Author's note: Another trope for the Bingo challenge. This one was "Soulmates". Enjoy!
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes didn't hate the idea of soulmates. Hate was a purely subjective expression, meaning that one couldn't bear something others accepted or even enjoyed. He had never seen the point in hating anything.
Neither did he see the point in soulmates, however. The simple fact of having one's life partner chose for oneself, even before one's birth, was not romantic to him; it was despotic. Fate had chosen for you; there was nothing you could do about it; and you were supposed to rejoice.
He wouldn't. He had grown up in an exceptional family. His parents weren't soulmates, but had chosen one another, which he would have deemed far more romantic than the other option, if he had cared about such things at all.
Soulmates found each other – they always found each other. And from then on, it was supposed to go in the way society had told everyone it had to go for hundreds of years – love, marriage, children. He wondered if Soulmates were simply Nature's insurance that humanity would reproduce.
Once one found one's soulmate, one knew. It was as simple as that. One looked at a person and felt a bond. A bond that drew one towards him or her.
But one could walk away. His parents were the proof of that.
Mummy and Dad were happy. They had both met their soulmates before they had laid eyes on each other for the first time, but they had decided not to pursue a relationship with them. They didn't talk about it much, but it was clear that they had simply not liked them.
Most people assumed, from the long and happy marriage, that they were soulmates, and they never corrected them. Being with someone else when your soulmate was alive was frowned upon.
It would have been easier if one never met one's soulmate. But one always did. There had never been a case recorded in which two soulmates didn't – not unless one of them was dead, but then the other one was sure to run into his soulmate's family, and whether dead or alive, one knew. It was enough to be told the name of the person one was supposed to spend one's life with.
Sherlock Holmes had decided early that he didn't want a soulmate. He was against romantic entanglements. Aside from the fact that it would take up useless space in his mind palace, it was sure to distract him from his work, and his work was everything.
It was one of the few things Mycroft agreed with. Mycroft, however, turned out to be luckier than he. He never had to deal with a soulmate who wanted a relationship because his PA was just as passionate about his work as he was. Anthea was content to have a fulfilled life as the best employee of the British Government. Neither of them desired more.
Sherlock, when he had thought about it at all, and that had only been sparingly, when the cocaine had numbed his thoughts, had hoped that his soulmate would understand him as well.
She didn't.
He had just got clean and was working on a case for Lestrade; the solution was obvious, but of course idiots like Anderson needed proof, so he was at St. Bart's to look at the evidence and the body.
As soon as he entered the morgue, he knew.
The young woman turned around and stared at him with bright eyes, her mouth half open, before she gave him a brilliant smile.
He quickly deduced her: intelligent, a cat, non-smoker, romantic. It was the last that made him sure this conversation wouldn't be nearly as pleasant as the one Mycroft had had with his soulmate on the day they met.
This woman had clearly been waiting for her soulmate for years, had been dreaming about this moment.
It was best to spare her the pain.
Before she could say anything, he told her, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. We are soulmates, but I am not interested in indulging the bond. And I never will be".
He then asked her to show him the corpse; as he was leaning over it, she left the room.
He was aware that she was crying, but there was nothing he could do about that. She had to accept that there was never going to be anything between them; that certain dreams wouldn't be fulfilled. Leading her on would have been cruel. Telling her the truth wasn't.
Over time, he came to respect and even like Molly Hooper; more than that – to trust her. It was a slow process, and despite everything, he tried not to give her hope. Because of course she developed a crush on him – it was only natural that a romantic like her would. But she was too clever to hold on to a stupid fantasy, and he registered with relief that she was trying to move on.
Her crush was still obvious, and she was still hoping, but she was trying.
When he met John Watson, it became complicated.
Not because everyone, including his soulmate, believed they were a couple; not because there was ever going to be anything between them – his reasons against romantic entanglements were as strong now as they had been when he had been younger.
But John Watson was his friend. And once he met his soulmate, he wouldn't be anymore.
Soulmates, by popular belief, provided one with everything one needed in life; a partner, a friend, a confidante. Sherlock didn't think so himself, but he knew John did. For all the horrors he had seen in Afghanistan, he still hoped he would live a life with wife and children in a beautiful house.
It was only a matter of time before he met his soulmate, who would provide him with everything he needed. His leg wouldn't hurt anymore because he had found his perfect match. His visits would become rarer, until he was gone for good.
He was going to enjoy it while it lasted. He was angry at himself for showing such human weakness, but he couldn't help it. He had a friend; for the first time, he had a friend.
During the time he spent with John at his side, he grew to have other friends too. There was Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade; Molly, his soulmate; even Mike Stamford.
And then Moriarty happened. It was exhilarating to have a worthy opponent. It was not exhilarating to see John in danger, to know his friends to be in danger. Far from it. And so he took the one decision he could.
Two years later, years in which he had tortured and captured and killed, he came back.
John had found her.
He knew as soon as he saw him. Of course he checked up on him first, even before going to Mycroft.
Her name was Mary Morstan, and she was beautiful. She was a nurse, smart, caring, yet exciting enough so that John's limp wouldn't come back.
She was everything the doctor deserved.
When Sherlock knocked on his door, he didn't expect him to help him catch Moran.
He expected and accepted the bloody nose he got.
And yet John put on his jacket afterwards and they ran to catch Moran.
They did, and John spent the night at Baker Street afterwards. It was almost like Sherlock had never left.
Of course John went home the next morning. There was nothing he could about it, nothing he wished to do about it. John had met his soulmate. He would go down the path that society dictated; living happily ever after with Mary, visiting him now and then. That they would be as close as they once were was unthinkable.
John kept coming over, though. He gave him the cold shoulder for a week or two after Moran's arrest – and Sherlock fully expected it to be the end of their friendship – but he came back. He came back and made it clear that he was still there, that he would still help Sherlock on cases even with his work at the hospital.
He was weak again. He allowed it. He should have sent him away. He knew there was no place for him in John Watson's life; there had never been; he had been a band aid, someone to help him until his soulmate came along.
But here John was, and Sherlock was weak, and they were running around London as if nothing had changed.
Everything had, though. Afterwards John left, went home to his perfect soulmate, and Sherlock was in 221B, alone, just how it had to be.
Lestrade came by more and more often. He didn't mind. It was nice not to feel the emptiness of his rooms.
The DI and Molly had grown quite close, and for a while, Lestrade was embarrassed about something; Sherlock needed some time to understand that Molly had told him they were soulmates and his friend didn't know how to act around him. He was glad they were happy together, really; and an off-hand comment, made one evening far more subtly than John would ever have believed possible, made Greg happily saunter off. A few days later he and Molly had their first date.
Things were going as they should. Everyone was happy. Sherlock was happy too, even if happiness was just as much a construct as hate was. He had his work.
He didn't expect the Sterndale case. It was a welcome distraction, different from his usual cases, a scientist who used an almost untraceable poison that first led to madness before killing someone.
John wasn't there – any why should he be – and he decided that he could try and inhale some of the poison. He had an idea how much it would take to kill him, so it wasn't dangerous.
It went wrong – he had underestimated the strength of the substance – and if John hadn't come in, he would have been dead. Despite what the doctor said, he knew that.
"You could have – "
"It was a miscalculation. If I had died, it would have been my fault".
John winced as if he had been slapped.
"And that doesn't bother you?"
He shrugged.
"My work is dangerous. I have been aware of that from the beginning".
John leaned against the wall of Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, where they had temporarily retreated to until the poison cleared out.
Sherlock expected him to argue, but he didn't. He only said, quietly, "You have to be more careful".
"It's my choice".
The words sounded bitter, but he couldn't help it. It was his choice. He believed in choice, not Fate that brought two people together. He believed in the choice to make his own friends, and failing that, to live his life alone.
John left. He had expected him too. He had expected for a while that he would turn around and not come back.
It didn't hurt. It didn't. He didn't allow himself to feel pain.
Just as he had predicted, it wasn't only John who had something against his lifestyle. He overheard Mrs. Hudson talking to his former blogger a few days after the incident – he hadn't even let him know that he was in the building, but how could Sherlock not be aware of him the moment he entered 221B? – and learned that Mary didn't want him to visit Sherlock anymore.
Soulmates were supposed to make sure there other half was safe. Sherlock was dangerous. It was logical that she didn't want John to run into a poisonous atmosphere when he came to visit – visit like normal people, not due to a desire to solve cases with him.
He didn't need the excitement Sherlock had provided for him anymore.
As he continued to listen, he heard that Mary was fine with John and Sherlock meeting up "like regular folks".
It would never happen.
Sherlock went upstairs, as quietly as he had come, and was convinced he would never see John Watson again.
John Watson opened the flat door this evening, a suitcase in hand.
"John" Sherlock said calmly, in case his doctor misunderstood their relationship, or rather the one they would never have, "I – "
"It's not about that" John interrupted him as he went to his room.
"It's my choice".
Half an hour later, he had unpacked and was trying to convince Sherlock to eat.
Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes didn't hate the idea of soulmates.
He simply preferred choice to Fate.
Author's note: I hope you liked it, please review.