(A/N: This came to me, as most stories do, late at night as I was on the brink of welcoming Morpheus's embrace. But I was so hooked I had to write it down. I LOVE Merlin and Sherlock and Harry Potter and I just felt this bubbling up and had to let it out. :3 I hope you guys like it [and even if you don't, I do]. And I know I should be working on other things but whatever. Life.)

A man garbed in a loose cotton shirt, brown leggings, and leather boots quickly made his way up a twisting stairway. Soon he reached a large wooden door with a slightly rusted handle and knocked twice. After hearing a noise of consent, the dark haired man entered the tower room. The walls were made of stone, sparingly covered by yellowed parchments with sprawled writing and diagrams on them, and the floor was wooden but covered in a few musty rugs. There was a small window that showed a clean, green courtyard surrounded by a sturdy wall that had nothing but wilderness beyond it. In a dark, damp room an old man lay in a small bed.

The dark haired man made his way to the side of the bedridden greybeard. He carefully placed the tray on the frail man's lap and moved the large bowl from the tray to the side table. The older gentleman watched the young man as he began to dip a rag in the bowl and lightly dab his forehead. The cool water, smelling slightly of herbs, dripped down the old man's face, following the grooves he'd gained over the many years of his life. After a few minutes of silence, only broken by the sound of water splashing, the old man coughed and spoke.

"Gavin," he wheezed. The young man looked up, his deep blue eyes wide. "Gavin. I need to tell you something very important." Gavin nodded, lowering the rag slowly into the bowl before folding his hands in his lap. "I am dying, Gavin." Gavin opened his mouth to protest, but the older man held up a hand to silence him. "You know this. You can feel the sickness in me."

Gavin nodded, looking down at his hands and grimacing. "But Baba," the man used his childhood nickname for his grandfather, "I don't want you to die." Yet Gavin couldn't deny what his grandfather said. There was something dark and slimy slithering through his grandfather's veins, infecting his very being and slowly choking the life out of him.

The old man coughed again. "In all honesty, it is far beyond time for me to go. I've seen the fall of Uther and the rise of Arthur. I have watched as Albion tore itself apart and then unified to face off against a stronger foe. I have lived by my wife and our daughter and I was blessed enough to see her son." At this, the old man cupped Gavin's tear-stained face. "I am Merlin, Emrys, the last Dragonlord, and I am dying."

Gavin sobbed aloud, clutching at his grandfather's wrinkled hand. "No. No, no Baba. You can't go. There is so much you still need to show me." He blinked rapidly, searching for something more to say. "You said I would be a Dragonlord. You said you would teach me." Desperation leeched into his voice.

"No, Gavin." Merlin rasped, giving a sad smile. "You will be a Dragonlord. That is the curse of this power. It can only be learned when the current Dragonlord passes." Gavin frantically shook his head once more.

"Then I can wait. It can always wait," he pleaded. "I don't want you to die."

"Ah, but I have lived far longer than I should," Merlin gave a weak chuckle. "And I fear what might happen if I see too many more days." Coughs racked the old man's body and even after his breath evened, tremors remained. "But that is not why I am telling you of my imminent passing." Merlin there paused, taking a few deep breaths before locking eyes with his grandson Gavin. "I have had a vision."

John had always wanted to help people, ever since a young age, and, in a world where magic and science coexist and collaborate, so much was possible. He'd known plenty of people who trained and became powerful healers, their skill as their main aid, and many more who weren't compatible with the energy manipulation so didn't hone that skill and still ended up as valuable doctors. However, John found himself in a unique situation.

In a world where magic has been around for centuries, very little is known about it and what is known isn't always accurate. Even after magic and science settled their differences and decided to work together, not much was learned. There is no way to predict who will manifest and who will not, who is compatible to learn and who is not. It is genetic, that much the studies have proven, but the gene is undefinable as recessive or dominant or random or a common mutation with some more susceptible to it than others.

So when John Hamish Watson is born into a family with no recorded history of magic or energy manipulation, nothing was expected. But they did not get nothing. Two days after returning home, Hamish and Annamarie go into Little Johnny's room to find his older sister Harriet floating in midair, screeching her head off as John watches on with wide eyes. Such a powerful manifestation, especially with a completely benign heritage and so early, was almost unheard of. But it didn't end there.

John didn't have the usual lack of control that came hand in hand with natural magical abilities. The only time his magic ever flared unexpectedly was when he lost his temper. And while his temper was explosive, sometimes literally, and quite short, John quickly learned how to control that as well. So John grew up seen as completely human: magicless and unprivileged.

But that didn't stop John. He paid attention in the mandatory control and manipulation classes in primary school. He moved into London for college, taking medical classes during the day and sneaking night classes on healing so to not run into anybody who knew him. John joined the army, partially to pay for college and his medical degree, and was deployed to Afghanistan where they had secondary, in-field training. And for the first time in his life, John didn't have to hide at all.

These people didn't know him as John Hamish Watson, the benign human doctor. They knew him as Private Watson, army medic and healer. John was able to use his powers as needed, not worrying about the repercussions of being seen. John was able to just be himself, to finally release that constant current of buzzing energy from his veins in ways other than levitating objects in the comfort and privacy in his room. In Afghanistan, John truly became a warlock. And he felt free.

In his ten years of service, John had gained respect as a doctor and healer, the skills and abilities of a soldier, and more control of his magic as well as more strength. All those years of practice on a regular basis was like working out a muscle; it grew in strength and dexterity the more he used it. Now John was able to do things he couldn't even imagine and John honestly couldn't imagine his life any better.

Sure there were battles and wounded men and explosions and blood and red red red, but John could cope with that. Those years in Afghanistan, where John could be who he was instead of who he was expected to be, were the best years of his life so far. But of course it all had to end.

John woke to the swirling sound of beeping and bustling bodies and frantic calls. His vision swam before him, a mesmerizing mixture of bright lights and darkness. He slowly blinked a few times, shaking his head, and tried to focus on the blob in front of him. John closed his eyes and tried to hear beyond the cotton that seemed to be shoved in his ears.

Someone was lightly slapping each side of his face. John forced his eyes open once more to find the face of Nurse Lonergen staring worriedly down at him, her green eyes wide and her pale eyebrows furrowed. Her mouth was moving, asking an unheard question over and over and over again. John's forehead furrowed as he tried to regain his hearing. Finally the water seemed to drain and he was bombarded with a cacophony of beeps and pings and cries and questions. John almost wishes he couldn't hear again.

But then Nurse Lonergen asked her question again and John was ecstatic he could hear her. "You were shot and we're trying, but the treatments won't hold!" For a millisecond, John is confused as to what she means by treatment, but then he recognizes, through the usual buzzing of his magic and the burning pain in his shoulder, a light tingling sensation. They were attempting to heal him, but it wouldn't hold. John could feel the foreign magic slide over his injury and just slip away into nothing.

It was a common occurrence for doctors to be horrible patients, but it could be argued that John has a good reason. John had learned at a young age that he was immune to all magical healing techniques. John was about six, Harry almost nine, and they were outside playing. Well John was chasing Harry when he tripped and fell after his foot caught on a rock. Instinctively, John had thrown his arms out to catch himself, but he had moved too late and ended up breaking his right arm.

Now one of the Watsons' neighbors was a retired healer and she offered to have a look at his arm, and do what she could, free of charge. The examination went over fine, but the second she tried to mend the hairline fracture, John, who had been so well behaved previously, began to wriggle in his seat. The old healer ignored the small movement and focused on the injury. But as time passed, John began to wiggle more, her brow began to furrow, and the old woman began to sweat.

After five minutes of silence, being quietly broken by John's hisses and grunts of pain, the retired healer carefully lowered John's arm and leaned back. Never for a second had Hamish or Annamarie thought their son was cured: he still had a pained expression and the woman looked flabbergasted. Instead, they both quietly sat down and inquired after the issue. The healer's mouth moved open and shut, much like a goldfish, but by the end of the hour the three adults had figured that, most likely due to John's unparalleled magical power, the poor lad was immune to magical mending.

From that day forward his parents always took their family to an "all-human" practice. Pretentious, and more than a bit racist, but completely necessary.

Now John had to explain through the haze of pain and medication that the magic wouldn't work. Hopefully the practitioners at hand would take him for his word and fix him up the old fashioned way. Hopefully the follow-up questions wouldn't be too intensive and could wait till John felt up to standards. Hopefully this won't change too much, John thought wistfully, knowing deep down that there was no way he would be treated the same as before. He was a freak, even in the magical world.

(A/N: Next chapter has Sherlock. :D Don't forget to review!)