Chapter Text
The day hadn’t turned out quite as John had expected. Frankly, it had done a 180 coupled with a few backflips and a jump through space and time. That would be all fine and dandy if he actually got the privilege of meeting The Doctor. Instead, he was stuck hauling what he assumed was a dead man around by the armpits, or the man WOULD be dead if he couldn’t escape the gunfire long enough to figure out what was making him bleed so heavily. There were moments John loved his medical training, and then there were times like now—times when he wished he had picked a less stressful career.
His hands were steady, though.
He stumbled through a crumbling wall and splayed the man out across the concrete as gently as he was able. Another explosion shook the foundation of the building, jettisoning him into action. The blood was spreading from somewhere on his upper torso. John couldn’t pinpoint the site of the wound(s) immediately due to the inconvenient presence of a black jacket. It had been a cold few days in London, so it was understandable--inconvenient, of course, but understandable.
The unidentified man was likely a businessman, he theorized, hurriedly ripping the sides of the jacket open while ignoring the PING of the buttons flying off. Well, he supposed he would owe the man a new coat, or at least a visit to a tailor after he was finished saving the man’s life.
And really, a name would have been wonderful right about then. Referring to him as ‘the man’ in his head was quickly becoming annoying. Frustrating, really. George it was then. John was going to call him George until the other was conscious enough to actually supply him with a name. It was strange how a little thing like a lack of a name could bug someone. It was especially strange that it was bugging him when he was in the middle of an attack.
Ah, he was quite screwed up, wasn’t he?
Yes, yes. Well, constant exposure to war and violence tended to make one used to operating under pressure, which of course led to sometimes wandering thoughts.
He should be getting back to the man bleeding out on the floor, yeah?
Yeah.
John stripped open the white, collared shirt sticking wetly to George’s skin. Ah, yes, there was the bullet hole. He felt for a pulse and sighed in relief when there was a noticeable thump under his fingers. That was definitely a good thing.
But wait.
John paused and stared down at his fingers as he rubbed them together, the liquid coating them not red, as he had expected, but more of a clear, almost gold color. He had seen the blood, though. The man had left a fairly sizable puddle on the ground after all. This—this wasn’t blood. The man was breathing, but could he even consider it a man? This wasn’t blood, but—
There had to be some way to explain this. There had to be.
John derailed the train of thoughts ready to drive him to insanity and instead focused on extracting the bullet. It would either turn out to be a wonderful idea or a terrible one, but there wasn’t much else he could do. He would just have to put enough pressure on it and cover the wound well enough to keep it from leaking George’s entire blood supply.
Focused and determined now, John removed the bullet as efficiently as he could and wrapped the injured shoulder so tightly it would probably cause discomfort. Blood circulation was still possible, though, so it wasn’t like he was making a tourniquet. That would be rather unfortunate, as losing limbs was never a fun thing.
He rubbed his leg in sympathy, the seizing of the muscles letting him know his sprint into the building hadn’t been appreciated. “Damn leg,” he grunted, trying to ignore the discomfort long enough to figure out what the hell he was going to do. The attack had—
Oh, it had stopped. John cocked his head to the side, angling his ear further toward the area that had previously been riddled with gunfire. Tilting one’s head never really helped to make the sound clearer, but it was a bad habit of his and most of humanity that he hadn’t been able to break himself of. It was quite pointless at this stage to even try.
It had stopped, though. The silence was a piercing contrast to the cacophony of sound from before. George had yet to stir on the ground, leading John to make a brief wish that he wasn’t in shock. He probably was.
“Oh, bloody hell.”
Maneuvering the body of the man (?) over his shoulder wasn’t an easy task, especially not with his leg acting up again. His load was surprisingly heavier than he had expected. George was packing quite a bit of muscle or he had bones of lead with how ridiculously heavy he turned out to be. The man looked like he would blow over in the wind! How could he possibly weigh this much?
From there it was a slow trudge out of the smoking ruins of the building and into the rest of civilization. Technically John was required to stop and talk with the police as a witness and victim, but the part of him that had seen him through medical school knew it was a bad idea to bring the strange person he was carrying over to the police and consequently the medics. They wouldn’t stop at giving him a blanket, and if John had been alarmed by the lack of blood, other people would be even more so shocked.
So, the police were not an option he would consider. Instead, John stumbled until he couldn’t bear to drag the limp, uncooperative body further, and then hailed a cab, trying to act natural.
This was insane. Was he really dragging what could be an alien back to his shabby, economy flat instead of handing it over to the authorities and continuing on with his life like a good little doctor? Oh, Christ. Sarah was going to kill him if he managed to get his license revoked. One wouldn’t think this sort of thing could cause that, but the government worked in strange ways, and John wasn’t quite confident that they wouldn’t go ballistic and strand him in poverty.
The political unrest was terribly drastic presently. The terrorist attack he had just dragged himself and the unconscious man in his arms out of was a testament to that. It was getting worse, sadly. Bombings, arson, and shootings—they were all occurring with alarming frequency as the months rolled by. The government was trying, or at least John assumed they were, but they weren’t getting anywhere very fast. It was terrifying just taking the subway for most people now.
John had returned from one war to another one on the home front. Part of that was a relief, as much as it pained him to think that. It was too difficult for him to imagine a life without violence, adrenaline, and pain. This made it so he didn’t have to adjust. John carried on as he usually did with a gun always present on his form and his muscles coiled tightly in preparation to run (to fight). Apparently these feelings were something he just needed to deal with, or so his therapist had informed him. She kept insisting he make friends and maybe create a blog to write down his feelings in.
She assumed it would help with his leg. Writing down his feelings wasn’t going to help with his damn leg.
John grunted and drew himself from those thoughts, trying to drag his baggage up the last flight of steps to his dingy flat. There was a brief tussle with the keys (much less fierce than the one with the pin and chip machine a few days prior), which he won, and victorious unlocked the door. A well-placed smack with his shoulder and a jiggle of the handle to the right popped the door open with an unpleasant noise.
Home sweet home.
He juggled and stumbled toward the couch, banging his bad leg on the coffee table before he finally managed to unburden himself. Groaning in pain, he hunched over the arm of the couch and grimaced. This was the reason he conveniently didn’t see the eyes of his guest snap open.
Moments after he managed to wipe the grimace off his face, he lifted his head to find himself looking into shockingly blue eyes. They were… they were fascinating. Blue? Gray? He couldn’t—
“You’re awake!” John suddenly exclaimed, springing back from the suddenly too close man on his couch. “That’s… good. That’s very good, actually. I was hoping you’d come ‘round, though I honestly didn’t expect you to-“ Wait. Why WAS he alert? Those eyes certainly looked alert. No dilation, no signs of shock.
“Why ARE you awake? You were in shock just moments—“
“I am conscious because unconsciousness is frankly boring. It is also a waste of time and processing capability that I could instead spend on worthwhile endeavors,” his guest answered, tone managing to be scathing with very little effort. He was annoyed, then.
“But you were—“ John tried to continue, only to be interrupted once again.
“I’m not to be held to your pathetic standards. Of course I’m not in shock. I don’t go into shock. That’s preposterous.”
John locked his jaw and gritted his teeth together for a moment, annoyed far more quickly than usual by this unfamiliar man. “Oh, is it? I suppose that would be because you’re not human. Am I right?”
The man glowered at him in reply, tilting his head up in a way that managed to be both insulting and disdainful. “What a brilliant deduction. I’m quite surprised you managed to come to such a conclusion. It must have been a difficult feat for you even after you removed the bullet, what with you being a lower life form and all.”
“Oh you—LOWER LIFE FORM?” John spluttered, turning an alarming shade of red. He took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. “And how did you know that I removed the bullet?”
He was graced with another acerbic look for his question.
“For one, there is a startling lack of a bullet in my shoulder. In addition to that I can see the trace smudge on the side of your neck where you wiped your hands after extricating it. Obvious.”
“You’re not human. What ARE you, then? Why am I even sitting here talking to you? I should have reported you or handed you over to the police or—“
The man in front of John pushed himself away from the couch and stood up, a tall lithe figure that managed to be imposing even with torn clothes and a dirty face. He watched as ‘George’ paced across the floor and motioned dismissively with his hand—a brief flick of his wrist that John couldn’t help but stare at. It took a moment for John’s racing thoughts to fade enough for him to register the fact that the man was speaking again.
“Oh, really? Must I explain everything to you? Being of lower intelligence must be so frustrating. I really can’t imagine what your kind must feel. How boring your existence must be,” he drawled, disgust thickly lacing his words. “I’m an android, of course. What did you think I was? I bet you immediately jumped to aliens. How very predictable.”
Heat crawled up John’s neck and curled around his ears. The cheeky little— “Okay. Okay, so you’re not an alien. You’re an android. What the bloody hell is your name?” He really was trying to be calm about the whole thing. Most people would have run screaming. Or crying. Most likely crying. This… android… was brutal.
“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. And of course, you’re John Watson, am I correct?” Sherlock laughed and smirked. “Of course I am. I’m never incorrect.”