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Chapter Text

Chinese beer has an odd aftertaste. He's not sure he really likes it, but he keeps on swigging because after the day he's had, something non-alcoholic just won't do. Sherlock apparently shares his sentiment; he keeps frowning at the bottle but, like John, resolutely takes sip after sip. Braving the strange flavor. Honestly, John didn't have Sherlock pinned as much of a drinker in the first place, and certainly not a beerdrinker. There's something about his Soul Mate that just screams posh and upper class, neither of which are typically associated with beer-drinker.

It's still odd, having a face to put to the title of Soul Mate. For so long, the person he views in his mind's eye has been faceless, and ever-changing in their height, hair color, ethnicity. When he was a little boy, he of course imagined someone like this father. Tall, sturdy, gruff-voiced but gentle-natured. Sometimes his mother's traits would leak over as well; quick to temper but equally as quick to forgive, bubbly disposition. He used to stare at the looks his parents gave each other and wonder if that's how all bonded Soul Mates looked at each other. Wanted to have someone look at him like that someday, too.

When he was a teenager, hormones took over and the image in his mind's eye became someone more like the celebrities he idolized. It changed daily, so he can't really give a precise account of what his thoughts were back then. Remembers, like all teenagers, being obsessed with the concept of sex, and God if only he could meet his Soul Mate sooner. He knew what the odds of that were, though; very few Soul Mates meet during adolescence.

In the army, sometimes the only thing that kept him going was the thought that somewhere, back in England, there was a man named Sherlock, with his name on his finger. Spent hours upon hours in his sandy bunk, staring at that name on his finger and wondering what this Sherlock would be like. Tall/short? Blonde/brunette/redhead? Long and lean, graceful—the body of a dancer? Or more like John: compact, stocky?

Oddly enough, he's never gotten quite the combination of Sherlock Holmes. Tall and graceful, yes, but sometimes manages to look just about as coordinated as a newborn fawn. In those moments John doesn't know whether to laugh or coo. Wants to do both, does neither. Knowing Sherlock, it wouldn't be appreciated.

Every time he looks at him, he can't help but smile a bit. But at the back of his mind is the feeling that one gets after they've bitten off more than they can chew. That fumbling panic of Oh dear, now I've done it; I'm going to have toffee sticking my teeth together for the rest of my life. Absurd, but at the same time he can't help it because, honestly, even after thirty-five years he never expected to find someone like Sherlock Holmes at the end of his Search.

Sherlock Holmes, who can tell things about you that you, yourself, did not know. Can detail the existence of a pink suitcase despite it not being in the same building he is. Chases a lead to the very ends of the earth and almost kills himself for the amusement of it all.

Maybe that's what really has John's knickers all twisted up, as his sister would say. Really, who lets a psychotic cabbie convince them to take a poison pill a day and a half after they've met their Soul Mate for the first time? They should be sitting in a very nice restaurant right now. Playing the game of getting to know you that the first date always is. They should be kissing on one or the other's doorstep; something small and chaste. Smile shyly, go their separate ways. Meet a few more times, go on a few more dates. Fall into bed together, make copious amounts of love. Whisper sweet nothings. Continue the pattern for several months and then—and only then move in together.

Instead, they're in a shabby Chinese restaurant which, despite John's original reservations upon setting eyes on the place, actually does have fantastic food. They're also flatmates now, it would seem. It feels like they're doing things in the wrong order. More and more, though, John's beginning to realize that he could never imagine Sherlock doing anything the conventional way.

"Did you know that you think very loudly?"

He looks up from his plate, which he's been staring a hole through for the past twenty minutes, and realizes Sherlock has switched positions. They're in a corner booth, and it's just as small as everything else in this restaurant (Aside from the portions, which are enormous) but is secluded from the nosy waitresses taking a break gathered round the cash register. Sherlock is leaning against John's part of the booth, arms folded and legs on the bench. John wonders if that's allowed. For Sherlock Holmes, it probably is.

"Do I?" mumbles John. Sets down his beer. "Uh…sorry."

"No, it's quite alright…" Sherlock smiles down at his lap, where he's peeling the label off his beer bottle. "It's reassuring. Sometimes I wonder if other people even think at all, so it's nice to have proof of it."

"…Was that a compliment?"

"It was intended as one." Sherlock glances up from under his lashes. They giggle at each other before looking back down. There's something awkward yet familiar about this whole situation. It's not a bad feeling. "What were you thinking about?"

John shrugs. "Lots of things. It's been a busy day." Glances back up at Sherlock and mutters, "You scared me, you know. Thought I wasn't going to make it in time."

The click scrape click click of Sherlock's fingers against the bottle stops. John can see him furrow his eyebrows. "I never intended for you to follow me. I knew it would be dangerous."

Snort. "Danger. That's what I'm here for, remember?"

"There are different kinds of danger." Sherlock rolls his head against the back of the booth, rests his cheek against the peeling polyester. Raises his eyebrows at John, as if in a shrug, and sighs, "You're okay? All jokes aside, you did just kill a man, and you've been quiet since we left the crime scene. Or was it something my brother said?" He chuckles at his own joke. John chuckles with him, but they sober up soon enough. Sherlock goes back to picking at the label and John watches. Nimble fingers that are almost hypnotic in their repetitive motions.

"I was in a war," John says eventually. "Killing people was an everyday occurrence. Watching people die was an everyday occurrence." Reaches out and squeezes Sherlock's wrist. "But I wasn't about to watch my Soul Mate die after I'd only just found him. Nor was I going to let him run off into Lord only knew what kind of danger by himself. I mean, couldn't you have told me?"

"No," Sherlock sighs. The tone of voice he's using is already too familiar: You don't understand! interspersed with exasperation. John can already tell this particular quirk of Sherlock's will be an endless source of aggravation. "Because then you would have tried to stop me, and probably would have succeeded and then I never would have known. If you had stopped me, or even come along, he never would have told me how he got them to take the pills. And I needed to know, John. It's almost a compulsion. I don't expect you to understand, because even I don't understand why I do it, I just do."

"Oi," John says, gentle but firm. "Who ever said I would stop you?"

Sherlock sighs, rolls his eyes. "Human nature. Protecting what's yours. True we've only just met, but the writing on our hands means quite a lot…don't you think?" As he speaks, he lifts up his ring and stares at his SBI. John stares, too. It's so weird to see the corresponding SBI to his own. He's seen plenty of them, of course; one of the consequences of being a doctor. Some had even been John. Never, though, in that color. Never on the person he knew was his.

"If I promise not to try and stop you," John starts, reaching out and running the very tip of his finger over Sherlock's SBI. The letters stand in subtle relief against his smooth, alabaster skin. "Will you please tell me what you plan to do next time?"

"What's the point if you're not going to try and stop me?"

It's John's turn to roll his eyes. Has to wonder if Sherlock is being purposefully obtuse. "Because at least then I'll know what you're doing, and what you think is going to happen. And if you can't take me with you, at least you'll have someone who knows where you are if things get ugly. I had to rely on a GPS in a phone to find you, and I was almost too late." Crossing his arms, he adds, "And that was a stupid risk, Sherlock. What if you had the wrong pill? What if they were both poisoned?"

Sherlock's pupils swerve away, though his head is still lolled to the side; face-to-face with John. He's feigning interest in a wall scroll. John wonders if he can actually read it. It's not past the realm of possibility.

"I realize that I may have…miscalculated."

"You make it sound as though you fumbled a maths equation. You could have died." When Sherlock says nothing, John deflates and decides maybe it's a subject they should address at a later time. Rome wasn't built in a day, nor can Sherlock Holmes change in one. At least he seems sorry.

"I'll try to inform you of my intentions from now on," Sherlock says, after many moments of heavy silence. "But I can't make any promises."

John nods. Promises would be nice, but he can only make Sherlock agree to so much. To make Sherlock promise to think every time before putting himself in danger would be going too far. Would be awfully hypocritical of himself besides. He knows all too well that sometimes, there just isn't time to think. Sometimes, it's instinctual to act first and ask questions later. As an ex-soldier, John feels he may understand that better than most.

Abruptly, he realizes his hand is still on Sherlock's, but doesn't feel inclined to pull it away. Nor does Sherlock seem to mind; only moves it a bit to lay on his own thigh when he tires of holding it up. Hasn't put his ring back on, either. His SBI is enticing, and John cannot hold himself back from touching it. Both watch as John's finger caresses the letters, over and over. Only stops when Sherlock slots his hand against John's. He squeezes, pats the back of Sherlock's long, elegant hand, and takes another sip of beer.

"Can I see yours?" Sherlock inquires after John's swallowed. It takes John a second to figure out what he's talking about.

"My SBI? Yes, of course." SBI's are vital intimate links between Soul Mates. It's not unusual for Soul Mates to go ringless in private, at least for the first few weeks while they become acquainted. It's good for them. Encourages the inclination to just reach out and touch, which sometimes does not come as naturally as one would expect. It's something akin to a mother holding her newborn child against her bare breast. A bonding exercise. Besides, Sherlock hadn't had much of a chance to look at John's SBI yesterday afternoon, apparently due to a client. Something about a green ladder; John's still not sure. He never will get around to asking.

Taking off his ring, he pivots his body on the bench. Brings his formerly-bad leg onto the bench and curls the foot under his other thigh. Mostly to hide his SBI under the table. It's not exactly decent, to be doing this in a restaurant. But it's early and there's no one about, except the waitresses. He doesn't see the harm.

Turned this way, his knee presses against Sherlock's hip. The warmth from that spot radiates all up and down his spine.

Sherlock disentangles their hands to settle his low on John's knee. Allows John's hand to rest on his thigh, upturned as his own had been. Sherlock's cool finger touches the upraised skin of his SBI, tickling his nerves. This, too, seems to travel to every nerve-ending.

"I'm going to disappoint you," Sherlock says as he carefully traces the letters of his name. Quickly continues, before John can respond, "I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating. It's true of us all. We spend our entire lives looking for one person, so our expectations will surely be blown out of proportion. I, especially, am by no means…an affectionate person. It doesn't come naturally to me. It will be hard for me to adjust to having another person entwined so thoroughly within my life. I…may never fully come to terms with it." Stares determinedly at John's SBI. Does not meet his eyes.

"I think everyone has those fears, to a certain extent," John says, although he can't say Sherlock's cautions are without ample foundation. If the elder Holmes thinks hiring his Sherlock's Soul Mate to keep tabs on him is a way of brotherly concern, he doesn't want to know how socially stunted rest of the family is.

"They're not fears," Sherlock says, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, "they're inferences."

"Mmm. Well, I infer that we'll just have to take this one day at a time. That's how these things go. Remember; we're in this together now. If you try to communicate with me, I'll be more than happy to return the favor." Sherlock clutches his hand again, and John squeezes back. Leans forward, sweeps Sherlock's brown-auburn-black locks to the side, places a kiss at Sherlock's temple. Is rewarded with a hum that he's pretty sure he can classify as happy.

Ever so slowly, Sherlock turns his head to the side. Furrows his brows as if trying to solve a particularly difficult question. John continues to stroke his hair; only stops when Sherlock leans forward and closes his eyes.

His Soul Mate's lips are full and unexpectedly soft. Sherlock's lower lip slots perfectly between John's; two pieces of a puzzle sliding crisply into place for the first time. John moves his hand to the back of Sherlock's head, cradling. Keeps it there even as they pull away. Slides his nose against Sherlock's, their foreheads resting together, and drops another short, chaste kiss upon Sherlock's lips.

"Not affectionate, hmm?" John mutters, and Sherlock laughs. John really likes that sound, he does.

"I'm a completely different person when I'm working a case, John. I think you've seen enough to realize that by now. There's nothing I can do to stop it. Believe me; I've tried."

John doesn't exactly know what Sherlock means by that, but figures it's not a story for tonight. Perhaps not even the foreseeable future. There are certain things that just aren't talked about while Soul Mates are still getting acquainted, grisly details of their Search being one of them. John's done things he's not proud of, of course. He's sure Sherlock has too.

"Well, I'll take your word for it."

They finish eating, and vacate the premises when Sherlock starts looking a lot like he's about to fall asleep on John's shoulder. Also because the three waitresses go off break and begin finding every reason they can to pass by their table, giggling incessantly. All three are unbonded young women in their very early twenties, so of course they'd be giggly at the sight of a newly-bonded pair of men.

221B is silent when they get home. It's unfamiliar to call this place home, but that's apparently what it is to him now. Mrs. Hudson had obviously gone to bed hours ago. John is almost horrified when he glances a the clock on the mantle and realizes it's past three AM. He had no idea it was that late.

At least he doesn't have to do anything tomorrow.

He makes sure Sherlock gets properly in bed, not just sprawled across the covers. Also somehow convinces Sherlock to change; herds him into the en-suite with an armful of soft cotton jim-jams and stands by the door to make sure he doesn't fall asleep with his shirt half-on or something of the like.

Case-mode Sherlock, John is finding, is very different from regular Sherlock (Or is case-mode Sherlock regular Sherlock and John's just seeing the odd way the man behaves in interim?) in that he actually seems willing to eat and sleep. Not all that surprising, though. When one abstains from necessities due to certain circumstances, one will stock up on said necessities once the situation has passed. It's a commonly-used tactic in the military.

John's just glad there are times when Sherlock sleeps and eats.

"Well, goodnight," John says as he hovers awkwardly at Sherlock's bedroom door. It's an odd perversion of the classic standing-in-the-doorway, jingling-the-keys, expecting-a-kiss behavior of post-date men and women from romantic comedies spanning decades. Sherlock examines him through half-lidded eyes, those of exhaustion rather than coyness or coltishness, and nods.

"Mrs. Hudson will have fixed your bed," he says, at the pace of a normal person, which is slow for Sherlock. John wonders if he'd actually slept the night between their first and second meetings. It's almost too early for that to count as 'last night'. The fact that it's most likely been about forty-eight hours since Sherlock slept bothers him.

"Thought she wasn't a housekeeper."

Sherlock snorts rather ungracefully. Nothing at all like the subtle, dainty sound of earlier this evening. John has the distinct feeling of seeing something very dignified in its unrefined state and, therefore, forbidden. A servant boy seeing the monarch in his undergarments; the star of the play with no makeup, no costume. Sherlock like this is something very few people have ever seen. John doesn't know whether to feel smug, privileged, or embarrassed.

"She'll deny it 'till the end of time but, in truth, the lady doth protest too much. She can't stand a filthy house, and if things sit for too long she gets twitchy. It's compulsive for her."

"Please don't tell me you take advantage of that."

"I've been known to. I'm nothing if not an opportunist."

John rolls his eyes, but doesn't bother to reprimand Sherlock. Things like that go right over Sherlock's head normally; it would be completely pointless at a time like this, when he's not even coherent. Instead, John mentally notes to coax Sherlock into housework at a later date before gesturing towards the bed. "Come on. In you go. Underneath, not on top."

Sherlock sighs and pulls back the covers of his bed, crawling in and curling on his side. John hovers in the door, making sure he gets settled, then turns out the light. "Goodnight."

All he gets in reply is a vague hum. Probably already half-asleep, bless him (As John's mum would say). John closes the door quietly and wishes his Soul Mate sweet dreams before retreating up the stairs, into his own room.

He soon finds out that Sherlock's personality has many subparts to 'During-Case' and 'Between-Cases'. During-Case Sherlock can be very detached, uncommunicative, and disrespectful. While he's less likely to hurtle random insults, he also tends towards blatant superiority. Runs off without giving anyone any warning and, although he's getting better at it, John still finds himself left behind much too often for his taste. Sometimes Sherlock will send him off on tasks with almost no information then proceed to disappear, leaving John to process the Sherlockian order. Sometimes he never manages it, and is left wandering about trying to get some idea of what he's supposed to be doing. This never leaves him in Sherlock's good graces, and more often than not makes him the subject of insults.

Between-Cases Sherlock is in some ways better and worse. Typically, he crashes after cases. Spends fifteen or sixteen hours sleeping, and sometimes John won't see him for an entire day, because Sherlock only wakes up after John's gone back to bed. For about two days, Sherlock is almost like a normal person. They sit in their chairs and watch telly. Sherlock has one-sided arguments with the people on the crap reality shows. They argue about the washing-up (John always loses). Compared to his usual behavior, this is surreally normal.

But then the period between cases stretches too long and Sherlock gets irritable. Starts snapping and insulting everything that moves, even some things that don't. At the worst of times, when there has been two weeks or more between cases, he takes to making as much noise as he can. Throwing things; breaking things. These are the times when John will excuse himself. Walk around the block for a few hours, leave Sherlock to his own devices. Give himself some time to think and cool down. Sometimes he goes to have a pint, but he tries not to give into the impulse too often. He knows only too well the Watson tendency towards alcoholism. It took both his granddad and his uncle before it took his sister.

Sometimes, when the period between cases drags on too long, it seems as though Sherlock has permanently changed into a wild, unapproachable creature. Feels like it will always be like that, and John has momentary lapses of faith in which he thinks I can't handle this, how am I supposed to handle this.

Always, always, he feels guilty immediately. Hates himself, in fact. It doesn't change the fact that Sherlock is irritable and intolerable.

That is, until he gets home from these walks. He always tells himself he'll go straight up to his room, not even glance into the living room, because he knows Sherlock will be sitting there, looking absolutely miserable, and it'll make him feel like even more of a bastard.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock always whispers. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock has no reservations about apologizing. It's admitting that he was wrong that he has the problem with. To most people, they are synonymous. To Sherlock Holmes, they are mutually exclusive in a way that John has not yet managed to figure out.

"Your tantrum over then?" John asks when he's feeling particularly vexed. He's not above being cruel when he's well and truly pissed off.

Other times he just accepts the apology and goes to bed anyway, or sits in his chair and drowns in awkward silence. But sometimes, like the night Sherlock managed to break one of John's mother's antique teacups, it takes more than puppy eyes and a two-word apology to placate him.

"John," Sherlock says, and it sounds equal parts reprimand and plea, "you know I can't help it when I get like this. I don't mean to. It's not my fault."

"Then who the fuck's fault is it, Sherlock?" demands John. Tosses his arms out irritably. "My great-grandmother gave those cups to my mum, Sherlock. She gave half to me, and half to Harry. Harry's broken all of hers. There are only four left, and the set started off with twelve. Do my things really have such little value to you?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock barked, and he didn't even have to add 'What a dumb question!' because it was as good as implied. "I just…It's hard! You have no idea what it's like, John. To have your brain running a mile a minute constantly and having nothing to focus on. Sometimes it feels as though I may explode, or at least go insane. Sometimes it gets almost painful and I simply cannot just sit still. When it hurts, I get angry, and when I'm angry I'm not rational!" He stops, rubs his eyes, and says, "When I was a child I was diagnosed with Asperger's."

"Oh," is all John can manage to expel. Sits down on the coffee table so he's facing Sherlock. Places his knees outside Sherlock's. "Autism. I should have known."

Sherlock exhales angrily and glances up at John from under his lashes, fury in his eyes. "Asperger's is what they called it. I remain unconvinced that it's actually what I have. However, I do have several symptoms that fit. One such symptom is…a chronic inability to judge how others will react to my actions. It makes socialization hard, and I've never managed it much."

"Have you ever tried?" asks John. Sherlock looks down and shakes his head minutely. John tries hard not to become exasperated because, well, maybe it's not as much of Sherlock's fault as he thought. Instead, he reaches out and cups Sherlock's cheeks, bringing his head up so their eyes can meet. "You're right; I can't imagine what that's like. All I know is it must be very painful for you."

"I don't mean the things I say," Sherlock murmurs. "I've just…it's how I've learned to defend myself."

"Against what?"

"People."

John has a sudden vision of Sally Donovan, telling him he was better off without his Soul Mate if it turned out to be Sherlock Holmes; that the man was a psychopath. A freak. Freak is the word she used.

"Sherlock…," he breathes, not exactly sure how to react. Wonders how many Sally Donovans there have been in Sherlock's life. How many have been even worse than Sally Donovan.

"It takes the edge off the insult if I can throw one back. They call me a freak, a psychopath, a machine. I call them adulterer, liar, whore. And they know it's true. It makes them hate me, but at least I always have ammunition when they decide to take another go at me."

The whole thing almost makes John want to cry. The idea that someone can grow up being so unloved that they have to learn to defend themselves by being a bully to their bullies is atrocious. He brushes Sherlock's hair out of his eyes, away from his forehead, and almost wishes he could come eye-to-eyes with Sherlock's magnificent, merciless brain. Tell it to shut up for a second so Sherlock have an instance of what he's never had before. What so many people take utterly for granted.

Silence.

Sherlock's hands come up and envelope John's, lowering them into his lap. Slowly, he removes both of their rings, moves them to the coffee table, and moves his hands back to slide their fingers together and squeeze. Affection is still rare between them. A pat on the back, a squeeze of the shoulders is all that's ever really done. The air is intimate. John wants to lean forward, capture those pink, heart-shaped lips. Knows he can, that Sherlock most likely won't react negatively, but there's still something holding him back.

"I don't mean to upset you. I'm just…very volatile when it gets like this." He turns over John's hand, staring at his SBI. Holds one of his slim fingers against the length of John's. "You're the first person who's ever tried to understand, aside from my brother and Lestrade. I understand that it's out of obligation, but it's still something. No matter what I say, I don't want you to leave. So please don't."

"It's not out of obligation—"

"Yes. Yes it is. Can you honestly say that, had I not ended up being your Soul Mate, you would try so hard to tolerate me?" Sherlock's eyes are open wide, demanding a counterargument and expecting affirmation at the same time.

Without even thinking, John ejects a vehement yes and tightens his grip on Sherlock's hands. "We are in the same boat, Sherlock. The same exact boat. And I know how it feels to be alone in the world. I haven't always known, and I can't imagine how lonely you must have been all these years because I was only alone for a few months and I was ready to…" His jaw clicks audibly with the speed at which he closes it, and he stares, wide-eyed, at Sherlock for a moment before muttering, "Sorry, I've said too much."

"John—"

"The point is," John quickly interjects, "I need you as much as you need me. So I'm not going anywhere."

It feels as though a great weight has been lifted from the room after that admission. Sherlock's eyes, which seem to have decided to be silver right now, dart back and forth, trying to read John's eyes like a book. Then he stops, stares for ten whole seconds straight at John. Pupils meeting pupils. Finally, when John thinks he's going to die of anticipation, he jerks forwards and crushes his face into John's.

Not just lips, no. His nose grinds into John's cheek, their eyes mash together, and Sherlock's hands tangle so thoroughly in his hair that it hurts. John, however, could not care less. He can't imagine either of them is very good at this; no one is when they've just met their Soul Mate. Nothing has ever mattered so little to him in his life.

Over and over they kiss, with more teeth than John thinks is usually acceptable. It feels like Sherlock is trying to eat his face, but he still wants more. Wants to be closer. Wants to feel all of Sherlock pressed against all of him. Is just considering moving onto Sherlock's lap when Sherlock does just that to him. Somehow, Sherlock's long legs fold themselves so he can sit on one of John's thighs. Drapes his arms over John's shoulders. One of John's own arms goes around the detective's waist, presses their bodies together. God he's so warm. The soft cotton of his pajamas is not thick enough to mask his body heat. John's glad he's wearing one of this thinner jumpers, or else he might not be able to feel Sherlock; his lithe form, the muscles in his back moving.

Some part of John is desperately aroused. A bigger part, the majority, is just happy to have Sherlock pressed against him, warm and moving and there. Honestly, he just wants to cling onto Sherlock and neverlet go. He never realized how much he needed this until Sherlock walked into his life a month ago and now every time he looks at him, he's overcome with the urge to bring him into his arms, hold him there.

Now Sherlock's tongue is in his mouth, and that should be unpleasant but, no. Not really, it's very much not unpleasant. Everything about Sherlock is warm and soft, it seems, and he tastes of tea and lemon, chocolate and vanilla. Mrs. Hudson must have brought up afternoon tea while he was on his walkabout. Sherlock is a tart for her homemade biscuits, John should know. Mrs. Hudson's baked goods are one of the few things Sherlock will willingly eat while on a case, and John has been known to ask her to bake a batch of cookies when a case is dragging on too long and Sherlock is getting dangerously malnourished.

The kiss begins to calm. Sherlock languidly moves his tongue in circles around John's. It's sexy in a weird way. At least he finally understands why everyone when he was in high school practiced kissing with best friends. (He never did; his mother would have skinned him alive if she found out.) Although he really can't imagine doing this with anyone but Sherlock.

Sherlock breaks away and leans his forehead against John's. Smiles and murmurs, "You're thinking loudly again." Presses his lips against John's again, clumsily because it's hard to kiss when you're smiling. Remains there, nose pressed to John's cheek, for an indeterminate amount of time.

"My leg," John murmurs eventually. Sherlock is light, lighter than he should be, but he's on the bad leg, the one that still sometimes hurts on days when the weather is particularly bad or he's not moved enough that day. His leg reacts in much the same way as Sherlock's brain when it has too little stimulation. Fires off, malfunctions, triggers pain and irritability.

"Mmm." Sherlock breaks away slowly, pressing several slow kisses against John's mouth before he finally separates from him. He leaves his taste on John's tongue. "Shall I…" Clonks his forehead against John's, presses his nose into John's cheek. "Move, or…?"

"Here." John moves to the couch, gets himself comfortable with his back nestled into the vertex of arm and back cushion, and eases Sherlock down onto the good leg. The bad leg fell asleep, thanks to Sherlock and lack of circulation, and is stretched out in front of him on the sofa. Sherlock's weight rests on the cushion, with the small of his back resting on John's thigh.

They get comfortable. Sherlock's head is on his shoulder, and his nose ends up buried in his Soul Mate's dark tresses.

"Thank you."

"You're…welcome?" John is not sure what he's being thanked for. The kiss, or what was said before?

"I think I needed to hear that," Sherlock mutters. "I've always had this suspicion that when I did meet my Soul Mate, he would reject me. I'm very grateful that you haven't."

"Sherlock." Presses his lips hard against Sherlock's temple. "I am going to say this only once. So listen very closely. You're my Soul Mate. You're the only one I'm ever going to have. I'm perfectly happy with who I found at the end my Search. To reject you would be a blatant display of your least favorite thing: Stupidity." A kiss. "Personally, I think I'm a very lucky man."

"I am, too." Sherlock closes his eyes, presses his forehead against John's neck. John relaxes, slumps really, against the sofa, and closes his eyes. A kip sounds very good right now, even though it's barely three o'clock. He'll have to get up in a few minutes, start thinking about supper. But for right now, Sherlock is warm and sleepy against him, and John wouldn't disturb him for anything.

"John," Sherlock whispers, almost urgently when John is almost asleep. He jerks, trying to bring himself back to full awareness.

"Wuh?"

"You've made it go quiet," Sherlock says.

"Oh. Sorry." Then he thunks his head back against the couch, falls asleep.

Only to wake up twenty minutes later and process what Sherlock said. His Soul Mate is asleep, mouth slack and eyes moving rapidly behind their lids. There's nothing to do but rearrange, because now his other leg is asleep. Slowly, he stretches out along the length of the sofa, nestled against Sherlock's back, pulls the blanket on the back of the sofa over them, and falls back to sleep with his nose pressed against Sherlock's neck and his left hand overlapping Sherlock's, the pad of his SBI finger pressing against Sherlock's inscription.

Chapter Text

John really detests waking up in the middle of the night. No matter how good the reason, it always pisses him off when he opens his eyes and he realizes it's some ridiculous hour, like five in the morning, and it's still dark outside. He especially hates it when he's been woken up by his own screaming. It takes a second for the realization to sink in, but the room has that air of heavy, eerie silence that denotes recent cacophony. He hopes he hasn't woken Sherlock up. They only got in at two this morning.

He's not sure what he was dreaming of. It wasn't an Afghanistan nightmare—he almost always remembers those, and his sheets aren't nearly rumpled enough. Usually, the Afghanistan nightmares are much more violent. End with him tangled in sheets and drenched in sweat. Therefore, couldn't have been an Afghanistan nightmare. Unfortunately, that doesn't really narrow things down. It could have been practically anything. He's always been prone to nightmares. Spent at least one night a week in his parent's bed when he was between the ages of six and eight. His mum still likes to tease him for it, though not nearly as mercilessly as Harry used to (Still does, sometimes) make fun of him for wetting the bed for the same reason.

Grasping at what he can of the dream, he recalls noise—so much loud noise. Some may have been screams. Gunfire as well. Despite this, he knows it wasn't an Afghanistan dream. There was no hot sand and no blinding pain in his shoulder and, most importantly, none of the screaming was his. Not until the very end, when his own mindless shrieking had woken him up.

But he cannot remember what he was screaming about, nor the subject matter of the dream itself.

Rolling over, he pokes at the unlock key of his phone. It's later than he thought; closer to six than five. Still obscenely early, but late enough that he knows he won't be getting anymore sleep. At least not until around noon, when his body will refuse all further activity until he's laid down on the sofa and taken an hour nap. Provided they don't get a case between now and then. Unlikely, seeing as even Sherlock needs rest. He's been up for three days straight on Dimmock's case; 'The Blind Banker,' John called it in his blog. Unless someone failed to inform Lestrade, the DI won't come calling for at least two days.

He drags himself out of bed. Shuffles downstairs, alights in the bathroom to relieve himself. The en-suite to Sherlock's bedroom is the only bathroom in the flat unless you count what once had been a community loo downstairs, across from the door to 221A. It's fine to use in a pinch, like when John needs to piss like a racehorse and Sherlock's doing something ridiculous with the tub or sink or, sometimes, the toilet itself. Of course, he hardly feels like going down there now. Makes sure to be quiet, though, because it is connected to Sherlock's bedroom. For some reason, sound travels quicker and is ten times louder between three and six AM than it is at any other time of day.

Although the door that gives access to the en-suite from the hall is slightly ajar, the door connecting it to Sherlock's bedroom is not. John isn't quite sure what to make of this, because Sherlock doesn't close doors very often. John is acutely aware of this, because he's the one that has to trail around behind him, closing and locking all he doors he leaves open in his wake. It's actually kind of reassuring to know that Sherlock's blatant disregard for personal space extends to the detective himself. Despite all his other flaws, Sherlock is one of the least hypocritical people he knows.

The closed door bugs John for reasons he can't quite explain. After all, it's Sherlock's own en-suite, so it applies even less to the closed-door propriety that Sherlock ignores. Then again, maybe he was cold or the pipes were making noise. Or maybe it is a warning for John to keep out, for whatever reason. John is no stranger to the various reasons why men want privacy in their own rooms at night. Rather, the One Big Reason that everyone knows but determinedly ignores.

The thought makes his penis twitch as he buttons his pajama pants back up. More out of surprise than anything. Isn't used to thinking of Sherlock sexually. Not that he isn't drop-dead gorgeous, because anyone with eyes can see that. He just hasn't gotten used to thinking of Sherlock at all. Still hasn't quite gotten to the point of being accustom to having Sherlock in his life. He's still getting acquainted, still trying to adjust to the Sherlock-shaped hole in his life being filled. Any day now, he feels like they're going to realize there's been a mistake, that he's not John's Sherlock.

Perhaps that's what is keeping him from pursuing the relationship they're supposed to be building; keeping both of them from it, really. For the life of him, he can't get accurate signals from Sherlock. He can't figure out whether romantic advances would be welcome or brushed off. Sometimes he has to physically hold himself back from picking Sherlock up (And he knows he can; Sherlock is tall, but he's light and John is stronger than most men of his stature) and putting him on the kitchen table to snog him half-insane.

That's not really conductive thought when he's standing a few meters from his Soul Mate's unconscious body.

He washes his hands, then stands in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at his own sleep-bleary face and wondering whether he should check on Sherlock. A peek couldn't hurt; he'll just poke his head in, assess that Sherlock is okay, and duck back out again. Sherlock's not too light of a sleeper, so the expedition most likely won't wake him. Especially not when he's deep into one of his sixteen-hour-long post-case comas.

Slowly, and cringing at every creak from the floor (They are positively deafening in the heavy, pre-dawn silence) he eases his way over to the door to Sherlock's room. He hopes it's not locked, because if Sherlock closed and locked the door to his room, he thinks it may only turn his idle concern into fully-fledged worry, and he's not sure how he would react to that. Thankfully, though, the door is not locked, and opens without much fuss or noise.

He only opens it enough to poke his head in. Sherlock is laying on his side, facing away from the door. He's kicked the blanket off in his sleep, leaving only one foot covered while the blanket attempts to escape onto the floor. From here John can see the outline of Sherlock's spine through the clingy material of his grey sleep shirt. He really is much too thin. John would try to feed him up, but he's too wary of Sherlock deducing his intention and criticizing him for it. If there's one thing a doctor can't stand to be criticized about, it's their capacity to care.

Lord, but it's freezing in this room. Probably because the overlarge bookcase Sherlock has in here is blocking the vent. Sherlock will wake up from the cold soon enough if John doesn't try to cover him back up. He briefly wonders if it would be worth the risk. Sherlock may just knock it off again, or wake up at the movement from John. A post-case Sherlock who hasn't gotten proper sleep is synonymous with the devil or Frankenstein's Monster.

A visible shiver from Sherlock makes his mind up for him. It really is absurdly cold in here; Sherlock should not be without a blanket.

The room is carpeted, muffles the sound of the creaking floor. Still, he treads carefully over to Sherlock's bed. Stops just before his knees contact the bed and allows himself to stare down at his Soul Mate for a moment. Sherlock looks impossibly young when he's asleep. All of the lines on his face from frowning as he thinks and scowling at people he doesn't like smooth out. John's seen him asleep before, of course, but never in his own room at night. He's beautiful in an unorthodox, abstract way. John gets a sense of look don't touch, nostalgic of trips to the museum when he was in primary school. Wonders at the probability that such an unearthly creature could be his Soul Mate.

Holding his breath, John reaches down to where the sheet has fallen and pulls it up, out from under the bed. Intends to just take it up, over Sherlock's shoulders to create minimal disturbance, then creep out through the other door—which is also closed, he can't help but notice—and into the living room. Perhaps make some tea, turn on the television, and search the internet for a job opening.

That plan is ruined when Sherlock reaches out and grabs his wrist as he's trying to settle the blanket atop him.

John jumps. He hadn't been expecting that. Somehow, he manages to hold off on the less-than-masculine noise that tries to escape. Instead says, "Bleeding Christ!"

Under his fringe, Sherlock's eyes are narrow, suspicious slits. It makes John feel embarrassed, even though he knows he's done nothing untoward.

"What were you doing?"

"Covering you," John says quickly, dropping the blanket from his other hand and trying to tug his wrist out of Sherlock's grip at the same time. Sherlock relinquishes him and sits up, pulling his legs to his chest and leaning against the headboard. The movement is particularly defensive, and John hopes his actions haven't been interpreted in the wrong way.

Sherlock's head tilts to the side. "Why?"

"You looked cold. Why is it five degrees cooler in here than the rest of the house, by the way?" He putters towards the bookshelf, trying to figure out if he can move it. Can feel Sherlock glaring at him. He's pretty sure it's because he doesn't want John snooping around his room.

"I like it that way. Why were you here in the first place?"

"I was using the loo and decided to check up on you." The bookshelf, upon closer inspection, is too heavy to move by himself, and Sherlock surely will not help. He glances back at Sherlock and says, "Do you want me to buy a space heater for you? It's bloody freezing in here and you're not getting enough heat from the vent." He thinks he may still have his old space heater somewhere, in storage where he put everything when he went on his first tour in Afghanistan. Then again, that would require finding the key for the locker, and over the years John has effectively lost it. There's really nothing of much importance to him in that storage locker. Just a few pieces of furniture. The desk he used in University, as well as the bed frame.

"That won't be necessary. Who said you could come into my room?"

Obviously, Sherlock is bound and determined not to let this go. John's patience is slipping, even though Sherlock does have a right to be somewhat put out at John invading his personal space in the middle of the night. His eyebrow twitches. "No one. But I was concerned, so I glanced in on you. Wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Why?"

John sighs, rubbing his temples. It's exhausting trying to reason with Sherlock, and all at once he feels like going back to bed and sleeping for another twelve hours. "Because…your door was closed, and I was worried. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would offend you; I won't do it again."

"Why would closing my own door concern you?"

"Sherlock! Just drop it, okay?" He drags his fingers down his face, stretching it momentarily, and squeezes his eyes shut as they sting from being exposed to too much air. When he opens them again, Sherlock is a blue-and-grey blur on the bed. He turns to start heading into the living room. Doesn't want to argue anymore. Behind him, he hears the bed squeaking. Thinks it's Sherlock is flopping down onto his side, burying himself in the covers to have a pout.

Then, "Why would you feel the need to check up on someone who's just a colleague to you?"

"Sherlock, I told you—" He turns around, arms flung out at his sides. Sherlock has moved to the edge of the bed, his feet on the cold floor. John can see his delicate shivers from here. It takes him a moment to process what Sherlock has said. Absorbs Sherlock's accusing gaze and gets the feeling that he's made a serious mistake. Mutters, "What?"

"That's what you said to Sebastian."

Sebastian? Sebastian Wilkes? When did Sebastian Wilkes enter the conversation? John hadn't enjoyed the man's company at all. Earlier this evening, he was satisfied in the knowledge that the man would never darken his doorstep or enter his thoughts again. Not twelve hours later, he's somehow the reason his Soul Mate is having a wobbly at six o'clock in the morning.

"What about Sebastian?"

"When he asked your relation to me. I said friend, you said colleague in an obviously correctional manner. You apparently didn't want Sebastian mistaking me as anything more than a work partner to you. Sebastian is not someone important to you nor is he anyone you'll likely ever come into contact with again—especially not if I can help it—and yet you felt the need to impress upon him that I was nothing more than a professional acquaintance of yours. You had no reason to lie to Sebastian, thus you must only think of me as a colleague. So I repeat my question: Why would you be concerned about someone who is simply a colleague?"

It's much too early for all of those words, and it takes John a moment to process all of it. He groans when he does. "Sherlock. You're joking, right? You've got to be pulling my leg because you honestly don't think that anything I said to that smirking git mattered one lick, right?" Furthermore, he honestly doesn't think John believes that, does he?

Sherlock's face takes on a confused, and yet still defiant glare. His sibling resemblance to Mycroft increases for a moment. "Of course. There's no reason to lie to strangers."

For some reason, John can't help but chuckle. It's somewhat a laughing-so-I-don't-cry reaction. He's relieved in a way that the reason for Sherlock's self-isolation has come down to something so simple and asinine. It would appear even geniuses can reach some pretty stupid conclusions. At the same time, it bugs him that Sherlock could even consider John felt that way. No one should ever think their Soul Mate doesn't care about them. It makes him feel about an inch big.

He sits down on the bed, next to Sherlock. Can feel his Soul Mate lean away, but doesn't actually move. John takes this as a good sign, however small it may be.

"Sherlock…sometimes you forget that not everyone behaves in predetermined patterns. We're not bacteria cultures, we're not bruising patterns. You can't predict how a person is going to behave, because everyone is different. Some strangers, yeah; I wouldn't see the point in lying to them. But that bloke, Sherlock…he just rubbed me all the wrong ways. I couldn't stand to look him in the face, much less listen to the sort of ignorant comments he'd make if he knew I was your Soul Mate."

"I can imagine." Sherlock does move now, back against the head of the bed, He crosses his arms and mutters, "Didn't want anyone knowing the freak was your Soul Mate, least of all Sebastian."

"Sherlock, no." He groans, rubs his face again. "That's not what I mean. Completely the opposite. I mean…" It's hard for him to speak this out loud, because he's been trying to coax these same insecurities out of Sherlock. "He's…you two were in university together. He's so much closer to your caliber than I am. I just…didn't want to give that asshole any more reasons to criticize me than he already had." Carefully, he reaches out and clutches Sherlock's ankle. He's unspeakably relieved when Sherlock doesn't pull his foot away.

Sherlock stares at him, like he's an enigma. Ventures, "You didn't want him to criticize you?" and says it as if the thought never crossed his mind. Knowing Sherlock, it very well may not have.

"Have you taken a look at me, lately? That guy could do circles around me in the class department." It's not to be self-disparaging. He knows very well that his choice in clothing is shabby at best, and he's nowhere near the stunner Sherlock is. It's not a source of insecurity for him. Rather, he thinks it makes him seem approachable, which has worked in his favor more than once. No, John Watson is not an insecure man. But you don't have to be insecure to dread the idea of some grinning idiot with an overblown superiority complex pointing out all of your flaws in front of your newly-found Soul Mate.

"I think you'll find I've been devoting a bit too much attention to you," Sherlock mutters, and John can just barely see his eyes—they're seafoam right now, the palest green—from under his thick lashes. John wants to hold him.

"That's okay. There are days when I can't stop staring at you." It seems to come out without his permission. Sherlock's eyes widen.

To cover up the embarrassing slip, he inches up on the bed until he's kneeling over Sherlock's ankles. The detective straightens his legs out, so John's more in the vicinity of his knees. Sherlock smells like clean cotton. "It all comes down to pride, Sherlock. There's a reason it's one of the deadly sins. I couldn't stand the idea of him trying to compare us and wondering how I came to be Soul Bonded to you." There's an entire group of people that believe Soul Mates should be of the same class, religion, or, in more extreme cases, race. They believe that rich should be with rich, Christian should be with Christian, white should be with white. Outside of their own social groups, they're not well-respected.

Sebastian Wilkes had seemed like one of them.

"Yes…Sebastian does subscribe to that…stigma…" Sherlock frowns and wraps his hands around either of John's knees. He moves until he's in Sherlock's lap. "John, I don't…care about class, you know that right?"

"Of course." Sherlock comes from an upper class family, this is for sure, but something must have happened since then. He's obviously been cut off. John isn't sure what that was, although he can hazard that it has something to do with Lestrade's periodic drugs busts. The point stands that Sherlock isn't exactly in the class he was born into anymore. These days, he's closer to John than he is to Sebastian Wilkes.

"Then why would you…?"

"I told you. I didn't feel like having the mickey taken out of me by some posh banker git. That's all."

They are silent for what must be at least ten minutes. Sherlock stares at him, into him. John tries to stand still under the scrutiny. Finally, Sherlock says, "This is hard, John. This is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I honestly don't know how to act around you. I've never felt this way for anyone."

"Well I hope not," snorts John. He means it jokingly. Sherlock reacts in completely the opposite way. He looks away, as if he's being accused of something, and John can't help but wonder when he's going to stop putting his foot in his mouth. "What? What is it?"

"John…you should probably know…" Sherlock seems very interested in his fingers suddenly. "Sebastian…we have a little more history between us than just friends at university."

"How do you mean?" John mutters.

"Sebastian goes by his middle name. His first name…his birth name is John." John vaguely remembers Sebastian's gold-plaited nameplate, which read J. Sebastian Wilkes, but hadn't really thought anything of it. Now his stomach plummets somewhere in the region of his knees. "I…for a while, my third year at University, we dated. I thought he was my Soul Mate. I was naïve, and I didn't know the proper procedure, and I never saw his SBI until…"

"Oh." John's not even sure he has a stomach anymore it's dropped so far. He asks, "Did you…?" though he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

"No. Almost, but no. I finally made him show me his SBI before we had sex and, obviously, it never happened. His SBI was Lisa."

Some part of John, a shamefully large part, is absurdly happy that Sherlock had his heart broken by the slimeball that is Sebastian Wilkes. A smaller part regrets that Sherlock had to have that experience at all. The idea of the man he met earlier even touching his Soul Mate gives John the urge to be violently ill. "Sherlock…"

"It's okay. I'm over it. I hadn't even thought of him for years until he emailed me." Sherlock breathes in deeply and exhales. John knows that's not true. Things like that haunt a man. "I'm just…sorry."

"No. No, don't be sorry. You couldn't have known. He led you one, it—you weren't—it wasn't your fault." Says it firmly, to knock any doubts out of Sherlock's mind.

It pains him to see Sherlock like this; confused and unsure of how to proceed. He's so confident in every other factor of life. Arrogant even. Yet the part of life that gives confidence to most people, their relationship with their Soul Mate, discombobulates and disorients him.

John's not sure how he feels about that. Not sure how he feels about himself for being the one point of insecurity in Sherlock's life.

"Sherlock. You don't know how much I regret not trying to find you ten years ago. Your name is so unique, it would have been easy to find you. But I kept putting it off, telling myself I didn't want to be tied down so soon, and…" Here he sighs, and looks up to take in Sherlock's face. He has no idea why he thought stretching out his Search was in any way smart. They could have had so much time, if he had only put his arse in gear. It was, really, up to him. It would be next to impossible for Sherlock to find him in a sea of men with his same name, even with the use of the many media outlets now available to aid in Searching.

"When I was twenty or so, I spent a little while trying to find you. But I couldn't find record of your name."

"You wouldn't have. I was only fifteen. I wasn't registered yet."

"I sort of realized that. That's why I stopped trying. I had no way of knowing how young you were and, honestly, I didn't want to get involved with someone so young even if he was my Soul Mate." Tries to say it apologetically, but there's really no nice way to say I didn't want to get tied down by some kid. "Over the years I kind of figured…Well, when it's going to happen, it's going to happen."

"I'm glad it happened when it did."

John nods and all becomes quiet. His brain is not doing a very good job at processing all the information it's encountered in the last half hour, both on the subject of Sebastian Wilkes and Sherlock's own thought processes. Obviously, he's going to have to start making his affection more apparent. He's giving Sherlock all the wrong signals. He needs to rectify his mistakes. Needs to change his ways. Decides to start now; takes off his ring and shows Sherlock his SBI. The detective leans forward absentmindedly and presses his lips to the raised flesh.

"Sherlock. You know that I…" It's on the tip of his tongue to say love, but that's too much, that's too soon. It's something he's not comfortable saying yet, because he's not entirely sure that what he feels for his Soul Mate has quite evolved into it. "…care about you. Deeply. Right?"

"Mmm."

"I'll never feel ashamed of you." He may be embarrassed by him, sure; particularly when he's being rude or standoffish. But he's never felt ashamed to have Sherlock standing next to him. Never felt ashamed that his name is on Sherlock's finger. He doesn't think he's capable of it. "No matter what I say, it's not because I'm ashamed of you. Understand?" At Sherlock's slightly grudging nod, he smiles and presses his lips against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock yawns.

"You're tired. Go to sleep." He never intended, when he came in here earlier, to spend forty minutes discussing their relationship. He's exhausted, as well, and wonders if he has the strength to get back up to his room. Hard to believe that an hour ago he fully intended to get up for the day.

Sherlock solves that problem for him. "Stay. Please."

Because John still wants to hold him, he relents without protest or comment, and rolls onto his side to take Sherlock in his arms. Head finds its way underneath Sherlock's chin, arm over his waist. He can feel the detective's warm breath in his hair. Can smell his clean cotton aroma. There is a pleasant tingling in his belly. He thinks Sherlock may be slightly erect from John being in his lap for so long. Chooses to ignore it, for obvious reasons. Neither of them is ready for that, and to mention it would just be embarrassing.

"You were dreaming, earlier," Sherlock murmurs before they sleep. "What about? You were screaming. It woke me up."

So that's why Sherlock was awake enough to grab his wrist so tightly. He thought that was a bit too strong of a grip for a half-asleep person, even if that person happened to be Sherlock Holmes.

John tuts. "Did I? Sorry, love."

"It's okay. What were you dreaming about?"

"I'm not sure. Nothing particular, I guess. It was just a nightmare. I get them a lot, you know that. Why?"

"You were screaming my name."

John stays determinedly still and tries not to feel embarrassed. Doesn't really work. In theory, he knows that he has no real control over what he dreams, but it doesn't make it any less mortifying to be caught dreaming about your newly-found Soul Mate. Things are awkward enough in the first months as it is.

"I…uh…"

"It's okay if you don't remember."

"Yeah, I really don't." Sighs and wonders why that feels like a lie. For the life of him, he can't remember what he was dreaming about. It's odd, because his nightmares usually stick with him. At least long enough to write them down, which is what Ella had him doing for a while until she realized his nightmares were all the same, and it was probably counterproductive to have him write down the same four paragraphs every night. I'm walking down a road when suddenly I hear gun shots. I hear the voices of my men, yelling to get down, and I also hear voices in Farsi. I can't understand them. I pull my gun…

"Watson! Quick, your revolver!"

That's odd.

That's very odd.

They never called him 'Watson' in the army. He was 'Doc' or 'Captain' to most.

He didn't carry a revolver. It was a rifle. A rifle strapped to his back that he carried with him wherever he went, because in Afghanistan you could never be too safe or safe at all, really…

The streets he is on are not those in Afghanistan, sandy and lined with residences that are more like huts than houses. They are the streets of London in a different time, foggy and dark and full of mystery and danger. A sleek figure runs ahead of him, in and out of focus. He can taste sand and adrenaline, smell sweat and mud and the Thames. The images are blurred together, Afghanistan and London. The face of the bloodied boy he was trying to save when he was shot, the shockingly green irises of a stranger that doesn't feel like a stranger. He's bleeding, too.

"Watson," he says. The voice is so familiar. "I fear this may be our last adventure, my dear."

Overlaid, the young soldier. Choking: "Tell my mum that I tried."

John Watson shocks awake, not having even realized he was asleep. It's light outside, at least noon. Sherlock is struggling with the sheets, obviously woken by John's frantic movement. John sits up, needing to feel the cool air on his face, needing to breathe. Sherlock is asking what what and John holds up a hand to quiet him. A hand lands on his back, rubbing a bit too vigorously to be comforting. Even though, John appreciates the sentiment.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, I'll be fine. I just…" He reaches out and cups Sherlock's face. He needs to confirm to himself that Sherlock is there. He's sleep-rumpled, his eyes are blurry, but he's there, he's Sherlock Holmes. It's two thousand ten, not nineteen ten.

He kisses him, partially out of relief. Partially to reaffirm Sherlock's existence, his safety, because sometimes those dreams can seem too real, too real. Yet it wasn't even Sherlock he was dreaming of…

"John," Sherlock mumbles against his lips, "John, stop."

John jerks back, coming back to himself. Sherlock's lips are swollen. How hard was that kiss? He doesn't look upset about it, more perplexed than anything. His tongue darts out, to lick his bruised lips, and asks, "What were you dreaming of?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but draws a blank. Tries to find the words he was going to speak, but they have deserted him. Can't remember at all, now. Like the moment he tried to verbalize the account, it left him.

He mutters, "I don't know."

Chapter Text

John starts reading up on things, things he's never bothered to fret about before. His Google search history becomes a mess of the same five searches, worded ten different ways each. Bonding for Soul Mates. How to connect to your Soul Mate. How to make your Soul Mate feel more comfortable. Intimacy exercises for Soul Mates.

Unsurprisingly, the queries don't turn up much useable information. It's not that the articles aren't informative or well-executed. In any other circumstance, they would be supremely helpful. Unfortunately, Sherlock Holmes is not your average person, your average human being, and therefore is not the average Soul Mate. Suggestions like set aside time for each other every day do not work for them because unlike most newly-found Mates, they are living together and have been since a few hours after they met. Some days they see too much of each other. They're already following such suggestions as Go ringless when around each other, and the suggestions like Show your Soul Mate as much affection as possible just aren't practical; not with someone like Sherlock.

He goes through periods of complete aversion to physical contact. John doesn't pretend to know why.

Another constant worry at the back of his mind is his continued sleeping problems. It's worrying him, these dreams that he can't remember. Sherlock tells him not to worry about it, that it's probably the adrenalin he's experiencing on a daily basis. But John was in Afghanistan. Adrenalin is not something he is unfamiliar with. It's not as if he slept like a baby when he was in Afghanistan, but his dream patterns were at least a bit more sensible than they are now. Even the dreams he had after returning and his injury, before Sherlock, were less worrying. They were distressing, yes; nightmares always are. But men returning from war have nightmares all the time. Rarely do they forget dreams.

Maybe that's why he's so disconcerted. He had expected to be having nightmares for years. Now he's not, very suddenly, months before he expected them to start waning. He know some people don't remember dreams. Can go months without remembering what they've dreamt. But going from a nightmare every other night to dreams that he wakes up remembering, then promptly forgets are distressing.

Despite his continued worries, things are comfortable. As comfortable as they can be with Sherlock. John's not unhappy, and he likes to think Sherlock isn't either. Living in tandem with someone is new for him however, so John has done his best to establish a predictable domestic routine so Sherlock knows what he's going to be doing. Every morning, he wakes up and makes tea and toast. If he has work, he showers, puts on clothes, and heads out the door, grabbing his ring out of the bowl on the kitchen counter as he wanders through. If he has no work that day, then it's lounging around the flat, watching the telly or writing an entry on his blog or monitoring Sherlock as he does this-or-that with whatever biological waste he's procured from Bart's that week.

Sometimes Sherlock stands up and declares that the bacteria needs to incubate for a few hours then walks off, showers, and comes back in much the same outfit, only damp. Curls himself up on the couch and stares at John with his too-big eyes. The first time he did this, John did not know what it meant. Now he gets up, goes over and sits down with Sherlock.

Cuddling, really, is the only word for it. John is grateful for those rare times.

One of the work mornings, he treads through the kitchen, pulling on his jacket, and blindly reaches into the bowl, only to find one ring sitting in the bottom. Just to be sure, he glances at it. It's an amber-colored, crystalline antique that's been in his family for as long as he can remember. First in his grandmother's house holding mints on the dining table, and then in the entrance hall to his own house in Edinbridge, where his parents dropped their keys coming in the door in the evenings. He salvaged it from Harry's flat on returning from Afghanistan, fearing she might break it, and installed it on the counter at 221B. Now he and Sherlock put their rings in it when they are home alone.

This morning, his ring is not in it. Only Sherlock's ornate family heirloom seems to be there. His own simple silver band is nowhere to be seen.

It's entirely possible be missed the bowl when he tossed his ring at it last night. He was tired and a bit perturbed after a long shift at the surgery. Sherlock was being obnoxious, in the way he is when the period between cases stretches too long (It's been almost three weeks since the Blind Banker and Sherlock is climbing the walls in agitation) and in his frustration with life in general, John may have pelted the bowl a little too hard. It could have bounced out and gotten on the floor.

He bends down, staring under the counter, and frowns when he doesn't see anything; not even the growing family of dust bunnies he's pretty sure was there yesterday, or the petrified crisps that he's certain have been there since he moved in. He should know; he's been avoiding thinking about how long they've been there and passive-aggressively hinting that Sherlock should get under there and sweep.

An awful suspicion rears in his head, and he steps back into the living room (A glance at the clock tells him he hasn't the time for this; if he doesn't leave now he'll be running late, and not be there in time for his ten AM appointment with Mrs. Barnstead) to address Sherlock, laying on the couch with his eyes closed. "You haven't seen my ring, have you?"

"No," Sherlock says slowly, slitting one eye open. He cocks the eyebrow belonging to the same eye and adds, "I was under the impression it would be in the bowl."

"No, yours is the only one in it," John sighs. Grits his teeth. He's officially running late. "You haven't seen it? On the floor; anything?"

Sherlock shakes his head quickly, barely an increment to each side, and says, "You may want to ask Mrs. Hudson. She was hoovering in there yesterday. Finally gave up on me doing it, I suppose." He gives a little smirk, probably because where John's passive-aggressive efforts to get Sherlock to clean have failed, they have worked on Mrs. Hudson. This is not what he intended and only infuriates him further.

"Sherlock, I can't go to work like this!" He gestures to his uncovered SBI. Just the thought of leaving the flat without a ring, Sherlock's name exposed for all to see, makes him embarrassed. "I don't want to go down to Mrs. Hudson's with no ring on, either."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson is a seventy-year-old woman, John. She doesn't care."

"I do!"

"Oh for God's…" Sherlock throws himself off the couch, making sure to catch John in his glare so he knows just how pissed off he is. John glares right back and watches as Sherlock grabs his ring out of the bowl, shoves it on his finger, and heads out the door. John spends five minutes restlessly looping around the living room, praying it's just a simple matter of tearing open the Hoover's bag and fishing out his ring. He doesn't have an extra, hasn't since Afghanistan. If it's not in the bag, he's never going to make it to work. He's already terribly late; no way is he going to squeeze a twenty-minute commute into ten minutes. Less if they have to figure out what to do about a ring.

Sherlock returns, his face not positive. Scratches the back of his neck and says, "Mrs. Hudson says she tossed the bag out." He tries to look sympathetic, but they're both too annoyed at the other for the expression to look genuine.

It's on the tip of John's tongue to request Sherlock come bin-diving with him behind the flat, when he realizes why Sherlock has that look on his face.

The garbage was picked up this morning. John heard the truck when he got out of the shower. He buries his face in his hands and hisses, "Shit."

"Do you think you can wear mine?" Sherlock asks, though both of them know it's likely hopeless. John's fingers are far too thick for that ring to fit on his SBI finger. He's not even sure he'd be able to get it all the way down his pinky finger. Ordinarily John would thank him for trying. Right now he's pissed and not feeling very amicable at all, so he glares in a way that asks What do you think? and grunts, "No."

"Well what do you want me to do, John? I can't pull a ring out of my arse, for God's sake!"

"Maybe if you'd vacuum once in a while, we wouldn't be having this problem!"

"It is not my fault that your ring wasn't in the bowl—"

"Thanks to you and this pigsty of a flat, my ring could be halfway to a landfill—"

"You're overreacting—"

"Overreacting?"

"Yes, overreacting!"

"I'll show you over—where the hell are you going?" Sherlock is marching off, towards the staircase at the other end of the kitchen. He doesn't reply, and when he disappears into his bedroom, John assumes he's going to stay there and have a strop. Swearing under his breath, he glances at the clock. Realizes he's either going to have to call in, or cancel his appointment with Mrs. Barnstead. Patients tend to get testy if you cancel appointments, but he doesn't like the idea of trading all of his off to Sarah.

Looks under the counter again. Lifts up all the cushions on the furniture. Shines a flashlight in the sink. Glances at the clock. 9:45. Groans aloud.

There's nothing for it. By the time he gets to the surgery he'll only have ten minutes to examine Mrs. Barnstead before his ten-thirty appointment. He calls Sarah, makes his apologies, and begs someone take his place, at least until around noon. Perhaps by that time he'll have figured out what to do about his SBI.

Sarah is understandably put off; he's taken over Doctor Johansson's job while she's on maternity leave, and that only started last week. Her patients are already irritated about having to consult with a new doctor. Having the face change again is even more troublesome.

In the end, Sarah takes his appointments for the day. He only has five, thank God; two in the morning, three in the early afternoon. Later, he finds out Mrs. Barnstead didn't even show up. Something about her sick child and, yeah, John can understand that, but he finds it a bit ironic that she had to cancel her doctor's appointment to take care of an ill person.

Sherlock comes back in as he's hanging up with Sarah, toting his jewelry box. Said jewelry box, like most men's, is small. Some men, like John, don't even have jewelry boxes. Less and less men are keeping them, as the trend of having multiple rings that was around in the nineties dies out. It's moments like this that makes John wish he had kept at least one of the several rings he had in med school. Unfortunately, they were a casualty to the downsizing he did prior to deployment.

"What are you doing?" John demands. Watches Sherlock sit down in his own chair, placing jewelry box on his knees. He opens it and takes out two identical ring boxes. Opens one, glances inside, closes it, picks up the other, and hands it to John. John stares at it for a moment, confounded, as Sherlock stares at him from under his lashes and fringe. Finally, when Sherlock looks like he's about to snap, he eases the box open. His eyebrows knit further together when he sees what's inside. "Are these…?"

"Yes," Sherlock stands up, coming around to the back of John's chair and peering over his shoulder at the ring—or, rather, rings—in the box. In the box like this it's hard to tell that they're actually three. Three gold rings. One white gold, must have a very high silver content because John can barely detect any yellow. One the classic yellow gold associated with wedding rings, and the third a warm red gold. They fit together in a curling pattern, which when fitted together looks like one whole ring, a wave of yellow gold in the middle.

"They're a lot less…flashy they usually are. I mean, from what I've seen. I haven't ever actually gotten close enough to one in person to get a good look. People don't wear them anymore here; they dropped out of style at the turn of the last century."

"They've been in my family since the 1850's. They were my father's great-grand parents'." Sherlock takes out one of the rings, the white gold one, and toys with it. "They've gone through a few modernizations, most recently when my parents were married. They used to be much thicker, for one, and I believe this one," he taps the gold middle segment, "used to have a rather large ruby in it. My mother thought it was gaudy and so did my father, so they had them removed."

"Somehow it doesn't surprise me that your family has a set of progress rings as an heirloom." They're expensive. Even back when they were in style, only the wealthy could afford them. Though, he has to admit, they don't look like any of the progress rings he's ever seen in photographs or on display in jewelry shops. Nor do they look like the ones he's seen on the hands of Afghan women, which were not as flashy when it came to gemstones but which tended to have jagged, cookie-cutter designs that didn't look right unless they had all their components. These Sherlock has handed him are very subtle, and don't have any sort of odd design that's obviously incomplete without its other parts. "You said your parents wore these?" If so, he wonders why they aren't still wearing them.

"Yes. But only for a short while. Father died when I was a baby, and of course Mummy began wearing the widow's black ring."

John had not known that. Automatically, he feels like a complete pillock. "Oh. I'm…I didn't mean…"

"It's fine. He died when I was young. I barely knew him." He pauses for a moment, then; "Do you know their function?"

"Not really. I know the theory behind their existence, but not really how it's executed in practice." He knows that some very religious families still use them, and that they're still the typical way of things in the Middle East, especially under the Taliban. He's always figured it had someone to with protecting a young woman's honor while she's Searching.

"Well, I'm not really sure when they came to be popular in England. The height of their popularity, however, was from around the reign of George III to, like you said, the beginning of Edward VII's reign. Mostly, they were worn by young women of the peerage. Men wearing them became a later feature, perhaps introduced around Victoria. Originally, they were only for young women. Back then, when a woman first encountered her Soul Mate, she was to immediately make it clear that she was no longer Searching. However, as we all know, there is a big difference between finding your Soul Mate, and becoming bonded to them. Thus, progress rings. The first ring worn immediately. Usually they were white or whitish gold, like this one. Sometimes very pale yellow gold. The real feature was the design of the rings. Usually it was very obvious that they had other components. That's where these are a little odd. Like I said they've been through alterations. I've no idea how they looked when my ancestors first procured them.

"Wearing the first ring meant the relationship was in the courtship phase. It was basically a sign to all other men that the woman was off the table, but at the same time a symbol that she was not married yet and thus shouldn't be seen alone with a man, even with her Soul Mate. You can see the appeal these rings still have to the very religious.

"The second ring functioned as an engagement ring, and usually had some kind of gemstone embellishment, like the ruby these used to bear. They meant marriage was impending but, again, the woman was not yet married. Of course, the last ring, which completed the set, represented a fully realized partnership. The basic concept is a way to separate Searching and Bonded from the time in-between. I think we've always been confused, as a society, as to how to fully represent post-Search, pre-Bond couples. The way we do it today, which is basically retain our silver rings until marriage or at least a substantial acclimatizing period, has its complications and its awkward misunderstandings. Such as with you and Sarah." John cringes to remember the way he had to fumble his way through an apology to Sarah when she asked his SBI upon hearing his name. For some reason, even though he'd had to reject many people in the past, it was very awkward when he had already found his Soul Mate.

"We tend to refer to any pair of Soul Mates who have found each other as Bonded, even if they've just met or have not gone through the ceremony. It's a misuse of the term, however, and that's only come about in the last fifty or so years." Sherlock seems to ponder for a moment, twiddling the ring in his fingers. Eventually says, "I just like the idea of people knowing you're not Searching anymore. And I figure since you lost your ring…"

"You want me to wear this?" John takes the ring out of Sherlock's hand and stares at it intensely, willing it to reveal to him its secrets.

"It would…be nice, yes. I always hoped that…well, never mind. If you don't want to, that's fine. I'll go out today and get you a new ring. What size are you? Ten? Twelve?" He's already heading in the direction of the kitchen and master bedroom, presumably to go shower. John reaches out and manages to snag the swirling hem of his dressing gown.

"Stop, will you? I didn't say no. You hoped that what?"

"It's nothing important. Will you wear the ring?"

John heaves a sign, knowing that he won't be able to get a straight answer out of Sherlock. That's just now how he operates. Instead, he asks, "It would mean a lot to you, wouldn't it?" though he's already made his mind up. Of course he'll wear the ring, and the two that come after it as well. There's no reason not to, and Sherlock is obviously very attached to them. He's not sure if it's because they're a family heirloom or something else altogether.

For a moment it seems as though Sherlock is going to blow off that question too. Finally he says, "Yes. It…it would." Deep breath. "I've always hoped I would be able to wear these rings. Ever since Father died and left them to me. I'm still not sure why he did, because they've always been passed down from father to eldest son in my family. They should have gone to Mycroft. But they didn't." Slowly, he sits down and picks up the other ring box. "I've never known why. I hardly knew him. I was only fourteen months old when he died."

From the other box Sherlock pulls the white-gold ring that, as far as John can tell, is an exact clone of the one he holds between his index finger and thumb. When he looks closer, however, it seems to be smaller, and John realizes that the ring he holds must be Sherlock's father's.

"They also had to resize the rings when they married because father's hands were too big. It will probably be the right size for you. You have large hands."

John slips it on. It's not perfect, but far from a bad fit. It's not going to slip or bother him, which is all he cares about. Once he gets used to it, it will feel like it's not even there.

"It'll take some getting used to," he remarks as he rises from his chair, ring box in hand, and crosses to Sherlock's chair. He sits on the arm, places the box back in Sherlock's jewelry box, and cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I haven't had a new ring since I left for Afghanistan. But it fits, which is all that matters."

"Good." Sherlock slips on his mother's ring, now Sherlock's John supposes, and slots the ring box in beside its twin.

He kisses Sherlock's head. Murmurs against his hair, "I'm sorry I got so cross earlier. I shouldn't blame you for things like that. It was out of your control. Although, I wouldn't mind it if you'd vacuum every once in a while. I'm not asking for much there, y'know?"

"I've never really bothered with cleaning before," Sherlock remarks, shrugging. "So it doesn't come naturally."

"That's like saying you can't breathe because no one ever taught you how. Housework is hardly rocket science, Sherlock. Surely a genius can figure it out. You just pick up after yourself and, when the place starts to look a mess, pick up a few things and organize them into something that looks halfway decent. Maybe hoover every once in a while. You do know how to hoover, right?"

He means it as a joke, but quickly realizes he's probably hit a bit too close to the truth when Sherlock clears his throat and begins staring very determinedly at a spot on one of the bookcases. Eventually, he mumbles, "I may have deleted that."

"No. You're joking."

"I don't kid, John. You know that."

"Oh my God." To his own surprise, John finds himself giggling, rather than gnashing his teeth in irritation as even he had expected to. He leans down again, kisses Sherlock's jaw and informs him, "Jesus, love, you're something else entirely."

"Thank you. I think."

He hadn't exactly meant it as a compliment, but it wasn't intended as an insult either so he just hums. Takes the jewelry box and moves it to a conveniently-positioned side table. Sherlock must have moved it sometime after John went to bed last night, because it wasn't there yesterday to the best of his knowledge. Slides down the arm of the chair and onto Sherlock's lap. Crosses his arms, stares at Sherlock for a moment then says, "Sherlock, we need to talk."

"Do we?" Sherlock asks, cool as a cucumber, but with an underlying tone of worry and discontent. Probably not looking forward to another tirade against his living habits and his lack of social skills. Undoubtedly he's gone trough dozens of them in his life. Good thing that's not what John plans to do.

"Yes," John sighs. Spends a moment gathering his thoughts, staring at the fourth book of Encyclopedia Britannica on one of the bookshelves. Sherlock has the entire fifteenth edition, although not all of it is on the bookshelves and none of it is in order. John often wonders if Sherlock just likes chaos, and that's why he insists on keeping their flat so untidy. Then he realizes that his thoughts are digressing and begins, "I need you to tell me something. It's not going to be an easy question to answer, but I need you to answer honestly, even if you think I won't like it. Okay?"

Sherlock nods hesitantly.

"Do you want your relationship to be a romantic one?" The question is one that no one wants to ask, but that must be addressed. It's not unheard of for Soul Mates to be aromantic, only wanting friendship and the companionship that comes with it. To be honest, John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was one of those people.

There's a long minute of agonizing silence, Sherlock rigid in his seat and John determinedly trying to stay relaxed and neutral. Holding his breath. Telling himself he doesn't care one way or the other until finally Sherlock says, "Yes. I do."

John releases a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "Okay. That's…that's good. Um." Now for the hard part. How to breach the subject? How to tell Sherlock that their relationship is never going to work with their current lack of communication? He's been living with the man for three months and yet to some extent it still feels like he's a stranger. He knows love at first sight only happens in romance novels. Anyone over the age of sixteen knows it doesn't happen. It would still be nice if they were at least headed in the right direction.

"We need to communicate more."

It isn't John that speaks. He glances down at Sherlock and nods jerkily. "Yes. Good deduction."

Sherlock snorts and says, "It's hardly a mystery why you've been so irritable."

"Ha bloody ha. Suppose it's all my fault, then?"

"Hardly." Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if it's John that's being difficult. Says, "I'm well aware of my own shortcomings, John. I'm going to assume the same goes for you. We're both equally to blame. Unfortunately, we're likewise lost as to how to fix it."

"Well…maybe we should just start talking more."

"We talk all the time."

"You know what I mean." The only real connections they've managed to form have been during two rather serious conversations, and both have been post-argument. In fact, this one is post-argument. John's not too sure he wants to know where their relationship is headed if that pattern continues. He explains as much to Sherlock, whom quietly ponders his words for a few minutes. When the silence gets too much for John to bear, he says, "Let's go on a date."

Sherlock glances at him. Pauses a second, then bug his eyes out incredulously. "A what?"

"A date. You know. Two people who like each other go out and do something fun." John grins cheekily as Sherlock snarls I know what a date is! before continuing, "We could go for dinner, although I know you don't like sit-down restaurants aside from Angelo's and that one Chinese…Probably best we didn't do that, then. Regent's Park is only a few blocks away. We can make an afternoon out of that. I've got Sunday off. We could go there?"

"John, I really don't think a date is going to solve anything. It's only going to put us in a pressured, awkward situation."

"Then what do you suggest? More of the same isn't going to help, either."

"No, but…it'll get better, right? We haven't given it much time. I told you it's difficult for me to communicate. But I'll figure it out. We'll get used to each other. Eventually."

John ponders this for a moment, before saying, "We can try that. Getting better. But we—meaning you—have got to be a little more cooperative. And you can't keep things from me. We need to know each other inside and out for this to work. A relationship is all about trust, and there are no secrets between Soul Mates."

"That's an over-romanticized viewpoint, John; even for you."

"Sherlock."

"Yes, alright. But you have to be honest with me in return."

"I haven't been hiding anything from you."

Sherlock fixes him with a glare. It reeks oh please and he shifts uncomfortably. He keeps his defiant face on, however, until Sherlock says, "You're still having those dreams. I know you are. Those ones that you can't remember. Every time I ask you how you slept you say fine. But I know you're troubled. If you won't share your troubles with me, how am I supposed to help?"

John is surprised, because he's been careful not to let Sherlock catch on to his continued sleep problems. Then again, Sherlock probably deduced it somehow. Frustrated, he says, "I can't talk about them because I don't know anything about them. All I know is that I'm having them. I wake up and for a few seconds I remember everything, but the second I try to write it down or explain it, it goes away." He hasn't had a dream that he remembers in weeks. It's really starting to worry him. It feels like he's going crazy.

There is no chance for Sherlock to respond, for his phone vibrates at that moment. He's got it in his dressing gown pocket and John can feel it against his hip. He gets up so Sherlock can pull out his phone and watches as he answers. By the content of the conversation, John gathers that it's Lestrade, that they've got a case about ten blocks away, and they're requiring Sherlock's assistance. When he hangs up, Sherlock glances at him and says, "That was Lestrade. Two bodies at a funfair. Said it happened sometime last night. The only witness is a fortune teller who refuses to talk to them."

"Why do they need you?" John inquires. "That sounds pretty straight-forward to me. Nothing they'd been a consultant for, anyway."

"They think it's a murder-suicide."

John raises an eyebrow. "And?" By now, he knows the difference between a period and a dramatic pause.

"The victims were a bonded pair."

Oh. That's rather upsetting. Also rather strange. It's not every day you hear about that. He can see how Lestrade would want Sherlock's help to solve it, and get the case over soon for that matter. Abuse between Soul Mates is an awful, thankfully rare occurrence that makes everyone who hears of it uncomfortable. John's not even sure he wants to see this, but he's not just about to let Sherlock go alone either. No telling how he'll react to it.

"There was also a note," Sherlock remarks as he's heading towards the bedroom.

"From who? The…murderer?" A suicide note? Is there usually a note at the scene of a murder-suicide?

"No. From the person who held a gun to his head and forced him to kill his Soul Mate." Sherlock poked his head back around the corner, one corner of his mouth quirked up, and says, "Neat little puzzle, isn't it?" while John's unease tangles his stomach into a knot.

Chapter Text

The crime scene is not, strictly speaking, in the funfair. Rather, it's on the very fringes of it, in a muddy, scarcely-trafficked area of Hyde Park. The police line has already been set up; a rectangle of stark yellow tape against the neutral browns and dark greens of the landscape. There are, of course, gawkers; it's to be expected at every crime scene. The funfair has been shut down until further notice in light of the murders, but that doesn't stop people from catching wind of it and wandering over to have a look.

Ahead of them, the park stretches out for about one-hundred yards before ending in the street. It's not a very busy street, and there are very few cars at this time of day. As they approach, the only two cars John sees are a red sedan, which whizzes by as they approach the crime scene, and a blue van which idles past at a much slower pace. It's very isolated, but the fair being there makes it very unlikely that secrecy was the goal here. More like the exact opposite.

"Well someone wanted to make a point," Sherlock mutters, at almost the same time John thinks it. He blinks for a moment, surprised at having his thoughts come out of Sherlock's mouth. Then again, Sherlock is practically clairvoyant, and perhaps John has been spending a bit too much time with him if they're having the same thoughts.

There are several Police Constables perched just inside the perimeter, doing crowd-control. Lestrade and Donovan are waiting for them by the tape.

Lestrade lifts it for them, and Sherlock and Donovan perform their typical displays of aggression (A hello, freak from Donovan, a responding sneer from Sherlock) before Lestrade walks them to the bodies. They all gather round them, the two detectives, the one consultant, the one doctor. The victims are young, younger than John. Probably a bit younger than Sherlock too. John sighs and clucks his tongue, because it's never pleasant to see young people dead in a muddy field.

They are a woman and a man, both on their sides facing each other. Neither of them is dressed as though they intended to leave the house that night. The man is in a blue dressing gown and grey pajama pants, and the woman is in a yellow nightgown. Night clothes. No coats. The woman has a gunshot wound to her stomach, partially obstructed by her own hand. Died trying to stem the flow of blood. The man is missing a large portion of his skull, probably thanks to a gun to the mouth.

(John knows his own deductions are nowhere near Sherlock's caliber, but he likes to think he does well for himself, especially since most civilians will just look at a pair of murder victims and go, "Oh, dead people." Then again, John isn't exactly a civilian.)

"John and Jane Doe," Lestrade informs. "No identification on either of them. No cell phones either. Found around nine o'clock this morning by our not-so-friendly neighborhood fortune-teller." Lestrade jabs his thumb behind himself, gesturing towards a point a few meters beyond, where a pair of police constables seem to be guarding a short, blonde young woman with a scowl on her face. The officers seem very awkward, as though they don't exactly want to be there. They've got their backs to her, staring intently at the ground. John wonders why they're so intimidated by such a petite person.

"What's the story with her?" John asks, because Sherlock doesn't seem inclined to ask that question, and he's curious. He long ago stopped waiting for Sherlock to answer his questions, or ask the questions he wanted posed, and just ask them himself. He's practically immune to the affronted look Sherlock sometimes awards him with when he takes the initiative to gain his own information from the detectives.

"Mmm, see, that's what we're trying to figure out." Lestrade crosses his arms, turns towards the woman, then rotates away again. As though whatever has the constables so perturbed is effective even from meters away. "We know she saw something, because she's the one that called 999. But she won't even give us a name, much less tell us what she saw."

Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward. John can almost hear his mental monologue as it curses Scotland Yard. "Are your people literally so incompetent that they can't get a fortune-teller to talk? A fortune-teller's favorite thing to do is mouth off, Lestrade! It's not rocket science!"

"Oi! You wanna try it be my guest," Donovan snarls. Lestrade places a hand on her arm and she quiets, but not before taking in a huge sigh and shooting Sherlock a particularly menacing look from under her eyelashes.

"I didn't say she wasn't mouthing off now, did I?" Lestrade pointedly raises an eyebrow. Sherlock makes a displeased sound. Unhappy with being questioned (Or perhaps his insult failing). Lestrade continues, "She's rather volatile, as it turns out. Called my men every name in the book before she refused to give them any information. The two officers over there are guarding her to make sure she doesn't impede the investigation."

"Why are they just standing there?" Sherlock asks. "Shouldn't they be pressing her for information? She's impeding the investigation just by refusing to tell you what she knows!"

"Sherlock, calm down for God's sake. Not as if you need her telling you what's happened. Besides, she's…" Lestrade sighs and scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortable. "My guys don't want to talk to her anymore than they have to, on account of…well, she's not exactly decent, if you know what I mean."

"She's fully clothed," John points out, and only realizes how vapid that sounds when Sherlock groans in disgust and spins in a little half-circle, rubbing his eyes. John has learned to read the odd impulses and tics Sherlock has, and has found that a lot of them can be connected to the various spasms of particularly hyperactive children. That one, anyone would recognize as the universal signal for 'I can't handle this' and, for Sherlock, his ability to handle situations is directly linear to the stupidity of the people he's in close proximity to.

So John closes his mouth and bites the inside of his cheek, electing to be quiet until Sherlock is in a better mood, or asks him to speak. If he doesn't, Sherlock will just explode.

"She's not wearing a ring," Donovan says, giving both Lestrade and John her familiar look of exasperation and discontent. "Don't know why, it's really weird. But that's why they won't talk to her." Then she walks off, either fed up or tired of being in Sherlock's company. Probably both.

"Oh." John breaks his own vow of silence. "That's…odd." Suddenly understands why Lestrade is avoiding looking in that direction.

"Frankly, I couldn't care less. If she's not going to talk, she's useless. Now can I have a look at these bodies or not?"

"Be my guest." Lestrade gestures to the bodies, steps away a few feet to give Sherlock his typical amount of breathing room. John joins him on the sidelines, figuring to wait until Sherlock asks for him. Lestrade claps a hand on his shoulder in commiseration and remarks, "What's got his knickers in a twist today, eh?"

"Not sure. He was fine this morning. Well, mostly. We had a row about housework." Doesn't really think that Lestrade needs (Or wants) to hear the long story about the dump-bound ring. "But you know him; his mood changes constantly. Could be anything."

Lestrade exhales a chuckle. "It's always an adventure with a Holmes. They keep you on your toes, take it from me. Fourteen years with Mycroft and I have literally no idea how I'm still alive." He chuckles again, smiling down at the ground. Kicks at a rock. "He keeps me thinking. I've got to use my brain to know what he's saying, which is more than I can say for some other people. I know I must drive him up a wall sometimes, what with him having thirty more IQ points than me and such. God knows he sends my blood pressure through the roof. How haven't we killed each other yet?"

"Maybe because…that's what Soul Mates do," John says, shrugging. "They put up with each other. They love each other no matter what. Your Soul Mate is the one person who you know will give you unconditional love…aside from parents. Even though Sherlock can be…"

"A right bloody tosser?"

"I was going to say annoying, but that works too." He snorts, and Lestrade chuckles joyously, obviously much too pleased with himself. "Even though he can be…that, he's still my Soul Mate, and I'd do anything for him. I spent thirty-five years searching for him. It's only been a couple of months and I can't imagine life without him." Carefully keeps to himself that he's not entirely sure Sherlock feels the same way.

"It happens fast."

"Mmm."

Over by the bodies, Sherlock pops up from the crouch he's gotten himself into, and starts off in the other direction. Lestrade calls to him, but he doesn't reply. John elects to take off in a jog to catch up.

Sherlock seems to be heading towards the fortune-teller's wagon. As John nears he says, "We're looking for two sacks, probably burlap. At least one of them is bloodstained, so the murderers wouldn't have taken them with them. Too incriminating. They're someplace near, they'd want to get rid of them quickly. They may have tossed them in a bin on the main road, but that's a bit too obvious and these ones are smart; this isn't the work of some clumsy henchman. This was the mastermind himself, or at least his right-hand man. They would have experience."

"So you think it's in the fortune-teller's wagon? Still a bit obvious, don't you think?"

"I don't think they're in the wagon, I think they're in a compartment on the wagon."

John takes a closer look at the wagon. It's a large pink thing up on four-foot-tall white wheels, designed more to catch the eye than anything else. A large set of wooden steps is pulled up to it, there are four large blocks keeping it parked. As far as John can tell, it's a very simple construction; nothing on it that looks like it could give way to hidden depths. "What compartments?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock approaches the wagon and knocks his fist on one of the bottom sections of the wagon. There are four of them, and John thinks they're just for decoration until, under Sherlock's thumping, the wooden planks spring open, revealing it to be a door. Sherlock raises his eyebrows and purses his lips, presenting the discovery with a flourish. "These compartments." Then he walks around behind, calling, "You open the rest on that side; punch the left side and pull the right."

At this point, John has learned to save his questions for later, and just do what Sherlock tells him to. He opens the three other compartments on that side, finding several bags and a few boxes, all of them obviously the property of the fortune-teller and none of them burlap or blood-stained.

"So why are we looking for these?" John inquires as he packs everything back into the third compartment.

"Confirming a theory."

"Which is?"

"Mr. Doe did not know what he was shooting at."

"Oh." At first the reply is mindless and John doesn't think much of it, occupied as he is with trying to get the fourth compartment open. Then he processes what Sherlock has said, what it implies, and continues, "Oh…That's…" He can't figure out why someone would go to such lengths, blinding another person and putting a gun in their hands, only so they will have to pull the trigger.

"Innovative!" Sherlock says, before appearing from behind the car with two sacks. One of them, as predicted, is blood stained. Both are saturated in mud. "Very inventive, although ultimately poorly executed. I can't imagine why they went through all the fuss. There are easier ways to prevent your finger prints from getting on a gun. And why would they frame her Soul Mate for the crime? No one likes to think one Soul Mate would kill another; they'll rule everything out until they conclude that. And what could they possibly have against a Jewish primary school teacher? Someone like that is rather inconsequential."

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock looks up from the sacks, to meet John's disapproving gaze. Bites his lip, looks back down and remarks, "Bit not good again?"

"Just a little, yeah."

Sherlock lets out a sigh, some parts shame but mostly exasperation, and heads off towards Lestrade. Emitting a put-upon sigh of his own, John follows. Jogs a few paces to keep up with Sherlock and says, "So, what's the story then? How do you know all of that? Lay it out for me." Sherlock likes it when he gets to explain. Also likes to be prompted. It must appeal to his superiority complex in some convoluted way.

This time is no different. Sherlock smirks and immediately launches, "Mr. And Mrs. Doe were abducted from their home sometime around midnight last night, most likely by use of chloroform. Bodies are in full rigor mortis which means they've been dead about eight hours—although you could have figured that out yourself, Doctor," John smirks at the nod to his expertise, "which means they were killed at about one AM. Assuming they didn't hold them for several hours, which is unlikely considering neither of them have extensive injury aside from their respective fatal wounds, and the only reason aside from sheer abuse the kidnappers would keep them for would be as hostages for ransom. I think it's quite obvious ransom isn't what they were looking for, don't you?"

"Obvious, yeah. What with the location and everything." He gestures to the mud field they're surrounded by, then to the road. Still deserted all but for a passing blue van. "You don't take hostages for ransom to the backwoods of Hyde Park and have them point guns at each other."

"Just one gun."

"I was being facetious."

Sherlock huffs out in annoyance and mutters, "Please don't joke around while I'm trying to think, John. It's annoying."

"Okay, fine. What about that other stuff? She's a primary school teacher? And Jewish?"

"Her necklace," Sherlock scoffs, in that tone that says everything is just so obvious and why can't you see it? which never fails to irritate John. "Didn't you see? It's a Star of David. She's got no other reason to wear one, unless she doesn't realize what it is, which is unlikely considering it's one of the most easily-recognized religious symbols in the first world. And the fact that she's a primary school teacher is apparent from the marks in the creases on her fingernails and from her earrings."

They've come up on Lestrade and parked themselves in front of him. The inspector looks just as confused as John feels. John says, "What? Earrings? Fingernails?"

"There are multi-colored marks on the corners of her nails which are obviously caused by a felt-tip. There are very few professions which require felt-tips besides that which bring one in close proximity to children. Her earrings are studs, yet judging by the size of her piercing holes she prefers dangling earrings. Either her profession doesn't allow for them, or she doesn't want someone with particularly small, grabby fingers ripping her earrings out. Most primary schools fit both of those criteria. They're also rather cheep, even though judging by the quality of her ring and nail polish and negligee, she can surely afford luxuries and has no problem indulging in them. Thus, she doesn't want to risk going to work, losing them, and being unable to find them because one of her students saw it as a shiny object to pocket and/or swallow."

That strange sensation of pride and awe that always lodges itself in his chest after Sherlock makes a string of deductions appears, and John almost unconsciously mutters, "Brilliant."

Sherlock smiles, smug but maybe the slightest bit bashful, then looks at Lestrade who is sporting that typical How in the hell look that he always adopts when confronted with Sherlock's rapid deduction. "We need to see that note."

The note, as it turns out, happens to be a page of poetry, ripped out of its book, crumpled up and, as Lestrade informs upon presenting it in its sealed, clear evidence bag, shoved into the female victim's mouth.

How to break what cannot be broken?
Impossible, surely!
Most would say.
However, nothing is ever quite
As steeled as it seems.
Especially nothing which hinges
On something so delicate as a name
On a mortal canvas.
Not parchment or paper,
But human flesh
Three are the ways in which
We can break these bonds.
The first straightforward
Mere lust for another,
And to act on that lust.
A simple sin which can break
Even the most complex bond.
The second and third,
Both hinge on death.
One, the inconceivable:
Killing of the one Nature decrees
You hold dear.
The second, more Christian
That laughable faith,
To die in the place of another.
And employ all your worldly energy
On said expenditure.
To waste your Soul
On the life of another.
They will all be broken.
For they are fragile things.
And bonds are not carved in stone,
Resilient and unyielding.
Instead flesh,
Which will someday decay.

And that which exists in theory,
Shadows of energy attached
To our heels, following us through
Our lives.
Many have broken.
All will.

Sherlock reads the page rapidly and, when he's done, actually takes the time to hand it off to John before disappearing to the bodies again. However, not before grumbling, "You said it was a note. That is not a note," towards Lestrade.

Lestrade only rolls his eyes and says, "How else am I supposed to describe it? It's obviously a message of some kind, if not one directly from the murderer. I could have told you that we had a murderous poet on our hands, but that wouldn't have gotten your attention."

As his Soul Mate scoffs and stomps away, John looks down at the poem. Reads it, his mouth pulls down more and more as he goes. When he's finished, he's giving the paper a very pointed frown and he's even more confused that he started. How Sherlock could get any information from it is a mystery. He hands it back to Lestrade and shifts his gaze to Sherlock, who is now examining the husband, one of the man's large hands held centimeters from his face. "So what does this mean, then?"

A nod towards the fortune-teller on the sidelines. "I'm sure she'll tell us." Turns back to the hand he's staring at and remarks, "Scrapes on his knuckles. Probably from punching someone in the teeth. Self defense? No, doesn't add up. No other wounds…bruises from being subdued…"

While Sherlock is talking to himself, John turns around to stare once more at the fortune-teller, who seems to be giving them the evil-eye. She can't have appreciated them riffling through her things in the wagon. The large crowd of gawkers that was present when they arrived has dispersed a bit, and there are less constables present. There is now only one near the fortune-teller, probably because they figure she's become subdued enough. Still, John isn't looking forward to having to talk to her.

Sherlock can hold his own, though.

"How would she know? Last I checked, she's a fortune-teller, not a…poetry expert." Surely there's a more formal term for that, but he can't think of it right now. He can't even remember if he had tea this morning. Had he? It doesn't feel like there's any caffeine in his body.

"Maybe if you weren't so focused on your caffeine craving, you would have noticed by now."

He blinks and stares at Sherlock, surprised he had deduced that. However, he's so past wondering how Sherlock does what he does that he can't bring himself to care and, rather than ask for an explanation (Relevance, John) he just sighs and inquires, "Notice what?"

Sherlock sets down the male victim's hand and moves around to the female victim. Crouches down next to her head and reaches one hand up to tug on the hem of John's jacket. He can't figure out if the childlike move is more endearing or annoying, but lowers himself to the same level as Sherlock. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

Sherlock sighs and raises his eyebrows. The expression is a bit different from his normal condescension; almost as though he's saying Come on, you know this. Willing him to observe. All at once, his medical sense kicks in and he notices what's odd. His expertise is not in dead bodies, but he was trained to notice the same things medical examiners are. He's surprised he hadn't realized it before. It has been a while since he saw a body that was in full rigor, but not that long. There just don't tend to be a whole lot left of soldiers when they're killed.

That's something he doesn't want to think about.

He gestures to her mouth and observes, "Her mouth. Is that right? It's got to be. The bodies are in full rigor; her mouth shouldn't be open. Oral muscles would have been the first ones to tighten. Her mouth should be clamped shut."

The smirk on Sherlock's face tells him he's correct, and the warm affection that comes from him is a bit of a surprise. Sherlock's emotions are sometimes strong enough for other people to feel them. That's not always a good thing, but right now it is. John looks down and smiles at the mud, feeling his Soul Mate's momentary tenderness.

"Correct. Someone had to have wrenched her jaw open after rigor set in and taken the paper out. Lestrade says they found it in her mouth and it was already open. I also believe the paper was folded when it was first placed in her mouth, then taken out, read, crumpled, and quickly replaced. As far as we know, there was only one person here before Scotland Yard arrived, and that was the fortune-teller." Sherlock stands up, and now he's staring at her. Probably that unnerving, dissecting look that John is never pleased to be on the other end of. "She has to know more than she's letting on."

John grunts in agreement.

"I need you to talk to her."

Launching himself out of his crouch, he turns to stare incredulously at Sherlock and demands, "Why me?"

Green eyes trail over his form for a second, Sherlock raising an eyebrow in an expression of why do you think before he says, "Well, for one thing you're rather more approachable. Second, you're not in uniform or anything that could be mistaken for it. Third, she hasn't taken her eyes off of you since we arrived."

John blinks. "I thought she was staring at you." To be honest, John can't blame her. Sherlock's proportions can make him look handsome to some, and just plain strange to others. John is in the former group, but he honestly doesn't know about the fortune-teller. Either way, it's a reason to stare at him.

Sherlock's left eyebrow quirks up and he mutters, "Really…" and stares at the ground for a second. Then he seems to shake himself out of whatever reverie he was entering into and says, "Well, either way, I need you to talk to her. It's the better way."

With a small grunt and a pointed glare he hopes leaves the impression of you owe me, John spins on his heel and starts towards the fortune-teller. At first, she doesn't seem to realize he's heading towards her, and when she does she takes several steps back. John thinks she's going to try to make a run for it (And he has no idea why she would run from him, but not the police) but she thinks better of it after glancing at the constable still at her side. John stops in front of her, a respectable distance away and a pleasant smile on his face. Holds out his hand. "Hello. Doctor John Watson. I need to ask you a few questions."

She arches one perfectly-plucked eyebrow. "Doctor? What do they need a doctor for at a crime scene?"

He smirks. "It's a long story." Of their own accord, John's eyes trail down to her hand, which is nudged between her elbow and waist. He can't even see her SBI, but knowing that it's there, and knowing it's uncovered, makes him intensely perturbed. He wonders why she has it uncovered, considering it's not only indecent, but disrespectful to her Soul Mate.

She notices him staring and moves her hand further under her opposite arm. Says, "If you have a problem with it, then you don't need to try to get a look at it. Pervert."

John moves his eyes up, slightly embarrassed but also slightly annoyed. She's criticizing him for being a pervert, and yet she's the one without a ring on. He doesn't voice these thoughts. Instead inquires, "Why aren't you wearing a ring, Miss?"

"I don't like wearing metal on my SBI. It blocks my psychic connection to my soul."

It's odd to hear someone spout information like that so casually. He frowns at her when she looks away for a second to glance over her shoulder, more out of confusion than anything. There are many people who believe some people are in-tune with their souls, and that there are a whole range of psychic abilities that come with such a connection. Most people, like John, don't really believe in Soul Parapsychology. He's not even sure he believes in souls. He more thinks of the term Soul Mate as archaic more than anything; a reference to their distant past, when everyone did believe in souls. Being a man of science has taught him to take elements of the spiritual with a grain of salt.

However, he's never been one to insult another person's religion either, and so doesn't comment other than to say, "Okay. But there are alternatives." Being a doctor, he's had to recommend plenty of metal alternatives to patients who have allergies. There are some websites he knows of that sell beaded rings, held together with elastic, and others that make metal-imitation rings out of plastic that look almost like the real thing.

The fortune-teller, however, shakes her head. "No, I can't have anything that keeps me from seeing or feeling it."

"So you just…walk around with your SBI exposed?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Problem?"

It sounds just like Sherlock for some reason, and he's disconcerted for a second. Her stance is one of defiance, almost as though she knows what she's done. As if she somehow managed to imitate a man she's never even heard speak, just to throw John off-balance.

He chooses to ignore it. "What's your name?"

She bundles her arms in closer to herself and glances over her shoulder again. John wonders if she's waiting for someone. When she turns back, she says, "Mary."

John puckers his lips in agitation and mutters, "Really." Because if she's going you use a fake name, that's the oldest in the book. The female equivalent of his own name. He can't imagine someone as eccentric as her having a name as normal as Mary. Then again, he supposes she wasn't born this strange. Still, until she's proven it, he's going to harbor doubts that it's her actual name.

Mary scowls. "Yes. Really. Now what do you want? I know your friend sent you over here, and that he's working for the police. I'm not going to tell you anything. I don't have to."

"Wrong."

Sherlock, it would seem, has become impatient. He comes up on John's right, so they're now completely blocking Mary's view from the goings on in front of her, and says, "You don't have to say anything verbally, perhaps, but just your presence is enough to go on. Now what does this mean?" He produces the note recovered from the female victim's mouth.

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I've never seen it before." Cool as a cucumber. John finds himself appreciating her acting skills. Not nearly as good as Sherlock, who can become a completely different person just by shifting his stance and changing his expression, but still good. Better than John's own.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh come now, don't be trying. You and I both know you took the note out of that woman's mouth. You're hiding your hands, not only because you're wearing no ring but also because there's blood on your fingertips from reaching into her mouth. There is also mud on your knees from where you knelt beside her body. I ask again: What does this poem mean, and why were you so eager to get to it that you had to break a dead woman's jaw to retrieve it?" Then his eyes narrow. "And why do you keep staring at us?"

"What? Staring at you?" She tries to look confused and innocent, but her act is slipping. Yes, not nearly Sherlock's caliber.

She glances quickly over her shoulder. Blink and you would have missed it.

"Myself and John. Why do you keep staring at us? You haven't taken your eyes off either of us the entire time we've been here. Except when you've been glancing over your shoulder to see if that blue van is passing again. What's that about?"

Mary's head does an almost complete one-eighty when Sherlock says that. There is no remnant of the act she was putting on only a moment earlier; now her face is one of pure terror as she stares over her own shoulder, at the blue van that is coming around the corner. She turns back to them and says, "Go away. If they know I'm talking to you they'll—"

She never gets a chance to finish her sentence, because at that moment shotgun fire rings out from the street, and kicks John's dormant instinct into gear. He seizes Sherlock and pulls him down into the mud, covering as much of his Soul Mate's body as he can with his own. Sherlock yells, half in shock and half in protest, because the landing hadn't exactly been soft and John is not light. It's drowned out in the general cacophony of people diving to the ground and officers bellowing and other people screaming, as well as the continued gunfire.

It seems to last for hours, but can't actually go on for more than thirty seconds. It stops with the sound of a car door sliding closed and squealing tires on pavement. In its wake it leaves deafening silence. John rolls off Sherlock and pushes himself to stand, then pulls Sherlock up next to him. Surveys him for damage, as subtly as he can, and only finds a scratch on his cheek (Probably from a rock on the ground) and copious amounts of mud. Later, he'll find a few bruises, but that's all the damage.

He's unspeakably relieved.

However, before he can breathe again, at least enough to say, "What the fuck was that?" he hears a gasp and glances down. Mary is clutching at her arm, where blood is gushing. He utters a loud curse and kneels down beside her, shouting, "Someone call 999!"

Chapter Text

Sherlock fidgets endlessly as they sit in the accident and emergency waiting room at Bart's. He's carefully positioned John in front of himself, a boundary between him and the sick people in the room. There's very little John can do but pat Sherlock's knee and hope the doctor seeing to Mary allows them to see her soon. The EMTs said all she would probably need were a few stitches, but it's been two hours and no one has come to find them.

"Are you hungry?" John inquires, casting about for any reason at all to leave A&E. "We can go down the cafeteria. They're supposed to tell Lestrade when she can be seen, and Lestrade will tell us. We don't have to stay here."

"No, I need to talk to her before the police. She'll freeze up if they're there, and we'll never get any information from her." Sherlock sighs, recrosses his legs, and slides further down in his chair. Somewhere between bored and tetchy. John pats his knee again and fixes his gaze upon the hallway leading back into the treatment rooms, as though he can make a doctor appear out of sheer will. Things have certainly slowed down since his time here.

It's another twenty minutes before a doctor comes out and walks up to them. He's the same doctor Sherlock talked to before they admitted Mary, informing him that she was the subject of a police investigation and needed to be interviewed as soon as possible after being treated for the bullet graze and stitched up.

"Can we speak to her?" Sherlock asks immediately, sitting up and turning up his stare to 'intimidating.' John rather thinks it will take more than that to make an accident and emergency doctor quiver in his shoes, but it is Sherlock so anything is really possible.

"Well, we had to treat her for a concussion as well as the graze. She probably hit her head when she fell and didn't realize it. I think you'll be able to talk to her, but she may be a little slow. She'll also be fatigued, and probably quite a bit confused, so you may just want to wait until tomorrow morning." When Sherlock's brows furrows, he adds, "Of course, if you absolutely must talk to her today, you can. But she'll need her rest, Mister Holmes, and the nurses have been told to remove you if you create a nuisance or start harassing her."

Sherlock nods stiffly. As if he has been given his orders and is prepared to salute, turn about, and execute them. Or perhaps that's just John's army sensibilities distorting Sherlock's usual grudging respect for authority.

Mary is situated in a bed on the far end of the emergency ward, looking fine all but for the large bandage wrapped around her upper arm and the bag of ice she's holding to her head. Someone has also wrapped a band-aid around the base of her SBI finger which, John can only assume, was out of discomfort for the people treating her. He figures it must have been the nurses, because A&E doctors are hardly squeamish enough to be discomforted by a woman's exposed SBI.

"Come to interrogate me again?" Mary inquires. At least the last few hours have done nothing to dim her wit.

"Something like that." Sherlock pulls up a chair and sits down. Crosses his legs and arms. Stares at Mary. "I also think you know why we're here."

Thus commences a staring contest that John is unwittingly caught in the middle of. He fidgets awkwardly, scratches the side of his arm and leans against the foot of Mary's bed. Waits for one of them to make a move that it's becoming more and more apparent is not going to happen. Neither wants to give in.

"The poem," John says finally. "It was from a book. You must know what book it was from, because apparently you just had to get it out of that woman's mouth. So? What's so important about that poem? Or the book, for that matter."

Surprisingly, Sherlock is not disgruntled that John made the first move for them. Instead smirks in John's general direction, then turns back to Mary with an expression which, had he been ten, would have included a stuck-out tongue and a taunting chant. In fact, he's not sure that Sherlock wouldn't have done it at age thirty if they weren't in public.

Wonders will never cease.

"The page is from a book of poems by a Gothic poet named Amos Marriet. His works were…very progressive for his time. They talk about taboo subjects and are very dark. It was popular to burn his books, so there are only a few copies remaining."

"Are you telling me that you had to get that page from that woman's mouth because it was valuable?" John demands, outraged.

Mary looks even more outraged. "Of course not! I'm not cruel, you know. I have respect for the dead, probably more than you and your necrophiliac of a Soul Mate here."

"No, John. I think the reason she needed that poem so badly was because she is the owner of the book from which it came." Tilts his head to the side. "How do you know John and I are Soul Mates?"

"Oh please. It's obvious." She glances between them. Purses her lips and clenches her jaw. "Yes, alright. That page is from my book. But I had nothing to do with that murder; you have to believe me. I'm not even sure how they got that page out of my book without me noticing. They were only in my wagon for five minutes, and two of those they were being dragged out by two of the ticket boys." She looks satisfied for a moment. Clearly pleased with the argument she's made. Then her eyes widen. "I mean. I can explain."

"Please," Sherlock says, while John mutters something more along the lines of, "You better."

There is a moment during which Mary glares at both of them before she says, "Yesterday, two men came into my wagon. They were loud and rowdy, and wanted their fortunes told. I honestly thought they were a couple of students. A couple of ticket boys came over and asked if there was a problem, and when they saw those two making nuisances of themselves, they removed them from the premises. It wasn't until later that I realized they had stolen that page out of my book."

"Why were you so concerned when you realized they had taken that particular page?" Sherlock leans forward, fingertips pressed together. Usual thinking pose. Getting closer to solving the mystery.

It doesn't look like Mary wants to answer. She casts about the room as though the solution to her current woes is going to jump out and present itself. Doesn't, obviously. Finally, she says, "Because it's…well, I told you his work was considered taboo at the time. Still is, really. He wrote about the kinds of things that have never really been politically correct, even these days."

"So, sex and death," John says. Sex because it's considered something to be kept between Soul Mates, and death because it reminds people of their own mortality. It isn't hard to figure out what people meant when they said 'taboo.'

"Yes."

Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock retrieves the evidence bag containing the ripped-out page. John is ninety-nine percent sure that he's not allowed to take the evidence out of police custody, nor is it legal, but Sherlock has never quite grasped the concept of 'cannot do.' He holds it out to Mary and says, "Now what is this poem about?"

Mary takes the evidence bag. Stares at it with her jaw locked and clenched, until eventually: "For lack of a better term, it's a how-to guide for breaking Soul Bonds."

They frown at each other, then at Mary, and John says, "You mean…separating?" It's a foreign concept for most. John only knows about it because his sister recently went through that mess with Clara. It's one of the reasons they're currently not talking.

"No." Mary sighs. Presses her fingers to her lips. "It's…different. I suppose it's hard to explain for someone who doesn't know about half-souls."

"What." It's not even a question; more a demand. It drips from Sherlock's tongue with massive amounts of ire and distain, and if he looked more incredulous or disgusted, something on his person may break. Accusing Sherlock of not knowing relevant information is a mistake in the first place, and the fact that 'relevant information' is apparently some sort of fortune-teller babble is probably driving him just about insane.

It would appear that Mary is not intimidated. She rolls her eyes and says, "Half-souls. Very few people know they exist…well, except for those that have them, of course." She pauses, furrows her brows, and continues, "It's hard to explain. Normal Soul-Bonds…well, you know how that works. Two people who are meant to be together."

"Obviously," Sherlock snaps. "We all have Soul Bond Inscriptions, you don't have to educate us on what they are."

"But half-souls are something different," she snaps, glaring at Sherlock. "They're…they appear the same as regular soul bonds, with an SBI…but instead of two souls bonded together, it's one soul looking for its other half. Less Soul Mate, more…one soul."

"I hope you realize how idiotic that sounds," Sherlock snaps. "There is no such thing as souls. It's an archaic term used by the pagans to explain the phenomena of Soul Bond Inscriptions when, in reality, we probably started naming our children because of the markings on our hands. Thousands of years ago, people likely didn't have names. Then the SBI started appearing on our ancestor's hands, probably more out of a genetic tic than anything, and people in the same tribe began finding the colors which matched, and naming their babies by the markings on their partner's hands. Sometimes children went years without a name, because their Soul Mate had not yet been born. Then the population grew, people got tired of referring to their newborns as 'you there' and thus the 'soul' story was invented to explain the phenomena. It's pure genetics, pure science. There is no such thing as a soul."

"Science can be wrong."

Deeply perturbed, Sherlock leans back. Crosses his legs and arms and jiggles a foot. "What relevance does this have to the case?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know."

"How did you know it would be there?" asks John.

"When I found the bodies, I…I looked around before calling the police. It was poking out of her mouth a bit…" Mary shifts uncomfortably. "Can you come back later? I'm starting to feel tired."

On the other side of the ward, the nurses hop up as if they've been summoned and advance on Sherlock and John. One of them pulls the curtain around her bed while the other rests a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and says, "Sorry, sir. You're going to have to leave. Miss Morstan needs her rest."

"Morstan? Your last name is Morstan?" John frowns at her, brows furrowed. Thinking. "Where have I heard that name before?"

"I have no idea," she says. Her eyes, however, betray how panicked she is.

A noise from Sherlock denotes amusement, and John watches as he chuckles while slipping into his coat. Listens as he says, "It's not her you've heard of, John. It's her brother."

"Shut up—"

"About eight years ago, her brother Martin Morstan was part of a certain group of criminals which kidnapped children and killed them before mutilating the bodies in particularly gruesome ways. Oddly enough, those cases hold a striking similarity to today's crime, in that they usually kidnapped the children in pairs, and forced them to kill each other." Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You would have been how old, Miss Morstan? Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"I told you to shut your sodding mouth!" Mary grabs the first thing she can—which happens to be a cup full of ice chips—and hurdles it at Sherlock's head. It misses by a long shot—the concussed do not make for good marksmen but the damage has been done. One of the nurses restrains Mary and the other shoos John and Sherlock out the door, shooting nervous glances over her shoulder as Mary continues to scream irately.

They're outside the hospital before John dares say another word. When he does, it's, "Do you think she did it?"

Contemplatively, Sherlock shakes his head. "No. It's too sophisticated for her. I mean, honestly, there's a reason she's a funfair fortune-teller. And it would be much more sloppily done if she was just copying what her brother had done. However, I have no doubt that this ties in with those crimes in 2002."

"You would have only been twenty-two yourself at that time," John remarks. "It's impressive that you retained something like that for so long, especially considering that had to have happened while you had other things on your mind. You would have been in university, right?"

"You remembered it, and it would have been during your residency."

John snorts. "I remembered the name, and only vaguely. You remembered all the details of the case. You don't have one of those photographic memories, do you?"

Chuckling slightly, Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I don't. Although several members of my family do, my mother included. However, I just spent a great deal of time a few years ago working on memory technique called method of loci. It involves, for lack of a better term, building a structure into which you put all of your memories and all of the information you learn. That news story was occurring while I was constructing it, and it must have inadvertently been included. It probably would have been deleted otherwise."

"What, so like…a house?"

"Yes. For some. Others it's just a room, a location they remember from when they were young. Or, for some, it's larger. Office buildings, skyscrapers…palaces."

"Palaces? Really?" John pauses for a moment, examining Sherlock as they near the corner and Sherlock lifts an arm for a taxi. Suddenly realizes, "You have a palace, don't you? A…brain palace?"

"Mind Palace."

John whistles. "Wow. And you did that while you were in university?"

"Just after, actually." Sherlock goes quiet suddenly. Distant. John can almost feel it physically. "There was a period of time during which I…was very unhappy. I did things that I very much regret. Mycroft suggested working on the method of loci as a distraction, but it was…momentary at best." The taxi pulls up and Sherlock quickly ducks into it, folding himself down and pulling up his collar. John realizes that trying to continue the conversation would not be welcome, and he'd just start an argument otherwise.

The last thing they need is more arguments.

Instead he just rests his hand on Sherlock's thigh. Squeezes. Sherlock looks at him, stares at him, and slowly unfolds himself. The ride back to Baker Street is companionable, if silent.

By the time they get home, it's only three o'clock. It feels like it's been more than a day since they've been home, but in reality it's only been about five hours. John realizes that neither of them have eaten since breakfast—well, he ate at breakfast, he's honestly not so sure about Sherlock—and commences fixing something to eat. In the end it's just some leftover risotto from a few nights ago, but it's better than nothing, and there's more than enough to make a second meal out of.

Around five, Lestrade arrives. John had been expecting him—he always manages to debrief with Sherlock, even if he's already run off—and merely sits behind his laptop while the detective-inspector and his Soul Mate exchange information. Mary had apparently still been pretty distraught when the police arrived. Had to be sedated. As can be imagined, she wasn't much help in that state.

"So do you think she's involved somehow?" Lestrade asks towards the end of their conversation, more or less inquiring on the same vein John had been as they exited the hospital earlier. "I mean, obviously she's not the murderer—she'd be stupid to leave all of those clues leading us right to her."

"Don't be so sure, Lestrade," Sherlock remarks. He's laid himself out over the length of the sofa and has his hands folded in front of his face. John has come to associate it with deep thought and concentration. "Murderers can get very cocky. Hence the 'catch me before I kill again' mentality of many. But in this particular case, I don't believe that's what's at play. I do, however, think she's involved. I just can't figure out how."

Lestrade snorts. "What, you're stumped?"

"I didn't say that." Sherlock sighs irritably and rubs his temples, moving his fingertips in a circular motion. "I just need to think. Rome wasn't built in a day, Lestrade."

"Well, either way, we know some pretty dangerous people want her dead. She can't stay were she was, that much is for sure. They know where she lives and where she works. She's going to need to be moved to a safe house, but we're going to need someplace for her to stay until we can get one ready for her and negotiate which officers are going to guard her."

Without even glancing up, Sherlock says, "No."

"What?"

"No." Now he does look up, green eyes zeroing in on Lestrade and narrowing. "No, Lestrade. I will not have her under this roof. That's your next question. 'There's an unused flat in this building, can we move her in there for the interim?' No."

Lestrade groans, "Sherlock, come on. This is the safest place for her and she's the only witness to a murder-suicide that may or may not have ties all the way back to 2002. The media are like elephants, Sherlock; they never forget. When they get wind of this, they're going to make the connections quickly, and I don't want to look like a bastard, saying we let our only witness get killed because we couldn't transfer her into protective custody soon enough. All I'm asking for is four, five days. A week at the most."

"I. Said. No." Like a petulant child, Sherlock flips over to face the back of the sofa.

"You could do something for me for once in your life, you know! I'm your God-forsaken brother-in-law!"

"Hah! Funny how you think that qualifies you for a favor of some sort." Sherlock turns his head almost 180 degrees merely to give Lestrade an acidic glare. "I don't do favors for my own brother, much less for the unwitting pawns of his deception, and that includes you."

Shifting on the carpet, Lestrade holds up a hand, forefinger and thumb pressed together. Opens his mouth a couple of times, looking for words. Finally says, "You know…just once, just once, it would be nice if you'd consider everything your brother and I have done for you, and maybe be the slightest bit grateful."

"Gratitude is for the faint-hearted."

Lestrade shakes his head. "Do you hear yourself when you speak?"

"Do you hear me when I speak? I said no. Goodbye, Lestrade."

Lestrade, fists clenched at his side, turns on his heel and stomps towards the door. John looks at Sherlock, then at Lestrade's retreating back, and once more at Sherlock before sighing and making a decision he knows he will come to regret. Stands up and catches Lestrade at the door.

"It's only for a few days, right?" John says, crossing his arms. "I'll not inflict her on Sherlock for an extended amount of time, Lestrade. The woman's basically a lunatic. But if there's no other option, I'm willing to tolerate her for a few days."

"Only a few days," Lestrade confirms. "A week, ten days at the absolute most. It usually doesn't take that long to prepare a safe house, though. She should only be here four or five days, and the flat will be on round the clock surveillance."

John snorts. "I'm not so sure it isn't already. Mycroft has all kinds of tricks up his sleeve."

"No, I made him stop surveying Baker Street when you moved in. It seemed a bit invasive, you know? You and Sherlock being Soul Mates and all."

While he's grateful Mycroft isn't going to be acting like some Peeping Tom of a big brother, the idea that there was surveillance doesn't sit well with him. John says, "Hey, why does Mycroft feel the need to monitor Sherlock? I mean, I know he's overprotective, but I'm overprotective of my sister and I don't act like he does."

"Well, with all due respect, John, I'm not the person you should be asking. And I really don't feel comfortable answering that. Even if Sherlock is an annoying dick, I'm still not going to reveal secrets he doesn't want revealed." He claps a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't worry. All in due time. Thanks, though, for this. I was beginning to think we'd have to clear a cell in the jail for her, and I can't imagine that would have gone over too well."

"Yeah, mate. Just make sure you get that safe house ready as soon as possible."

Lestrade nods, gives a small salute, and is gone.

When he returns to the living room, it's to the sound of Sherlock's door slamming shut. He sighs, sits down on the sofa. Groans into his hands. He knew he'd regret this. Wonders how long Sherlock will drag that tantrum out.

He thinks the worst is over when Sherlock slugs his way out of his bedroom three hours later and throws himself onto the sofa. He still doesn't seem to want to be social, but at least he's once again gracing John with his presence, and that's usually the first sign of forgiveness with Sherlock Holmes. John kneels down next to Sherlock's head, places his fingers in his hair, and says, "I know you're angry, but let's talk about this, yeah? Communication and all that."

"I don't like that woman, John," Sherlock tells the sofa. "Her philosophy completely contradicts mine, she's volatile, and I don't want her within one-hundred meters of me, much less beneath the same roof."

"I know, I know. I feel the same. But everyone has the right to safety and, at the moment, hers is severely compromised. There's no reason we can't let her stay here for a few nights. Besides, it might earn you a favor or two with Lestrade in the long run."

"Lestrade long ago stopped awarding me favors."

"Yeah, well, maybe he'll reconsider." John is certainly not above dropping the hint when he needs to.

It doesn't seem that Sherlock is convinced, still rigid and facing away. John rubs his back and says, "There's something else bugging you, isn't there?"

Without preamble, Sherlock turns his head to face John and says, "Her SBI is John."

He blinks. "What?"

"Her SBI. It's John. I couldn't help but notice when she threw that cup at me earlier." He places his face back against the cushion and continues, "I know it's irrational. But I can't help but hate her a little bit for it. It's habit. I spent so long being jealous of everyone who had the same SBI as me."

That is probably that last thing John was expecting. He was fully prepared for Sherlock to go on a rant against the woman's ethic and moral codes, or else rant about John going against his wishes and agreeing with Lestrade. He can work with this, though. Sherlock's opening up to him and he can't ruin that opportunity.

"I…" John stops, gathers his thoughts, and starts again, "I won't pretend to know what it was like for you. I know my name is common, and if I could have done something about that I would have, but…Well, it was my parents' decision. Nothing much I could have done about it, even if I went by my middle name. SBI's are always the first name. But I know it must have been hard for you, what with so many people with my name. I keep forgetting that you and I had very different Searches. Yours was looking for a needle in a haystack, and I was just trying to find the one." He pauses, presses his lips together. "I guess I hung onto that childish delusion that the first person with my Soul Mate's name that I met would be mine. I suppose I never grew out of it because…I didn't have to. But you did."

"Twenty-four," Sherlock says.

"Hmm?"

"I met twenty-four other Johns before I met you." He rolls onto his back, folds his hands on his stomach. "The average woman will meet an average of four people with her Soul Mate's name before she meets hers. The average man, roughly eight."

"Well, I've only ever met one Sherlock."

Sherlock turns his head to the side and smirks. "We're outliers."

"Mm." John gets up to lay beside Sherlock on the sofa. It's really not big enough for two grown men to lie on, but they've done this before and John knows just how to tip his body so he's not clinging quite so precariously to the edge. "I think the last thing you need to be worrying about with Mary is what her SBI is. I don't think she's dangerous, necessarily, but…she's strange. I'm no more comfortable with her staying here than you are, but she had to stay somewhere and the sooner they find a temporary location for her, the quicker they can move her to a more permanent one. Also, the hospital won't release her until they know she's secured lodgings and I wouldn't want my fellow doctors to have to tolerate her for too much longer."

That makes Sherlock chuckle, at least, and John presses his forehead under his chin. Kisses his collarbone. Then his throat. Then his jaw. Intends to stop after every one, but can't quite bring himself to. Tells himself he'll stop when Sherlock tells him to and continues, across Sherlock's cheek, to his nose, to his mouth.

Sherlock kisses back, which he takes as a good sign, and rises up to straddle Sherlock's hips. Their kisses are still sloppy because they hardly ever do this. As usual, John doesn't care. Is too distracted by the fact that he's actually allowed to touch Sherlock like this, lips against lips and hands underneath his shirt and hips against hips.

Groin against groin.

It seems that Sherlock realizes what is happening at the same moment he does. They spend a few seconds staring at each other, wide-eyed and shocked, pupils dilated, until John climbs off the couch, allowing Sherlock to sit up, stand up, and flee the room.

John sits back down and buries his face in his hands, cursing at himself. Now you've done it, Watson.

Chapter Text

The rest of the night, Sherlock makes no reappearance. John goes to bed at eleven o'clock, after thoroughly dissecting the situation and coming to a rational conclusion. While he's not exactly sure what sent Sherlock fleeing for his own bedroom, he does know what made him freeze up. What made them both freeze up. It hadn't been a conscious thought, more like reflex. It had been the return of that sensation of biting off more than he could chew.

It's not the end of the world—he's firmly told himself that about ten times—and he simply needs to apologize.

So in the morning, he goes downstairs and knocks on Sherlock's door. It's slightly ajar, which may hint that the detective had been roaming about at some point in the night. At first, he doesn't think Sherlock is awake—didn't really expect him to be, what with it only being nine o'clock or so—and is preparing to walk away when Sherlock opens the door, standing there in all his pajama-clad glory. He doesn't say anything, just raises his eyebrows and props himself against the doorjamb.

John wonders if he slept last night.

"Sorry about last night," John says, by way of explanation for his presence. "I…well, we got carried away, didn't we?"

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, and lets it out with a sigh. Looks down and appears to think for a moment. Looks back up and says, "I was startled. I needed time to think. I'm not used to being confused and I'm not the greatest of communicators under the best circumstances. I should have acted more rationally, but at that moment I knew I needed to remove myself from the situation in order to properly assess it, and so I did." He pauses, but John can tell he's not done and stays silent.

"I've been in a similar situation," he says, "with someone else—and I really do apologize for that. It…well…it set off a chain of events in my life that I'd like to forget."

They are silent for a few minutes, both of them lost in their own thoughts, staring at ahead but not seeing. John tries not to think about the fact that, where Sherlock is concerned, he isn't the first. Knows that if he does, he may say things he'll regret. He knows he shouldn't be jealous—Sherlock is his Soul Mate, after all, and he regrets his adolescent transgressions as much as anyone regrets such things. It's hard to remember, what with his robotic demeanor half the time, that Sherlock is actually capable of things such as regret.

Just thinking it makes him feel like a complete asshole.

"So…what did you end up with?"

Sherlock's eyes trail up to glance at John from under his lashes. "What?"

"You said you thought about…everything. Did you come to any…conclusions, or…?" He doesn't know how to say it without sounding pushy, but he would like to know what he can and cannot do from now on.

In response, Sherlock looks down again with a small huff of a laugh, crossing his arms. If John didn't know any better, he would say Sherlock was nervous—or embarrassed. He says, "Well…I like it when you touch me."

"Are you sure?" John says before he can stop himself, and immediately wants to crush his head against the wall. It's a question that's been burning in the back of his mind for weeks, and especially last night, but he never thought he would actually show so little discretion as to ask it.

Understandably, Sherlock is offended. His posture straightens and he looks down his nose at John and yes—this is the Sherlock John is used to. While the slightly timid, somewhat sweet Sherlock of the last ten minutes makes a nice change, this is the version of him—haughty, drawn up—that John knows, and knows how to deal with.

"No, John. Don't know what I want and I need you to decide for me."

"Stop that. That's not what I meant, and you know it." Sherlock, eyes narrowed, continues to glare but at least looks a bit more open to suggestion. He continues, "It's just…sometimes I do touch you, and it doesn't seem like you want it. You brush it off or inch away. Sometimes it doesn't seem like you want me around at all. I know you probably can't control it, but you've got to understand how bloody confusing it can be with all those mixed signals."

"You're not the only one receiving mixed signals," Sherlock points out, raising an eyebrow. Jabs a finger into John's chest and says, "You're the one who initiated the events of last night, only to fling yourself away from me when you realized how my body was reacting. It's also confusing when you pull me into your lap one day, and proceed to ignore me the next. Or, John, when you keep information from me, such as the fact that you're still having those strange dreams."

Now they're back to that. John would rather not talk about it, but if sacrifices have to be made, it's a small one. He says, "Okay. I see where you're coming from. Do you want to talk about the dreams? We'll go sit down and talk about the dreams. This is all about communication, Sherlock. You need to tell me what you want, what you like, before I can make any confident moves. So far you've given me nothing."

"Is this dissolving into an argument?"

"I'm trying not to let it."

Sherlock pushes himself away from the wall while letting out a long sigh, and runs his left hand through his hair. It's obvious he's irritated. Whether with himself or John, it's a little harder to figure out. Then he says, "We're grown men; this shouldn't be so hard!" and John knows which one it is.

"It's not as though they teach these things in school, you know," John says, reaching out a hand and resting it on Sherlock's upper arm. "You…don't get yourself so worked up, okay? It's just harder for some people. Sometimes, Soul Mates just click. Other times…they have to work at it. We're very different, you and me. Polar opposites, practically. But you know what they say about opposites attracting."

A short, slightly hysterical laugh leaves Sherlock's mouth, and he says, "No, I don't actually. I think that proves your point."

John laughs as well, for lack of any other way to react, and slides his hand down Sherlock's arm to take his hand. Squeezes. Sherlock leans down, slightly hesitantly, and presses his forehead against John's. They are silent for a few minutes, and John feels as though he should say something, eventually coming up with, "I like to touch you, you know. And I like to be touched by you. You're not alone in that regard. It makes me feel…it reassures me. That you're there."

"Look at us," Sherlock sighs. Lifts his arms and wraps them around John, and John places his hands on Sherlock's waist and it's nice. It's really nice to just stand there and embrace, feel the warmth of another living body and know it's the person you've been spending your life looking for. When he was young, he never thought he would be satisfied by something so mundane. Never thought it would feel so good just to wrap his arms around someone and hold tight.

"I need you to do me a favor," John murmurs into his neck. Sherlock hums in question and John says, "Tell me when you need this, okay? I know it's not in your nature, but everyone needs a cuddle now and then. I don't care when, I don't care where. If you need a hug, I'll give it to you." Inside his head, it sounds look a good plan. A good first step to the physical side of their relationship, and a good compliment to the plan of increased communication that they've so recently implemented.

When he says it though, it sounds a bit childish.

To Sherlock, however, it appears to be a good idea. He presses his face against John's neck, and John can feel his eyelashes against his skin as he blinks. He murmurs, "Okay," against John's neck, and John tightens his grip, just a bit, and presses his lips to Sherlock's cheek.

Soon enough, Sherlock breaks away. He looks a bit embarrassed, perhaps about his show of emotion—a show of weakness, as Sherlock might think of it as. But even the embarrassment he hides well. John decides to give him a moment alone, and walks into the kitchen. Pulls out milk and orange juice and sets two pieces of toast to brown in the toaster.

The toast pops up as Sherlock walks into the room, and he grabs it out on the way past. Gets John's jam out of the cabinet and sets a piece of toast in front of him. They sit for a few minutes in silence, Sherlock buttering his bread and John putting jam on his.

Out of the blue, Sherlock says, "How long have you been having them?"

John looks at him, toast halfway to his mouth, and says, "What?"

"The dreams. How long have you been having them?"

He shrugs and says, "Yeah, well, I've been trying to figure that out myself. I thought that they started that night—the night after we wrapped the Blind Banker case." Here, Sherlock makes a face at John's mention of one of his 'ridiculous blog post titles,' but John ignores him. "But now that I think about it, I think I started having them a bit before that. Probably a few months. Say…around the time I moved in here." He shrugs again, takes a drink of his orange juice. "For all I know, that's the reason I'm having them."

"Do you think it could be me?"

John's head snaps up, intending to reassure Sherlock that he's done nothing, but finds Sherlock looking curious, rather than wearing any expression of devastation—which most people would reasonably assume upon contemplating that they are the reason for the strife of their Soul Mate. Not the first time, he says a silent thanks that Sherlock is Sherlock (For every thanks, there have been an equal number of curses, but he's not going to think about that) and replies, "How so?"

"Well, you moved into Baker Street the same day you met me, more or less. There is any number of variables in your life that were changed when you did so, most obviously the fact that, where before you were still Searching, your move to Baker Street coincided with you meeting me." He frowns and leans back in his chair, crossing his legs and arms. "The question is, why? I suppose it could be stress. Unlikely, though, considering you lived the better part of three years in a warzone. Have you ever had these dreams before?"

A shake of the head. "No. Not that I can recall."

Sherlock sighs, slightly frustrated, and says, "I don't understand. Most nocturnal phenomena can be easily explained given the content of the dream or the conditions in which the subject finds himself, but with you it's…completely illogical. Your life is the least stressful it's been in years, even with the introduction of my work. Not to mention that it's not a problem with dreaming…it's a problem with remembering them. There's plenty of data but no answers."

Smiling, John eats the last of his toast and gets up to put his plate in the sink. Stops next to Sherlock's chair and squeezes his shoulders. "Don't stress yourself over it. They'll stop on their own, I'm sure of it."

"There's also the fact," Sherlock mutters, as he gets up himself—his toast half-eaten—and joins John at the sink, "that roughly forty-five percent of the time, you wake up with a scream of my name."

This causes John pause, and he stands there for a second, watching Sherlock rinse off his plate and toss his uneaten toast in the rubbish bin. There's something on the periphery of his mind, like a song he'd forgotten but only just. It tingles at the back of his mind, saying here I am, come catch me as it flits further into the recesses of his mind. It passes quickly, and he's left extremely confused and mildly disoriented. Sherlock is still there, and still running water over his plate. John comes up behind him and encircles his waist, more to disguise his sudden need for assistance supporting himself than any sudden affection.

From the living room, Sherlock's phone pings. John mutters, "Probably Lestrade," into his shoulder blade.

Sherlock hums his agreement—John feels it more than hears it—and John backs up, away from him and back into the bedroom. Calls back to Sherlock, "I'm going to take a shower. Pop your head in when you know what he wants, okay?"

Another grunt, vague and noncommittal. John rolls his eyes, not without affection, and walks into the bathroom, strips, and climbs into the shower.

Ten minutes later—give or take, John's never had an exceptionally accurate internal clock—he hears the hinges on the door whine as Sherlock pushes it open, and subsequently his Soul Mate's baritone as he says, "Lestrade says the found out where the couple from yesterday lived. They need me to meet them there this afternoon."

"Oh yeah? Why?"

"That information is forthcoming."

"Alright then." John turns the shower off and gropes around on the wall just outside the shower stall until he finds the towel rack. Wraps it around his hips and says, "I'm coming out."

"Okay."

When John pulls open the shower curtain, Sherlock is sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, attention absorbed in his phone—no surprise there. John opens the medicine cabinet, pulls out his toothbrush and toothpaste, and starts brushing his teeth.

It takes him a minute to realize that Sherlock is abnormally quiet, and the tapping of his phone has stopped. John glances down at him, and at first he thinks Sherlock is just in thought, his chin propped on his hand and his elbow on his knee. Then he realizes the other man's silver eyes are staring at him from under his lashes, subtly and silently. Noticeably, though, because there is a small patch of red on the very tips of his ears. Would be unnoticeable except that John, for once, is looking down at him instead of up.

"Sorry," John says, once he's spit out his mouthful of toothpaste. It comes out gummy, because he hasn't rinsed, but it's intelligible. "Are you embarrassed?"

Slowly, Sherlock shakes his head. "No."

Suddenly slightly self-conscious, John pulls up the towel cinched around his waist and turns back to the sink, with his back to Sherlock. He says, "Sorry, I didn't even think." And, honestly, he hadn't. In the army, no one had cared if you wandered about naked as the day you were born, let alone wearing a towel. They were quickly desensitized to it, mostly due to necessity. It's hard to live in a mass barracks where everyone has to share a shower and not encounter another bloke wandering around in his birthday suit every once in a while.

Here though, he has Sherlock. Sherlock, who his Soul Mate and, whilst not entirely as proper as appearances would deceive, is still a bit less comfortable with the idea of random nudity.

Not to mention, Sherlock is his Soul Mate. Someday, at some point, they're bound to give into physical temptation. It's a bit different walking around in nothing but a towel in front of the person you actually plan to have sex with one day.

"It's okay," Sherlock mutters, still staring straight at John's abdominals. He's not in as good a shape as he was in the army—six months of sickness and a subsequent period of lots of exercise with very unhealthy eating and sleeping patterns will do that to anyone. However, he's not in horrible shape either.

He realizes that this is the first time Sherlock has seen him shirtless. Then he realizes that Sherlock may be staring at this stomach in an uncharacteristic bought of tact. The wound on his shoulder is an eyesore that anyone's gaze would be drawn to the moment they set it on shirtless John Watson.

After rising, John turns to Sherlock, props his hip against the counter, and says, "You can look at it, you know. I'm not ashamed of it or anything." It doesn't seem right to deny Sherlock something like this. It would feel as though he was denying Sherlock the chance to learn more about him.

Sherlock does not have to be asked twice. He's not coy, Sherlock; probably grew up learning that you took what was offered you lest it be taken away at the next opportunity. So he moves his eyes upward, settling them on the puckered scar on John's shoulder. It's not gross, per say, but certainly not what the normal person would call pleasant. To Sherlock, though, it's probably fascinating. Not because it's on John's body, at least not solely. More because you can tell so much about people from their scars. John should know; he's a doctor. He knows that kind of stories scars tell. Add that to Sherlock's breathtaking ability to deduce practically anything he wants from even the smallest bit of evidence given, and it's as though John is offering himself to be read like a book.

For all he knows, he is.

"You say you're not ashamed of it," Sherlock murmurs, after a lengthy examination, "but you also layer your shirts to reduce its appearance under your clothing and don't wear anything that might leave it on display, or otherwise allow it to be seen through."

He's not sure it's a question, but he answers it anyway. "Well it's winter, isn't it? And besides. I'm not ashamed of it, but that doesn't mean I want everybody and their brother staring at me. I mean, most people…when they see that kind of thing…their first reaction is to stare, or gasp, or look away. It's embarrassing. Little kids stare at you and pull on their mum's skirts and ask what's wrong with that man over there, why's his shoulder like that. They don't know any better, but it still hurts. I'm lucky to have a wound that I can hide. Some of the guys that made it out of bombings and sniper attacks weren't nearly as lucky as me. They lost legs or arms or their faces were deformed. I'm lucky it's something I can hide."

"You didn't worry about me reacting negatively to it."

John raises an eyebrow and chuckles, "I think we both know you're not nearly that squeamish."

"But I am staring. You mentioned staring as a negative reaction."

This makes John pause. The easy answer would be to say you're different, but such a vague answer would undoubtedly be completely unsatisfactory to Sherlock. Instead he says, "It's okay when you do it. I can tell your skin isn't crawling with disgust, or you're staring at it out of some kind of…train wreck reflex."

Sherlock smirks. "Too horrible to look at, too fascinating to look away."

"Exactly." John brings up his left hand and swipes his thumb over Sherlock's brow. "You're just…gathering information. It's sweet, in a very…you way."

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock says, "I can't tell if that's an insult or not."

John rolls his eyes and leans down, tilting his head opposite the way of Sherlock's. Says, "You know what I mean," and presses two kisses to Sherlock's lips.

Unlike times past, they do not dwell on the kiss. Sherlock turns back to his phone, responding to another ping! And John airs his intentions to go upstairs and dress. It's nice, actually, to not have to think about it. Review their actions as though training for something. It's progress.

John comes downstairs ten minutes later. Sherlock is still sitting on the closed toilet lid, frowning at his phone. It's not unusual for Sherlock to plant himself in an unusual place and proceed to become absorbed in whatever he's doing. John found him at the bottom of the steps once, bum on the third stair up and feet on the floor. He'd lost himself while trying to find the weather in New York. By the time John found him, he was absentmindedly playing Tetris on his phone whilst contemplating the bigger problem of how someone who had been in New York only four hours before had ended up in London.

Sometimes he worries John. He seems far too adept at doing things without really thinking about them, or else leaving his body to distract itself with repetitive actions while occupying his mind with bigger problems. He'll often pick up a pencil and twirl it in his fingers, over and over for hours on end. It reminds John too much of bad cases of PTSD and while he knows there's no parallel between Sherlock's absentminded twiddling and the torpidity of the severely damaged, he can't help but be bothered by it.

"Sherlock?" he says. Grabs his comb off the counter and runs it through his hair. Stares in the mirror and plays with it a bit. It's just gotten long enough to style and after six years of buzz cuts he's trying to figure out if he actually likes having longer hair again.

"Mmm?" Sherlock brings his thumb up to his mouth and bites into the very tip of it with his front teeth. He's done that before too, and John wonders if it's some remnant of nervous thumb-sucking Sherlock grew out of when he was little.

"What did Lestrade say?"

"Oh, right." Sherlock reanimates and clicks rapidly through his phone—the man can fire off a text quicker than John can even unlock his own mobile—to pull up what is presumably his conversation with Lestrade. Says, "As usual, he's sparse on the details, but he says there were some odd findings. They found the identification cards of both victims—Joseph and Rachel Hirsch. Very Jewish."

"Do you think this was a hate crime?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. Lestrade says nothing in the home was touched, aside from the jimmied front door lock and the tousled sheets on the bed. I won't know until I get to the house, but a mutually religious couple is almost always going to have some variety of religious paraphernalia decorating their house. If this was a hate crime, they would surely have been vandalized on some way. Lestrade didn't mention anything of the sort; he says there aren't even signs of a struggle. Nothing looks knocked over or shaken up. In-and-out job."

"Is that's what's peculiar?"

Another headshake. "No. It just means there had to be more than one kidnapper, and they must have used some sort of respiratory anesthetic. Chloroform is most likely. What's odd is that neither of them have each other's mobile number in their phones, nor emails, nor any other contact information."

John furrows his brows, then shrugs and says, "Perhaps the cell phones were for work?"

"People who have work phones usually have personal phones as well. And these people weren't ultra-orthodox Jewish, or otherwise unacquainted with modern technology. Lestrade was careful to tell me that they had a brand new television—one of those fancy ones with the stupid names, lava or something like that."

"Plasma?" John volunteers, barely keeping himself from snorting.

Frowning, Sherlock snaps, "Yes, plasma," and a giggle leaves John. Sherlock rolls his eyes and continues, "They had a plasma television and both had a laptop, and the mobiles were newer models. It doesn't make sense that neither of them would have their spouse of all people in their contacts."

Far from trying to figure it out himself (if Sherlock can't, John doesn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of it) John just shrugs and pats Sherlock's back. "Maybe we'll figure it out once we get there."

Sherlock sighs noncommittally and rises from the toilet seat. Says, "I'll shower and change." So John goes into the living room and turns on the television and doesn't watch it for fifteen minutes until Sherlock comes out, primed and ready. It's amazing how quickly he can get his arse into gear when there's something going on, but when John wants him to go somewhere that doesn't involve murder it's like pulling teeth. He mentions as much, and only gets an apathetic snort. It's the return of case-mode Sherlock, uncharacteristically suspended mid-case before and now back with a vengeance.

They go downstairs and hail a cab (Sherlock does, rather, with his almost supernatural ability to hail cabs whenever and wherever needed) and Sherlock gives the address—John vaguely recognizes it as a Chelsea address. Comments, "These people weren't poor."

"I told you so."

John hits Sherlock in the knee. He grumbles, but in his reflection in the mirror, John can see the corner of his mouth is quirked up. He smirks at his own window and pats Sherlock's thigh.

They are dropped rather unceremoniously by their cabby, about half a block from the crime scene. Cab drivers tend to get jumpy when they see police cars for whatever reason—probably instinct from so many warnings about moving violations and speeding. Cab drivers in London drive as bad as anywhere else, but they get you where you're going more or less. Either way, Sherlock pays the man and they walk the rest of the way, the always-pleasant Sally Donovan standing as the marker on the front yard of the designated house.

"Morning, Sally," Sherlock says, mockingly chipper as always upon greeting.

Sally rolls her eyes and turns around, leading the way into the house.

It's large. The entirely of Baker Street would fit in the living room and adjoining dining room. The floors are all wood, polished to within an inch of their lives, and the sofa and two matching chairs are brown, as is the dinette. The television is at a perfectly absurd angle and can only be seen by someone sitting on the very edge of one of the couches without extreme contortion. The rug underneath the glass coffee table is some sort of fur. Just being here makes John feel how middle class he is.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here," John says as they walk in, "and say the husband must have been someone important."

"Some lawyer," Sherlock says, waving his hand in a way that says not important. "He has a high-profile clientele. A few well-known artists have used him when suing record companies and such. I looked him up while you were dressing. It's not anything relevant to the case; this didn't happen because of their money. Couldn't be further from typical burglary or home invasion."

John makes a noise in the back of his throat as Lestrade comes downstairs. He and Sherlock cross towards the dinette to plant themselves in front of him. For as little as Sherlock respects Lestrade's authority, he's usually willing to take his marching orders before rampaging around a crime scene. Whether or not he follows them is another thing entirely, however.

"Okay," Lestrade says, "Forensics has already been through and done their bit. They didn't find anything substantial, but there's some trace evidence that they're taking back to the lab. I'll have the results back to you as soon as possible. The landlord wants to get in here and check the place over - for obvious reasons - so you have free run of the place for half an hour, and after that we have to wrap things up. There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs, although one of the bedrooms is empty and the adjoining bathroom looks rarely used. There's a garden through the kitchen, although Anderson's crew has already been through there with a fine-toothed comb and didn't find anything."

"I didn't think they would have been through the garden," Sherlock says, remarkably civilly. John wonders if Lestrade's words from last night are setting in, or if Sherlock just doesn't want to waste the energy and time on being snippy. "I'll focus in the bedroom and bathroom." He pauses, glances around, then says, "The laptops and mobiles. Where are they?"

"With the A/V people in forensics."

Sherlock blows some hot air out his nose and grumbles, "Fine. Tell Anderson I want copies of all files and documents created on the husband's computer within the last month and copies of both of their emails from the last three. I want their browsing history going back as far as possible. I also want to know if the browsing history has been deleted. Tell them they need to sweep the memory for any recently-deleted files on the laptops, and check the mobiles for tampering."

Squinting at his notepad, Lestrade says, "Okay, I think I got all of that. Is that it?"

"For the moment. Can I go upstairs now?" Somehow he manages to sound both professional and like an irritated six-year-old.

Lestrade gestures to the stairs. "Be my guest. Or, well, theirs."

Ignoring Lestrade's morbid humor, Sherlock walks past and up the stairs. John follows, stopping to pat Lestrade on the shoulder. Gets to the top of the stairs just in time for Sherlock to turn him back around and tell him, "No, you look downstairs."

"I thought you said we were going to look around upstairs!" John sighs, exasperated. He steps away from Sherlock, not liking the idea of being frog-marched downstairs in front of Lestrade and his team.

Sherlock says after him as he heads down the stair, "I said I would focus upstairs. I need you to look in the living room and kitchen. Find anything unusual, anything that seems out of place or like it doesn't belong here. Anything that might be relevant to the murders."

"What constitutes 'unusual'?" John inquires, frowning back at Sherlock from halfway down the stairs.

"You'll know it when you see it."

Confused, but perhaps slightly flattered that Sherlock trusts him enough to go in basically blind, John continues downstairs and ventures into the kitchen. It's a very stark room with bare countertops and no grime whatsoever. John cleans their kitchen regularly, and makes Sherlock clear out any hazardous waste, but there are always a few dribbles of something on the stove, and their counters always have something on them. Maybe it's just been too long since John saw a clean house, but the sparseness is getting to him.

Strange, that, considering the neat-freak habits the army instilled into him. Sometimes he wonders if he's slowly turning into Sherlock.

The more he looks, the more irritated he gets because there is literally nothing to be found. There's practically no dust in the entire place, let alone anything that could be considered 'evidence' left lying around. There is a picture high up on one of the walls in the kitchen, obviously a wedding photo, and every time John looks at it he gets more irritated. The smiles on their faces seem to be mocking him. Look at our lovely clean house, they say, nothing here to find.

It's hateful, utterly hateful. He runs his hands over his face, twitching nervously, and only realizes after the fact that he's actually spun in a little circle. Just like Sherlock does when he's irritated. It surprises him, enough to bring a bit of rationality back to himself, and he stands there in the kitchen, staring at his hands. Christ, he really is turning into Sherlock.

Calm down, he tells himself forcefully, you'll find something. You have to. These people did live here. There's got to be something.

He takes a few deep breaths and almost feels himself coming back into his own head. The disoriented feeling from that morning is back, and he has to lean against a counter for support for the briefest of moments. He shakes himself, slightly concerned, and leaves the kitchen. Can't stand being in there for one more minute.

There are some folders on the coffee table that John can only assume hold information on cases the male victim had been working on. John flips through them, not finding much, until he moves on of them aside and comes face to face with something that is most definitely relevant.

A business card. For a fortune teller.

It's purple and technically advertises 'mystic' services: palm readings/tarot readings/aura readings, but to John it all translates into fortune teller. He sets it carefully aside, where he'll remember where it is, and glances over the table. Uncovers the remote after lifting one folder, glances at the television, and mutters to himself, "I wonder…" before picking it up and turning the television on.

It's on BBC Three, and he has a suspicion that Snog, Marry, Avoid had not been on when the television was last turned on.

He heads upstairs to alert Sherlock, only to meet him halfway on the stairs. Presents the business card and says, "I found this, and also the telly's on BBC Three. They have this show on right now, comes on around nine. It's this show about a woman who talks to the dead. Complete flake, obviously, but if you're into that kind of thing, you'd probably watch it."

Sherlock takes the card, listens to John, and gives him a smirk. Says, "And I found this."

He holds out a flyer. It's one for the fair. The fair where Rachel and Joseph Hirsch were killed. It lists several of the attractions at the fair, and in the lower left-hand corner, circled in pencil with two exclamation points next to it, is a sentence in gold text: Come get your palm read by a real psychic!

"It looks," Sherlock mutters, "like we're going to get more use of out Miss Morstan yet."