Sherlock had always had his Marks, indicating that the other person was older than him. They were a deep velvet, almost fuzzy-looking. They curved sensually around his chest, right above the sharp ridges of his collarbone, and just below the slanting tilt of his shoulders. It sat there like someone had taken an ink pen and just written it on his skin. JHW.

He teased Mycroft mercilessly about his own Marks: GL. "How boring," he'd sniff. "Guess yours doesn't have a middle name. What an interesting, yet easy, search."

He didn't doubt the fact that his Marks were for a woman. His Mummy's had been for Father, and his father's had been for Mummy. Mycroft didn't say anything; he just bought gloves to cover the Marks on his knockles.

Sherlock looked hard for his Mate, the person whose name matched the Marks on his collar, and eventually, he found a woman named Jennifer Holly Waldorf. She was hideously boring and dreadfully predictable. The Marks on both of them stayed ink-pen black, and her's didn't even match his: her Marks read "RMO". Nevertheless, they parted amiably, and he watched her for a while until she found her Mate working as a barista in her favorite coffee shop.

Mycroft didn't share his sentiment. He didn't search, but if he found someone anyway, bearing the initials of his Mate, then he'd watch them from afar until determining that they didn't have his initials as their Marks. They never did.

Sherlock stopped trying to find his Mate. He focused instead on mysteries and dead bodies. They didn't have Marks, but he'd have felt it if they'd been his. The Marks would have paled and faded away, bringing a jerk of pain with them. He checked his almost obsessively, making sure it hadn't disappeared. (He know if it did, of course, but still.)

he only felt that painful jolt once, but when he checked his Marks (in a bathroom; he was at a crime scene and Lestrade was looking at him with pity and horror), it was still there. A near-death experience, he realized, and considered researching recent victims of near-death experiences, but then didn't. He didn't care.

He'd forgotten about it so much, deleted the experience so completely, that when Mike Stamford introduced an old friend, John Watson, to him, the letters didn't even register. He glances up, searches for an obvious sign of Marks, and doesn't find them.

"My work acquaintance, Sherlock Holmes." Mike says proudly. John's face isn't showing any recognition, but that isn't surprising; that isn't his whole name.

He asks for Mike's phone, knowing he won't have it and John will.

And when he has it, he asks:

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"