madimpossibledreamer | In Search of Adventure

I am just a tiny bit the king of weird crossovers and weird pairings. Technically, this is preslash. My imagination is an interesting place.
There is definitely some PTSD going on here. I did some research and read a couple of threads about PTSD as portrayed in BBC Sherlock (including Mycroft's assertion that John misses it).

Main Points:
Assassin's Creed Syndicate/Sherlock Holmes AU
Summary: Dr. John Watson, in this AU, is an American who fought in the Civil War. Seeking a purpose, he travels to England, where he meets a certain Assassin...
Word Count: 848
Rating: Teen

          In another life, Doctor John Watson returns home after war and makes the acquaintance of a man named Sherlock Holmes, who gives him a new lease on life. In this life…well, it’s a slightly different story.
          In this life, he’s born ten years earlier, an entire continent away. In this life, he’s still returning from war, if a different kind. America’s great civil war, pitting brother against brother. In this life, he travels to a land he’s never seen before—England.
          Like the other soldiers, he’d looked forward to the end of the war. Returning home. Only when he finally went back, it didn’t feel like home, and he didn’t feel like himself. Others had trouble re-integrating themselves into society, particularly with the Restoration. Being a fighter for the Union in the South was not an especially comfortable situation, and some had difficulty believing they were no longer in danger, that no one was out to harm them.
          Watson had the opposite experience. It’s not that he couldn’t act like he belonged. He could act the perfect gentleman—America, England, it didn’t matter. He’d tried it for three years before deciding he did need some type of change, even if it did little for him personally. In the end, it was still better than ones who knew him looking to him to be the same. But no matter how good he was at acting, it all felt fake. Hollow. He was a wolf masquerading as a sheep, and no matter how many people complimented him on how good of a sheep he was, it wouldn’t make it the truth.
          He only vaguely felt himself, alive, when he gambled, and it became a bad habit. He made a decent enough amount as a doctor. If necessary, he had his English family—and, of course, they’d introduced him ‘round well enough for him to get a few clients.

          And he’s on his way to a house call when he feels something hit the cab. The driver shouts—“oi, what—” before the load is lightened.
          A hijacking. John feels his pulse quicken and his entire being come to life, rather than this strange robotic existence he’s been living. He grabs his gun, braces himself, and throws open the cab door, holding on as he practically throws himself out and seeks a good position to shoot from.
          The ruffian who’s taken the reins ducks out of the way, as if he’d felt it coming, and glances over, flashing an unintimidated grin. “My apologies; I didn’t realize this carriage was already taken.”
          The Doctor finds himself staring, completely at a loss. He’s still holding his gun, an entirely illegal item in Britain, and the criminal hasn’t even bothered to flinch at the sight. And he’d even apologized…
          “And what was so urgent you couldn’t call your own?” he eventually asks flatly, still feeling strangely calm and clear.
          The crook doesn’t bother actually answering. He glances back around to stare with astonished, quicksilver eyes, before the devilish smile returns. “An American! Welcome to London, though I swear she’s not usually so…lively.”
          “More’s the pity,” John mutters under his breath, before the smile grows as if there’s inhuman hearing involved and the scoundrel turns to face forward.
          “’ere, you might as well come up front. You’ll need to take the reins eventually, and I’ll have business of my own.” Despite himself, Dr. Watson finds himself doing exactly that.
          “You’ve found yourself in the middle of a chase,” the fellow elaborates with relish. “That man in the carriage there,” he indicates with a nod of the head towards a careening cab in front of them, “…is known for two things, attacks on women and escaping. He failed the first one when he went after my sister, and the second, well, I’m on him now, and Evie’s surely close behind. He won’t escape us.” There’s something predatory in the man’s tone, and despite himself the former soldier finds a part of himself matching the dark tone.
          “What are you then, bounty hunters?” he asks, and finds the ruffian clapping him on the arm.
          “It’s more of a pastime than an occupation,” the man explains, which means absolutely nothing at all. He winces as the out of control carriage before them slips around a corner, taking one of the streetlamps with it, mumbling his next words under his breath. “And hopefully when we’re done there will still be something left of London.”
          Another of the hansom cabs rides up alongside. John prepares his gun, just in case it’s needed.
          “What, are you waiting for an invitation?” a beautiful woman yells, and just like that, the man’s handing the reins over.
          “Cab’s all yours. Must dash.” He stands, pulls himself up to the roof, and hops right over, like he’s just skipping cobblestones.
          He waves jauntily as the cab races off, balance atop the carriage impeccable. A part of him wants to follow, but instead he guides the horses to his next appointment, feeling disappointment and even greater disappointment that he’s feeling the emotion in the first place.