister; you might get hurt one day.”
...
When John finished high school; obtaining some of the best results in the entire country, he positively had his pick of the colleges in and around London; but he choose the one furthest away from his home and announced three weeks into his summer holidays that he was moving out.
Both of his parents argued with him, declaring him too young to leave home so soon, but he was adamant and eventually they gave in; with the compromise that he come round for Sunday dinner and holidays and the like. So, with a spring in his step John hurried up to his room in order to start packing; but he got side-tracked by the sound of giggling coming for his sister’s room.
Though Harriet, or Harry as she liked to be called, was seven years younger than John he still saw her as the baby he’d protected that day in the park, so everytime he heard her giggling at something he always checked to make sure it wasn’t something bad, wasn’t something dangerous.
He poked his head around her bedroom door, which she never closed properly, and noticed that she was playing with her dolls; and he shook his head at his paranoia, about to leave her be until he caught sight of a particularly creepy doll which was off to the side of Harry’s favourites. He didn’t like it, he felt like it was watching him with its cat-like amber eyes and he shivered at the feeling of being stared right through.
He silently left Harry to her games and packed his room quickly; binning what he didn’t want and giving Harry the rest. Somehow though that creepy doll of Harry’s wound up in the bin along with John’s paper-plane models; but Harry was so happy with her very own model spitfire that she didn’t care about the doll, and John left his childhood home feeling like he was starting afresh.
Mostly.
...
College was different for him, he finally found that he could fit in with one group or another; so different to high school where he’d had to be a person he really wasn’t, and he excelled in his classes. All the information given to him made him feel alive and happy, side-tracking him and giving him something other than the shadows and ‘others’ to focus on for more than five minutes.
Everything was good and fun for him; at least it was up until his second year and they had the annual Halloween Party. Somehow one of the students had conned their parents into letting the party be hosted at their hotel; which according to the local guides was haunted by some nasty beings.
John hadn’t wanted to go, he’d wanted to go home and visit his family; make sure they were safe on Hallow’s Eve, but his friends had dragged him to the party, even going so far as speaking to his parents and getting their consent to literally kidnap him.
Maybe if his friends hadn’t been so determined none of it would have happened. Maybe...
...
“Come on John! You never come out with us anymore!” Haley complained as she strolled across the landing clad in only her underwear and pouting like a petulant child that had been denied its favourite toy, “You always get like this ‘round now! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were experiencing menopause.”
Mike laughed humorously from the front room where he and Adele were waiting, though John knew they were fighting to not snog each other to death; they were going to get married and have a couple of kids, he could tell. John shrugged at Haley’s comments and answered evenly, “I’m going to stay with my parents and maybe take my sister trick-or-treating Hal.”
“Oh no you’re not mister!” Haley declared as she strode across his room and grabbed John’s chin, making him look up at her as she pulled his head around, “You are going to get changed into the costume I made you especially, and you are going to come with us to this party; and before you open that pretty mouth of yours to speak, we’ve already spoken to your parents and they’re fine with you going to the party.”
John flushed in embarrassment at the ‘pretty mouth’ comment before frowning and asking, his voice sounding rather muffled because Haley still hadn’t let go of his chin, “What do you mean, ‘spoken to my parents’? You’ve never even met them!”
Haley laughed and placed a kiss on John’s brow before letting go of him and slipping onto his lap before he could argue; why he would argue against a positively naked girl sitting on his lap Haley would never know but she guessed that he was either gay, or just a real gentlemen. She ran her fingers through his sandy hair and pretended to not notice how John almost purred like a cat in response, though she did smile as she spoke, “Well, Mike’s met them so I simply persuaded him to tell me their number.”
John’s eyes slipped shut against his will and he asked with a single raised eyebrow, “Tell me, is your method of ‘persuasion’ prosecutable by law? Because if it is then I’m suggesting to Mike, as his solicitor, to press charges.”
Haley giggled and kissed John’s brow again as she said rather seductively, “Well, I suppose I could give you a little show Solicitor; especially since you’re being so hard-headed.”
“If I wasn’t hard-headed then I wouldn’t have been standing after getting into a punch up with Joey Lathers,” John defended himself as he opened his eyes and poked Haley in the side.
“If I remember correctly John we had to almost carry you home because you couldn’t tell how many fingers Mike was holding up,” Haley remarked as she poked John back and slipped off his lap, stretching in cat-like fashion and moving across the room again, “anyway, enough chit-chat John, I know you’re trying to waste time. I expect you to be ready to go by the time I am.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re like a dominatrix!” John called out as Haley disappeared down the hallway to her room, but he heard her remark as she shut her bedroom door.
“Well if I have to get the whip out John you’ll be sorry!”
...
“This is crazy, this is completely insane!” John mumbled under his breath as Haley positively dragged him along, “I look like an absolute pratt!”
Haley sighed and looked at John with a frown and John realised what he’d just said, “I uh... I didn’t mean.... I... you’re going to kill me aren’t you?”
“I’m considering it,” Haley answered glaring at him, “you do not look like a pratt and I resent the implication that my artistic abilities are questionable!” she gave his arm a particularly strong tug and John almost landed flat on his face; his pride saved only by Haley’s grip on his arm, “now stop complaining!”
Silently the pair of them moved down the streets, drawing a couple of odd looks from some of the older locals and found a free taxi which took them to their desired destination. After about half-an-hour they got their first look of the hotel where the party was being held. The moment John clapped eyes on the place he didn’t like the look of it; it was fancy and obviously had been restored to perfection, but there are always airs around places like hotels and old houses. The type of air depended on who owned the place, how it was used and when it was built; and John felt like the place was oozing with darkness.
It made him want to puke.
He almost did, but Haley poked him in the side and said, “Come on! We should have been there half-an-hour ago!”
Pushing back the feeling of discomfort John hurried after Haley, resolutely promising to stick to her like glue for the entire night, but that plan was vetoed the moment the front door opened and Joey Lathers glared at him with murderous intent.
If John had been like the other students he might had said some sort of quip at Joey, something along the lines of “what? Coming back for seconds? Thought you’d had enough the first time?” but John wasn’t like the other students. John was like John and he just ignored Joey; at least he tried to.
Joey moved aside to let Haley past but he blocked John’s path and hissed at him, “You got lucky last time your little shit! I’ll knock your teeth down your throat this time,” and he shoved John backwards, grinning maliciously.
“Are you sure you know where my teeth are Joey?” John remarked straightening up, “Since God obviously wasted a good set of teeth shoving them in that arse that people mistake for your face!”
Joey’s face turned beetroot red and he took a menacing step forward before the sound of someone calling for him echoed from the foyer of the hotel. He paused and looked back before grinning darkly at John and saying harshly, “Just buggar off you little shit, you’re not wanted here you creep!”
Though John would never admit it, the word ‘creep’ had always got to him, ever since he’d been a kid and one of the teachers called him a creep because he’d mentioned that the guys marriage was going to fail. He hid his hurt behind a half-smirk as he shrugged and said airily, “No problem Joey, I don’t think I want to be anywhere near you; don’t know what I could catch,” and he turned away, walking back the way he came before Joey could say a word to him.
If he was honest, he wanted to by with Haley and his mates but he knew that, unless he got into another fist-fight with the plank known as Joey Lathers, he wouldn’t be getting anywhere near them for the rest of the night. And thanks to Haley he couldn’t exactly show up at his parents since they’d mither him until he told them what was up and why he wasn’t at the party. Sometimes he really hated his life; and tonight was no different.
As he walked back along the path he’d not long chased after Haley on, John thought he saw a silhouette out of the corner of his eye but he didn’t turn his head and he didn’t think much of it; afterall it was Halloween, it was only normal for his brain to play tricks on him right?
Wrong.
The hairs on the back of his exposed neck rose as a cold breeze wrapped itself around him and he shivered from the cold and the strangely familiar feeling that was starting to develop in his gut; the type of feeling that most experienced when they were watching one of those silly horror movies. Where you know something’s going to happen, something bad and gory, but you don’t know what exactly. His arms broke out in goosebumps and he quickened his pace, hoping that whatever was freaking him out would just go away!
It didn’t.
The light above him flickered ominously and John flinched as the soft and so, so wrong feeling of nails scraped across his lower back. Abandoning any pretences of being calm he broke into a run only to be pulled up short as something grabbed his ankle and he came toppling down to the ground. His head bounced off the tarmac path and he groaned as he rolled over onto his back.
Stars were flashing in front of his eyes and the light above him gave one last flicker before it died and he was left with the darkness and... it...
Cradling his head in his hand John dragged himself to his feet and began to move in the direction that he hoped was the right way; he could feel warm liquid running down his face and he figured he’d cut his head on a stone or something like that. In his panicked state and the lack of light he continuously tripped up over his own feet and loose stones, but just when he thought he was safe something hit him on the back of the head and he went down. Stunned. Confused. Vulnerable.
As he almost crawled along the ground John was dimly aware of something running down his back, hard enough to make him hiss in pain, and as he rose to his knees something slammed into him and he hit the ground again. This time though he couldn’t move. He was trapped. Paralysed. Terrified.
“Johnny....” a sharp, low hiss whistled around him as he lay on his back, his arms trapped at his sides, and the clouds blocking the light of the moon moved enough for slight silhouettes of the trees around John to be seen. What John saw in the dim light made him want to scream and scream and never stop screaming. But his throat had closed up, he could barely breathe, could barely think he was so terrified.
“Johnny...” it hissed again and a bolt of pain ran up John’s back making him keen in agony as it kept building and building, growing stronger and stronger, burning, boiling, tearing, ripping, scarring and the feeling of nails scraping his neck caused tears to spring to John’s eyes. He was trapped, he couldn’t move... he was so vulnerable... he couldn’t do anything to stop it...
The last thing John ever remembered of that night was the feeling of something inside him, digging deep and poisoning him, tainting him in a way he wished he never recalled.
...
When John was twenty-two he thought that it would be a good idea if he joined the army, afterall he considered the job opportunities open to him in a regular hospital to be so boring that the excitement of war sounded like so much fun. He still had a year and a half left of his medical course in St Barts so he did the research, made the right calls and asked the right questions so that the moment he graduated and became a ‘real doctor’ he could sign up.
And he did, without any hesitation even though his mother was so worried and his father was proud but cautious. It was what he wanted to do and he was stubborn enough to do something once he put his mind to it. He wasn’t the smartest person on the planet but he’d took the MENSA test and got some decent results; in the top 5% of the entire population of the planet was no mean feat really.
He signed up two months after he became a certified practitioner of medicine and he remembered hugging his mum and sister goodbye, shaking his dad’s hand in a manly way, and hurrying onto the train on his way to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He never looked back and was thankful that he’d decided to join the army.
Things were finally changing for him. Starting to look up.
...
The ten week course gave John all the training he needed to get sent to Afghanistan as part of some of the early waves of the invasion. He didn’t really understand the reason why they were invading the country; didn’t really care for the reason, he just cared about the fact that he was seeing something other than Sandhurst. He was finally doing something that wasn’t boring, that wasn’t dull. And he loved it; every single minute. Even when the bullets were whizzing past his head, even when the IEDs were blowing holes in the roads and soldiers to pieces, even when he was treating a young lad who was bleeding out; he loved the sense of exhilaration, the thrill that shot through his body as he fired back with steady hands, ordered soldiers about and saved the lives of countless men.
But it was all too good to be true.
...
“I’m sorry Doctor but the bullet has done some extensive damage; if I’m frank with you I’m amazed you can move your arm at all,” the nameless, faceless military surgeon said to John as he stared at the chart he was holding in his right hand, all John could think was that it was the wrong hand, the wrong hand...
John didn’t say anything, he couldn’t say anything; the army was his life, it was everything to him; mostly all he had. Thirteen years, thirteen fucking years and now he was being invalid home because some bastard had got a lucky shot!
For the past thirteen years of his life John had experienced so many different things, sometimes he’d been a little afraid, a little worried about dying, being blown apart, shot, kidnapped and tortured, but none of it compared to the fear he felt when they’d informed him he was being sent home. Home... the UK... England... London... that wasn’t home to him, where he was now felt more like home.
You weren’t meant to be hurt in your home... but he’d been hurt here too so, where was his home?
“As I’m sure you already know the bullet entered through your back and shattered the clavicle near the Acromioclavicular joint, damaging both of the Coraclavicular ligaments which I’m afraid means that movement of your left arm will never been the same again,” the surgeon continued, speaking in a no nonsense tone which served to draw John’s attention; he knew what had happened, knew how it had happened and he knew the damage it had caused.
“When am I leaving?” John asked, his voice sounding so alien to his own ears; he shouldn’t sound so calm, so detached, it wasn’t normal... but then again, he wasn’t normal was he?
“Thursday evening; you’ll be on the last shipment out along with the others injured in the ambush,” the surgeon answered before sighing and saying apologetically, “I’m sorry John mate, but I have other patients to see.”
“Of course,” John nodded and he watched silently as the surgeon went off to check his other patients; he didn’t care about anyone else, didn’t care about anything, there wasn’t anything for him to care about. He was being sent home, and he was absolutely terrified.
...
It took his shoulder near enough six months to heal enough for him to be able to hold something in his left hand without it shaking uncontrollably or being dropped. The strange thing though was the fact that after the first month the specialists had sworn that John’s shoulder wound looked like it had been healing for far longer; at least three months. But what was stranger still was that after two months it looked like it was completely healed, but suddenly it was like the man had been shot all over again; the result was it ended up looking like it had only just occurred instead of two months prior.
John hadn’t been able to offer any real explanation for the almost chaotic healing process and the strange relapses, for most of the six months he’d been in so much pain that he’d been sedated so as to stop him from curling up in the corner of his private room and wishing to die. Following his wishes the doctors hadn’t informed his family of what had happened so when he was finally able to spend a week without being sedated for the pain he decided to give them a call.
Only he discovered that they’d died a month after he’d returned to the UK, informed by a drunken Harry who cursed him and declared that he was “no brother of hers”. Later, when he was discharged, he visited their shared grave and broke down; sobbing tears of regret, shame, hate and sorrow because he’d lost his parents when they should have lived another three decades.
Why did they have to die? Why?
...
To Be Continued In Part Two....
Come on people tell me what you think! I’m even working on Part Two as you read this!!
BTW: I’ve actually done the research to make this as reliably true as possible (I looked up all sorts of things!) so please tell me what you think.... *puppy dog look*
Genre: Horror, Supernatural, H/C, Slash
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty, Harry Watson, Mummy and Daddy Watson, other ;)
Warnings: PG-13 I think for the most part...
Word Count: Oh.... 5'953 words O.O
Summary: “John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...”
Author’s Note: Well this should be fun for me to write since I’m making it up as I go along (oh I love my mind!) and I should be doing Chem revision so... this is far more fun in my opinion! I thought that since we’re coming up to Halloween and such that I should get into the spirit of things and do something spooky!
P.S: The only difference between this little ‘verse and the Sherlock!Verse is the fact that I’ve made John into the oldest sibling (because it makes it SO MUCH EASIER for me!)
Tell me what you think of this please people and I hope you all enjoy it, Kasey >=]
....
“I Can See You” Part One
...
John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...
...
When Gemma Myers was in her late teens, just a month away from turning nineteen, she spent a night with her boyfriend which in turn resulted in her winding up married and with a small baby attached to her arm during every waking moment. Gemma Myers, before that fateful night, had been considered somewhat odd but ultimately kind and loveable; as was the girl’s nature. She was the type of young lady that would help the oldies to cross the street with their shopping, tend to an injured child that had fallen off their bike and skinned a knee, and offer assistance to a number of people regardless of their problems and professions. All-in-all Gemma Myers was the perfect girl, the perfect daughter and, most importantly, the perfect friend.
The young fellow with whom she had been seen holding hands with constantly had a less than reputable reputation, but all the locals knew that he was just a young lad who had lost his way due to the lack of a father-figure in his life. He was rugged and good-looking in a way not unlike that of James Dean; which needless to say made him into quite the love-interest of a fair number of star-struck girls. This James Dean lookalike ran with one of the big gangs of the city they lived in and was fairly high-up in regards to their social-structure; bearing the rank of being Second In Command of the gang and holding the rather disturbing nickname of Tommy Gunner. Obviously a nod to the favourite weapon of the Mafia; the Tommy Gun.
Together these two produced quite the beautiful, if a little plain, child who retained qualities from both of its parents; most notably the startling blue eyes of his father and the gentle blondie-brown of his mother’s fair hair. What was the most unusual thing about this small child was that it never cried after the initial shock of being unceremoniously dragged from the comforting warmth of the uterus; even when said child had been teething no sound ever passed its lips bar a whimper or whine of discomfort.
Though it was unusual both of its parents merely assumed that it merely a quirk of their child; after all, it was not uncommon for a child to have a quirk or two that they would eventually grow out of. However, it was uncommon, and something unnerving, that this child had so many little quirks which made themselves known as he continued to grow.
And so it seemed that the life of one John Watson would never be what is considered ‘normal’.
...
When John was five he, seemingly suddenly, developed the ability to speak; which wouldn’t have been so strange had it not been for the simple fact that everytime he had even opened his mouth no sound had escaped. Absolutely nothing.
So on the day that John, or Johnny-boy as his father affectionately called him, began to speak his mother had been quietly preparing him a birthday cake, as she had done for the last four years, and as result cut her finger on the large kitchen knife held in her hand as her son uttered the first words she’d ever heard from his mouth, “There’s a little boy standing next to you mammy.”
As Gemma Watson dropped the knife on the side, and hastily stemmed the blood running down her hand, she looked at her son and then down at her side. She froze at the sight before her because there was no ‘little boy’ anywhere near her except her own son.
And that was the first day that Gemma Watson realised that her son was more ‘odd’ than she had ever been.
...
Perhaps it was the fact that her first child was ‘abnormal’ or that Gemma Watson felt that he needed a sibling so as to distract John from his increasingly disturbing comments about little things; like dancing children in the middle of the M1 or the old lady who lived down the road sitting in their kitchen when she’d died a month ago, but by the time John turned six he suddenly discovered that he now had a little sister.
To some degree John didn’t like his little sister, she was loud and messy and constantly threw things at him, but he also felt very protective of her; moreso than he did of his toys that he kept hidden to stop the ‘other’ children from hurting them.
And maybe, in hindsight, Gemma Watson realised that having another child wasn’t all that good an idea; especially after the steps John took to keep her safe.
...
It was a sunny day and Gemma and Thomas; Tommy Gun’s Christian name, decided that it would be a good idea to take their two children for a stroll in the nearby park; after all, there was nothing stopping them from being a family apart from John’s occasional comments. After a promise made to his mother; resulting in John agreeing to not breathe a word about ‘other’ children and people that weren’t meant to be there, and they were off to the park.
Harriet was gurgling away in her pram and shaking her toy rattle which had been John’s when he’d been a baby; though, unlike Harriet, John had never shook it. Baby John had simply gripped it in an impossibly strong grip as though he were terrified of something. Gemma and Thomas were walking hand-in-hand whilst they both pushed the pram with their free hand and John trailed behind them, looking at the ground and scuffing his shoes on the soft tarmac path.
When John looked up to see where he was going he almost shouted out at what he saw, but he’d promised his mammy and he didn’t want to break his promise, so instead of shouting out he hurried up to the pram and gripped the side of it; ignoring his mammy and daddy asking him what he was doing, and whispered at his sister quiet enough so that his mammy couldn’t hear him, “cry Harry, cry please.”
And cry she did, baby Harriet began to bawl and sob as Gemma hurriedly swept her out of the pram and into her arm whilst John was told off for scaring Harriet by his daddy; but Harriet was safe, which was what mattered to John. But John wasn’t safe, he never was.
As his daddy pulled him home, his mammy trailing behind pushing the pram and trying to calm down the sobbing Harriet, John felt clammy hands pull his other arm and he felt like he was being pulled apart even though he was still moving in the direction of home. Sharp and tough nails dug into his arm and he whimpered quietly because John never cried, crying was bad, so no-one noticed that it wasn’t his daddy’s grip on his arm that he was whimpering at but rather the trails of scratch-marks which ran the length of his right arm.
By the time they arrived home John’s arm felt like it was on fire and, when his daddy ordered him to his room, John didn’t pause or try to explain anything as he fled and hid under his bed; gripping his favourite action-figurine tightly in his little hands as though it could protect him.
It couldn’t.
...
On John’s fourteenth birthday his parents treated him and took him to Alton Towers Amusement-Park for the day; he enjoyed the train journey they had to take to get there because his dad had complained about the cost of fuel. He had spent the majority of the journey watching people, and thinking about silly things like children in cupboards and dancing bears; his mam had often said that John had the “most unusual imagination” but John liked his imagination. He was the best in his English class because of his imagination, and in science he was the only one to figure out the answers quickest; but that might be because he had mithered his dad until he bought in the O-Levels; no they didn’t do O-Levels anymore, the GCSE-revision book he’d seen in the book shop over a month ago.
His dad had been checking his watch every few minutes and John knew without having to ask that his dad was worried about what was happening at ‘work’; John knew that his dad’s line of work wasn’t something he was allowed to discuss with people, especially the other kids who had copper’s for parents. His mam on the other hand had been looking out of the train window, watching the fast-moving trees, fields, cars and motorways passing them by; though John supposed that it was them passing the motorways by really. He avoided looking at his mam, she wasn’t well and she didn’t want dad to know; but she forgot that John could see it and he hated that she was hiding it from dad. But he had promised his mam that he wouldn’t talk about the things he just knew, and he wasn’t the type of person to break a promise; so he never did.
When they arrived at Alton Towers his dad gave him two, two, twenty-pound notes and told him to be careful, to not spend too much, and be at the cafe by four o’clock. John was excited but he knew his dad wouldn’t be happy with him if he didn’t listen so he recited everything his dad had told him before he ran off to buy his entry ticket and have the best day of his life.
And it was the best day of life; up until he went on the Skyride to get to the Forbidden Valley.
...
He clung onto the seat he was sitting in as the cabin shook and swung around almost crazily; he wasn’t crying but he wasn’t exactly calm either and he was sure that he was whimpering in fear. It was too high up, it was moving too much, it wasn’t safe and he couldn’t move. He was terrified, for more than one reason.
Inside the cabin was a shadow, and not the normal type of shadow either; it was so dark that he thought a black hole looked brighter than it, and it was so, so cold inside the cabin even though it was a healthy 22 degrees Celsius outside. He whimpered again and tried to shrink into the seat as the shadow reached for him; he was so scared, he wanted his dad and his mam, he wanted to be at home. Safe.
When the cabin had first stuttered to a halt John had seen out the window that some of the park attendants were trying to fix the ride and get him down but he knew, he just knew that they wouldn’t get him down anytime soon. When the shadow had appeared, oozing into the cabin through the edge of the door John realised that he wouldn’t be the same as he was before ever again.
A dark, cold and paralysing touch on his left ankle made John gasp and whine as he tried to scurry away from the shadow, but it was so so large and he was so so small that he had nowhere to scurry away too. He was penned in as the shadow reached for him, closer and closer, and John felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest and dive out the door. His breathing was rapid and haggard as a wispy-tentacle reached out and almost caressed his cheek causing him to flinch.
Though John had never cried in all his life, never screamed any louder than a whisper, when the wispy-tentacle became thicker and moved across to cover his mouth and nose he screamed for all his worth; but it didn’t do him a damn of good.
...
The cabin finally touched the terra firma over an hour after it had strangely frozen mid-way and as the door was prised open a strange cold sensation ran along the arms of the half-dozen people gathered around the door. The sight that met the eyes of the rescuers made them want to curse who had developed the Skyride because a small boy, who looked like he was barely twelve, was huddled in the corner furthest away from the door and looked absolutely terrified. As the only female person in attendance stepped into the cabin, thinking that she was the best to comfort the terrified child, she was startled when he began to scream at her and tell her to “GET AWAY!! NOO! STOP!!”
She wisely backed up and, once she was back outside the cabin, the boy calmed down away. Giving the boy a few minutes to calm himself, and hopefully realise he was safe, one of the rescuers decided to give it a go. He took a tentative step into the cabin, pausing and waiting for the boy to shout and scream at him, but all he got was a tear-stained stare filled with fear and hurt. It took him a minute and a half to reach the boy and crouch down so that he was on eye-level with him.
Not knowing what to say to the positively catatonic child the man fumbled about in his pockets until he came across a lollipop; which he’d forgot to give to his daughter this morning before he’d left for work, and offered it to the boy. It took the boy nearly five minutes to work up the courage to reach out and take the lollipop, but not before he whispered staring at the rescuer, “You’re too nice mister; you might get hurt one day.”
...
When John finished high school; obtaining some of the best results in the entire country, he positively had his pick of the colleges in and around London; but he choose the one furthest away from his home and announced three weeks into his summer holidays that he was moving out.
Both of his parents argued with him, declaring him too young to leave home so soon, but he was adamant and eventually they gave in; with the compromise that he come round for Sunday dinner and holidays and the like. So, with a spring in his step John hurried up to his room in order to start packing; but he got side-tracked by the sound of giggling coming for his sister’s room.
Though Harriet, or Harry as she liked to be called, was seven years younger than John he still saw her as the baby he’d protected that day in the park, so everytime he heard her giggling at something he always checked to make sure it wasn’t something bad, wasn’t something dangerous.
He poked his head around her bedroom door, which she never closed properly, and noticed that she was playing with her dolls; and he shook his head at his paranoia, about to leave her be until he caught sight of a particularly creepy doll which was off to the side of Harry’s favourites. He didn’t like it, he felt like it was watching him with its cat-like amber eyes and he shivered at the feeling of being stared right through.
He silently left Harry to her games and packed his room quickly; binning what he didn’t want and giving Harry the rest. Somehow though that creepy doll of Harry’s wound up in the bin along with John’s paper-plane models; but Harry was so happy with her very own model spitfire that she didn’t care about the doll, and John left his childhood home feeling like he was starting afresh.
Mostly.
...
College was different for him, he finally found that he could fit in with one group or another; so different to high school where he’d had to be a person he really wasn’t, and he excelled in his classes. All the information given to him made him feel alive and happy, side-tracking him and giving him something other than the shadows and ‘others’ to focus on for more than five minutes.
Everything was good and fun for him; at least it was up until his second year and they had the annual Halloween Party. Somehow one of the students had conned their parents into letting the party be hosted at their hotel; which according to the local guides was haunted by some nasty beings.
John hadn’t wanted to go, he’d wanted to go home and visit his family; make sure they were safe on Hallow’s Eve, but his friends had dragged him to the party, even going so far as speaking to his parents and getting their consent to literally kidnap him.
Maybe if his friends hadn’t been so determined none of it would have happened. Maybe...
...
“Come on John! You never come out with us anymore!” Haley complained as she strolled across the landing clad in only her underwear and pouting like a petulant child that had been denied its favourite toy, “You always get like this ‘round now! If I didn’t know better I’d think you were experiencing menopause.”
Mike laughed humorously from the front room where he and Adele were waiting, though John knew they were fighting to not snog each other to death; they were going to get married and have a couple of kids, he could tell. John shrugged at Haley’s comments and answered evenly, “I’m going to stay with my parents and maybe take my sister trick-or-treating Hal.”
“Oh no you’re not mister!” Haley declared as she strode across his room and grabbed John’s chin, making him look up at her as she pulled his head around, “You are going to get changed into the costume I made you especially, and you are going to come with us to this party; and before you open that pretty mouth of yours to speak, we’ve already spoken to your parents and they’re fine with you going to the party.”
John flushed in embarrassment at the ‘pretty mouth’ comment before frowning and asking, his voice sounding rather muffled because Haley still hadn’t let go of his chin, “What do you mean, ‘spoken to my parents’? You’ve never even met them!”
Haley laughed and placed a kiss on John’s brow before letting go of him and slipping onto his lap before he could argue; why he would argue against a positively naked girl sitting on his lap Haley would never know but she guessed that he was either gay, or just a real gentlemen. She ran her fingers through his sandy hair and pretended to not notice how John almost purred like a cat in response, though she did smile as she spoke, “Well, Mike’s met them so I simply persuaded him to tell me their number.”
John’s eyes slipped shut against his will and he asked with a single raised eyebrow, “Tell me, is your method of ‘persuasion’ prosecutable by law? Because if it is then I’m suggesting to Mike, as his solicitor, to press charges.”
Haley giggled and kissed John’s brow again as she said rather seductively, “Well, I suppose I could give you a little show Solicitor; especially since you’re being so hard-headed.”
“If I wasn’t hard-headed then I wouldn’t have been standing after getting into a punch up with Joey Lathers,” John defended himself as he opened his eyes and poked Haley in the side.
“If I remember correctly John we had to almost carry you home because you couldn’t tell how many fingers Mike was holding up,” Haley remarked as she poked John back and slipped off his lap, stretching in cat-like fashion and moving across the room again, “anyway, enough chit-chat John, I know you’re trying to waste time. I expect you to be ready to go by the time I am.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re like a dominatrix!” John called out as Haley disappeared down the hallway to her room, but he heard her remark as she shut her bedroom door.
“Well if I have to get the whip out John you’ll be sorry!”
...
“This is crazy, this is completely insane!” John mumbled under his breath as Haley positively dragged him along, “I look like an absolute pratt!”
Haley sighed and looked at John with a frown and John realised what he’d just said, “I uh... I didn’t mean.... I... you’re going to kill me aren’t you?”
“I’m considering it,” Haley answered glaring at him, “you do not look like a pratt and I resent the implication that my artistic abilities are questionable!” she gave his arm a particularly strong tug and John almost landed flat on his face; his pride saved only by Haley’s grip on his arm, “now stop complaining!”
Silently the pair of them moved down the streets, drawing a couple of odd looks from some of the older locals and found a free taxi which took them to their desired destination. After about half-an-hour they got their first look of the hotel where the party was being held. The moment John clapped eyes on the place he didn’t like the look of it; it was fancy and obviously had been restored to perfection, but there are always airs around places like hotels and old houses. The type of air depended on who owned the place, how it was used and when it was built; and John felt like the place was oozing with darkness.
It made him want to puke.
He almost did, but Haley poked him in the side and said, “Come on! We should have been there half-an-hour ago!”
Pushing back the feeling of discomfort John hurried after Haley, resolutely promising to stick to her like glue for the entire night, but that plan was vetoed the moment the front door opened and Joey Lathers glared at him with murderous intent.
If John had been like the other students he might had said some sort of quip at Joey, something along the lines of “what? Coming back for seconds? Thought you’d had enough the first time?” but John wasn’t like the other students. John was like John and he just ignored Joey; at least he tried to.
Joey moved aside to let Haley past but he blocked John’s path and hissed at him, “You got lucky last time your little shit! I’ll knock your teeth down your throat this time,” and he shoved John backwards, grinning maliciously.
“Are you sure you know where my teeth are Joey?” John remarked straightening up, “Since God obviously wasted a good set of teeth shoving them in that arse that people mistake for your face!”
Joey’s face turned beetroot red and he took a menacing step forward before the sound of someone calling for him echoed from the foyer of the hotel. He paused and looked back before grinning darkly at John and saying harshly, “Just buggar off you little shit, you’re not wanted here you creep!”
Though John would never admit it, the word ‘creep’ had always got to him, ever since he’d been a kid and one of the teachers called him a creep because he’d mentioned that the guys marriage was going to fail. He hid his hurt behind a half-smirk as he shrugged and said airily, “No problem Joey, I don’t think I want to be anywhere near you; don’t know what I could catch,” and he turned away, walking back the way he came before Joey could say a word to him.
If he was honest, he wanted to by with Haley and his mates but he knew that, unless he got into another fist-fight with the plank known as Joey Lathers, he wouldn’t be getting anywhere near them for the rest of the night. And thanks to Haley he couldn’t exactly show up at his parents since they’d mither him until he told them what was up and why he wasn’t at the party. Sometimes he really hated his life; and tonight was no different.
As he walked back along the path he’d not long chased after Haley on, John thought he saw a silhouette out of the corner of his eye but he didn’t turn his head and he didn’t think much of it; afterall it was Halloween, it was only normal for his brain to play tricks on him right?
Wrong.
The hairs on the back of his exposed neck rose as a cold breeze wrapped itself around him and he shivered from the cold and the strangely familiar feeling that was starting to develop in his gut; the type of feeling that most experienced when they were watching one of those silly horror movies. Where you know something’s going to happen, something bad and gory, but you don’t know what exactly. His arms broke out in goosebumps and he quickened his pace, hoping that whatever was freaking him out would just go away!
It didn’t.
The light above him flickered ominously and John flinched as the soft and so, so wrong feeling of nails scraped across his lower back. Abandoning any pretences of being calm he broke into a run only to be pulled up short as something grabbed his ankle and he came toppling down to the ground. His head bounced off the tarmac path and he groaned as he rolled over onto his back.
Stars were flashing in front of his eyes and the light above him gave one last flicker before it died and he was left with the darkness and... it...
Cradling his head in his hand John dragged himself to his feet and began to move in the direction that he hoped was the right way; he could feel warm liquid running down his face and he figured he’d cut his head on a stone or something like that. In his panicked state and the lack of light he continuously tripped up over his own feet and loose stones, but just when he thought he was safe something hit him on the back of the head and he went down. Stunned. Confused. Vulnerable.
As he almost crawled along the ground John was dimly aware of something running down his back, hard enough to make him hiss in pain, and as he rose to his knees something slammed into him and he hit the ground again. This time though he couldn’t move. He was trapped. Paralysed. Terrified.
“Johnny....” a sharp, low hiss whistled around him as he lay on his back, his arms trapped at his sides, and the clouds blocking the light of the moon moved enough for slight silhouettes of the trees around John to be seen. What John saw in the dim light made him want to scream and scream and never stop screaming. But his throat had closed up, he could barely breathe, could barely think he was so terrified.
“Johnny...” it hissed again and a bolt of pain ran up John’s back making him keen in agony as it kept building and building, growing stronger and stronger, burning, boiling, tearing, ripping, scarring and the feeling of nails scraping his neck caused tears to spring to John’s eyes. He was trapped, he couldn’t move... he was so vulnerable... he couldn’t do anything to stop it...
The last thing John ever remembered of that night was the feeling of something inside him, digging deep and poisoning him, tainting him in a way he wished he never recalled.
...
When John was twenty-two he thought that it would be a good idea if he joined the army, afterall he considered the job opportunities open to him in a regular hospital to be so boring that the excitement of war sounded like so much fun. He still had a year and a half left of his medical course in St Barts so he did the research, made the right calls and asked the right questions so that the moment he graduated and became a ‘real doctor’ he could sign up.
And he did, without any hesitation even though his mother was so worried and his father was proud but cautious. It was what he wanted to do and he was stubborn enough to do something once he put his mind to it. He wasn’t the smartest person on the planet but he’d took the MENSA test and got some decent results; in the top 5% of the entire population of the planet was no mean feat really.
He signed up two months after he became a certified practitioner of medicine and he remembered hugging his mum and sister goodbye, shaking his dad’s hand in a manly way, and hurrying onto the train on his way to the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He never looked back and was thankful that he’d decided to join the army.
Things were finally changing for him. Starting to look up.
...
The ten week course gave John all the training he needed to get sent to Afghanistan as part of some of the early waves of the invasion. He didn’t really understand the reason why they were invading the country; didn’t really care for the reason, he just cared about the fact that he was seeing something other than Sandhurst. He was finally doing something that wasn’t boring, that wasn’t dull. And he loved it; every single minute. Even when the bullets were whizzing past his head, even when the IEDs were blowing holes in the roads and soldiers to pieces, even when he was treating a young lad who was bleeding out; he loved the sense of exhilaration, the thrill that shot through his body as he fired back with steady hands, ordered soldiers about and saved the lives of countless men.
But it was all too good to be true.
...
“I’m sorry Doctor but the bullet has done some extensive damage; if I’m frank with you I’m amazed you can move your arm at all,” the nameless, faceless military surgeon said to John as he stared at the chart he was holding in his right hand, all John could think was that it was the wrong hand, the wrong hand...
John didn’t say anything, he couldn’t say anything; the army was his life, it was everything to him; mostly all he had. Thirteen years, thirteen fucking years and now he was being invalid home because some bastard had got a lucky shot!
For the past thirteen years of his life John had experienced so many different things, sometimes he’d been a little afraid, a little worried about dying, being blown apart, shot, kidnapped and tortured, but none of it compared to the fear he felt when they’d informed him he was being sent home. Home... the UK... England... London... that wasn’t home to him, where he was now felt more like home.
You weren’t meant to be hurt in your home... but he’d been hurt here too so, where was his home?
“As I’m sure you already know the bullet entered through your back and shattered the clavicle near the Acromioclavicular joint, damaging both of the Coraclavicular ligaments which I’m afraid means that movement of your left arm will never been the same again,” the surgeon continued, speaking in a no nonsense tone which served to draw John’s attention; he knew what had happened, knew how it had happened and he knew the damage it had caused.
“When am I leaving?” John asked, his voice sounding so alien to his own ears; he shouldn’t sound so calm, so detached, it wasn’t normal... but then again, he wasn’t normal was he?
“Thursday evening; you’ll be on the last shipment out along with the others injured in the ambush,” the surgeon answered before sighing and saying apologetically, “I’m sorry John mate, but I have other patients to see.”
“Of course,” John nodded and he watched silently as the surgeon went off to check his other patients; he didn’t care about anyone else, didn’t care about anything, there wasn’t anything for him to care about. He was being sent home, and he was absolutely terrified.
...
It took his shoulder near enough six months to heal enough for him to be able to hold something in his left hand without it shaking uncontrollably or being dropped. The strange thing though was the fact that after the first month the specialists had sworn that John’s shoulder wound looked like it had been healing for far longer; at least three months. But what was stranger still was that after two months it looked like it was completely healed, but suddenly it was like the man had been shot all over again; the result was it ended up looking like it had only just occurred instead of two months prior.
John hadn’t been able to offer any real explanation for the almost chaotic healing process and the strange relapses, for most of the six months he’d been in so much pain that he’d been sedated so as to stop him from curling up in the corner of his private room and wishing to die. Following his wishes the doctors hadn’t informed his family of what had happened so when he was finally able to spend a week without being sedated for the pain he decided to give them a call.
Only he discovered that they’d died a month after he’d returned to the UK, informed by a drunken Harry who cursed him and declared that he was “no brother of hers”. Later, when he was discharged, he visited their shared grave and broke down; sobbing tears of regret, shame, hate and sorrow because he’d lost his parents when they should have lived another three decades.
Why did they have to die? Why?
...
To Be Continued In Part Two....
Come on people tell me what you think! I’m even working on Part Two as you read this!!
BTW: I’ve actually done the research to make this as reliably true as possible (I looked up all sorts of things!) so please tell me what you think.... *puppy dog look*