The winged-folk have lived along side humans for as long as humans have walked the Earth. Each race enriching the other. In fact they need one another. Whilst the winged-folk are the most powerful, and wise. Humans on the other hand are nurturing. You see winged-folk are like cuckoos. They have no idea how to love their offspring, so need another race to do so. Humans. Over time humans have come to see being picked to raise a winged-child as the greatest honour. These humans are known as The Chosen.
John Watson couldn't understand why he of all people had survived the war wound. One that all rights should of taken his life. Yes. He had begged God to let him live, but...he didn't believe in who he spoke to, that dreadful day. The day his life ended. In all sense of purpose, he's the living dead. Forced to repeat the same day over, and over, until he finally pulls, that trigger. He was sent home with an ugly starburst on his left shoulder, nightmares, and a limp to boot.
Winter is hugging London in her icy grasp, fogging John's breath as he limps home to the dump of a bedsit, bag full to bursting from Tescos in hand. He wont be able to stay in London for much longer, with his army pension. The thought of staying with Harry brings a chill down his spine, so he pushes it aside.
John unlocks his door, with a heavy heart. Once the door swings open though, his eyes bug out, because he can't be seeing, what he thinks he does. He just can't!
In the centre of his bed is a huge creamy white egg, about the size of a watermelon. Wrapped round said egg are his blankets and every jumper he owns.
John knows what kind of egg it is. Of course he does. Everyone knows, what lays these eggs, but it can't be! Why would he be chosen?! John Watson is a nobody. Why would a winged-folk pick him to bring up a winged-child?