AU: Who wants some feels! Well go ahead! Take these! HAHA They are reversal feels! Made to break!

...I should be finishing my other fanfic... not doing one-shots like this... Anyways, Read&Review! :)

inspired by this video watch?v=8yYMPbHSawg

What's a soul mate?

It's a… Well it's like a best friend but more. It's the one person in the world that knows you better than anyone else. That someone who makes you a better person. Actually, they don't make you a better person; you do that yourself, because they inspire you. A soul mate is someone who you carry with you forever. It's the one person who… Who knew you and accepted you and… Believed in you before anyone else did, or when no one else would; and no matter what happens you'll always love them. Nothing can ever change that.

Sherlock Holmes never expected to find someone who looked at him with a smile, who saw past his temper and rudeness, who saw him for who he really was. He never expected to feel sadness over the thought of never seeing someone again. Sherlock Holmes was not one for affection; he neither gave it nor accepted it. Fear of losing someone else, of having a small, or large, twisting sensation in his gut when seeing someone in danger was very new to him. Yet someone had walked into his life one day, limping something terrible and looking very lonely and lost. He hadn't thought much of him; short, slight bags under his eyes, in a war, injured abroad, yet forgot about his limp when distracted. Sherlock did feel slightly intrigued, but nothing extra-ordinary. So he invited him to share his flat, having already deducted this stranger needed one.

John Watson.

An unremarkable name for a remarkable man.

Sherlock eventually grew to like Doctor Watson. They became best friends; they became what some might call soul mates. Neither thought about their actions towards the other. John became accustomed to Sherlock's temper; Sherlock became accustomed to having an average minded person living with him. They laughed, they joked, they argued. Neither had ever experienced anything like it. They really did love each other, but not how so many said they did. Their love was friendship, but a little more. Their friendship was the dark blue of Sherlock's scarf he so often wore. Dark on faded at times, but always so tightly knit, wrapped up in one comforting knot against bitter reality.

And then Sherlock fell.

With him went a piece of John's heart. A very large, very shattered piece. John left half himself with the blood pooling round Sherlock's head, his curly brown hair wet with the stuff.

John was broken. Losing one's soul mate is like dying, only you stay physically alive. John became a shell. He continued to live in 221 B Baker Street. He continued to stay in touch with Lestrade and Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson worried. His therapist worried. His limp returned with a vengeance. He often found himself sitting on some bench with no memory of how he got there. The bags under his eyes grew. His shoulders often slouched. John Watson had been broken.

Then, he iced over. He became hard. He lost all signs of depression, save the limp. Depression was replaced with anger. He was furious at Sherlock Holmes for leaving him without a proper explanation. He went about his life with a velocity that worried many, helping with cases far away from home, never giving up on anything. At his job as a doctor, he saved more lives in one week than seemed possible. John Watson had sworn to himself to never let another human die if he had any say in it. One little girl at the hospital, who had a very bad case of bone cancer and leukemia, had asked him if he needed a Band-Aid. The little girl had been only seven, yet she had seen the hurt in John. He asked her to explain why she thought that, and she said that he had lost his angel. John had looked at the little girl, an oxygen tube plugged into her like a charger cord, and told her "I think you might be right. I think I do need a Band-Aid, but I don't know where to find one. My angel is lost; it flew away to places I cannot go. Can you tell me what to do?" The little girl had smiled just a little, and pointed to his chest. She pointed to the right side, but John knew she meant his heart. "You need to stop crying and go looking. Angels never fly away, but sometimes the get trapped." John had smiled sadly at the little girl, but had promised he would. "But you have to keep fighting, okay? You have to fight this with your angel, because you two are a pair, right?" The little girl recovered.

But ice melts. John's ice melted with his first dream. He had dreamt of Sherlock, of his return. When he had woken up there had been hot tears of anger in his eyes, but the tears cooled rapidly. John Watson had, once again, been broken. He took to re-reading all his old blog entries. But he always saw the last one and shut his laptop to slump down and close his eyes to try and block out the world. The last entry. The very last.

"Sherlock Holmes: DEAD"

However closing his eyes only brought back flash backs of his best friend. Memories of his smile, rare but bright. The look when he solved a case. The sound of his voice and the sharp edge of his mind. All these came back to John in too bright colors, too sharp sounds.

Then, something happened. A little girl with a scarf wrapped around her head, a blue scarf, as a matter of fact identical to Sherlock's, sat down at a café where John was sitting. "Hello, did you find your angel? Me and mine fought my sickness. And look, I'm better! Mommy says I can talk to you because you saved me. Are you my angel? Because mommy never lets me talk to grown-ups." John stared at her. Then he remembered the little sick girl and their conversation. "My angel is trapped, someone took it and put it in a cage. No, I am not your angel, but I promise yours is very strong. Just like you." The little girl had smiled, and poked him in the chest. "Silly, no one can trap your angel! Only you can! But maybe you are a little scared of your angel, because you think your angel will be mad at you for trapping him away." John blinked. Maybe she was right. "You never asked me my name, grown ups always do, but you didn't. So I'll tell you. I'm Lizzy. Who are you?" John was taken aback by the little girl; no one had tried to befriend him since Sherlock had… had left. "John. I'm John." He replied. The little girl smiled. "I think you are a very nice man, Mister John." John smiled at that, and corrected her telling her she didn't have to call him 'mister'. The little girl, who now had a name, laughed and grinned up at John. "You are a very nice man, John. I hope you can let your angel free, I think you miss him." A woman in a soft grey sweater, a tired smile on her face interrupted their conversation. "You must be Doctor Watson. Thank you for saving my little girl. She means the world to me." the kind words were new to John. "Please, just call me John." She smiled. "Why don't you come have supper with us? Lizzy doesn't have many friends, and she likes you." John exhaled a little in disbelief. "Sure, why not?"

So at 7:00 John drove to their house. Lizzy led him to the garden, and sat him down on a swing. For the rest of the evening she talked to him about all sorts of things, and John actually had a good time. The little girl reminded him of himself, and of Sherlock.

Then, while having strawberries and heavy cream, Ms. Henderson, Lizzy's mother, asked Lizzy where she had gotten the new scarf. Lizzy unwrapped the scarf from her head, revealing soft, light brown fuzz. Of course. Chemotherapy. "The nice man outside the café gave it to me. He said if I wore it his friend would return to him. Mommy I'm sorry I talked to him, but he was like John, he had kind eyes." John had dropped his spoon. "What did he look like, Liz?" Liz and thought for a moment, then answered. "He was sad. I think he regretted something, I think he lost his friend. He looked like you when you saved me. Umm… He was kind, but he acted like I was grown up." John needed to know what he looked like. "Lizzy, was he tall? Did he wear a long coat with the collar folded up?" Lizzy nodded her head. "E-excuse me, I think I have to go and find someone." Lizzy grinned. "You think he is someone who can fix you." John smiled. "I think you, Liz, just helped me see I need my angel. I think you gave me the key to his cage." He smiled apologetically to Ms. Henderson. She just waved him off. "Go, go! Lizzy is never wrong about these things!" He smiled at her, thanked her and ran off. Was it possible that his best friend had returned?

He drove back to the café, having little hope of finding Sherlock there. Only he was surprised. Because there, leaning outside, scarf-less with his coat collar turned up, was his other half. His angel. His soul mate.

Sherlock.