Written in Flesh and Blood - Johnlock

1 - Soulmates are Stupid

~ John H. Watson ~

Soulmates were stupid. How could a name written on someone's wrist possibly dictate the person who was perfect for them? Who decided it? How could someone know from birth who you were supposed to end up with? They couldn't. 

John hated the idea of soulmates. Not because he couldn't find anyone with his soulmates name, just because it was stupid. That's what he told others anyway. His real problem wasn't that no one had his soulmates name, but everyone did. He swore every second person he met was named Will or Bill or Billy or some other dumb variant of William. Honestly why couldn't parents come up with something creative? John and William, what a boring couple they would be. 

That was certainly one of the reasons he hated soulmates. The other was that his soulmate was a 'he'. Personally he had came to terms with the fact that he was destined to end up with another man very early in his childhood. He hadn't seen anything wrong with it. The same couldn't be said for his father, from the moment he was born John's father had detested him. He couldn't stand the sight of his gay son, he wouldn't do anything with him, he took no notice of his achievements, of his schooling, of sports, of anything. 

But everything became worse when his little sister was born, her wrist baring the name 'Clara' in fancy white lettering. Hamish Watson, could hardly handle the idea of one gay child let alone two. He began to become abusive, and he drank, he would drink and drink so much every night, it made everything so so much worse. 

John shook his head, breaking from his train of thought. He didn't want to think about what he guessed could only be described as a traumatic childhood, much less talk about it with his stupid therapist, who was now starring at him expectantly. Honestly she was here to help him get over his PTSD from the war, not talk about why he hated soulmates. Why did she have to bloodly ask? 

"Well?" She asked again, attempting to coax an explanation out of him. Apparently she wasn't going to take silence as an answer. 

John glaced down at his wrist and the thick, chunky, watch that covered it. He hated it, but it managed to hide the swirly white lettering, and the tangle of ugly scars that surrounded it. They made the name almost unreadable, which he guessed was his fathers intention all those years ago. John gulped, closing his eyes in an attempt to stop the emergence of old, plainful, memories. 

"Can we please talk about something else? Like what I pay you for?" He said bluntly, he knew he was being rude, but at this point he really didn't care. 

He didn't like her, and she was pretty much an all round shit therapist. She was the worst therapist he had ever had, well she was the only therapist he had ever had, but still. She couldn't fix his bloody psychosomatic limp, and instead of "working through his trauma" or whatever bullshit she was supposed to be doing, she wanted to talk about the stupid name on his wrist. 

"Okay." 

Her voice didn't change in the slightest. She was so monotone, he hated it. Why doesn't she just get angry or upset like every other normal person would? 

He glanced at the clock up on the wall, 30 minutes left of this session. This was going to be the longest 30 minutes of his life.