Ever since John Watson went into high school he kept his wrist covered, be it with an ace bandage or long sleeves. Once he reached the age of 12, kids started to make fun of him for the scrawly penmanship that was printed there. But it wasn't that messy script that was the problem. It was the name that was written there. But then again it wasn't the name either. William was a perfectly good name for a young bloke. The problem was that the name was in fact a name for a male.

Now, John had always fancied women. It's not that the thought of being gay bothered him; so much as he had never been attracted to guys. However, being called out on his "soul-mate scratch" made him uncomfortable. So in the long run it was just easier to keep it covered then to get shoved into lockers by some of his rugby mates.

Sherlock Holmes was not ashamed of the chickens scratch on his wrist, he was infuriated by it. He wasn't so much upset that he got made fun of because it was a male name. In fact, up until right around the age of 16 he showed his soul-mate scratch proudly, thinking to himself that somewhere there is someone all for him and only him. When Sherlock turned 16 he started to crave intimacy and companionship... but "John" was the most common name on the bloody planet!

So without any friends and no hope in his eyes to find companionship the gangly teen closed himself off; Sherlock used his mind as his companion, putting away his wishes and emotions. He tried as hard as he could to put this "John" character out of his mind focus on much more important things. Even though he didn't show it, John was always there nagging at the back of his mind. Whether he like that fact or not wasn't clear.

John Watson was not by any means a coward. The fact that he currently was seated on a plane bound for Afghanistan proved that. The anxiety bubbling in his gut could be because he was being shipped off to war. On the other hand, literally, was the fact that his wrist was in view to the public eye, and he could not strategically cover it up like he was used to.

Having the window seat John was comfortable and not worried about wandering eyes as the man next to him was fast asleep. But that peace did not last long as a baby started screaming causing the man to wake up. John could feel his fingers start to twitch as the man looked over.

"Good afternoon" The man said still sort of a drowsy tone in his voice.

"Eh...err... um… Afternoon." John said clenching his hand and turning to look out the window for a quick moment before looking back. When he returned his glance back to the man his eyes landed on his wrist. His stomach dropped at the sight. "John" was written plain as day. "Excuse me sir, but... I don't think I've caught your name."

"Geoffrey. And yours?" The man asked.

John's heart sank a bit. "Ah... um... John..." He said hoping the man wouldn't question it. John could see the man's eyes light up with hope.

"Um... uh..."

"-Mine isn't Geoffrey." John interjected before the man could continue. They both awkwardly turned away and slid into an uncomfortable silence.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES YOU WILL NOT DROP OUT OF UNIVERSITY" Mycroft Holmes boomed over the phone.

"And who was it that informed you?" Sherlock groaned.

"SHERLOCK, I HOLD A VERY HIGH POSITION IN THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT IT DOES NOT MATTER WHO TOLD ME, WHAT MATTERS IS THE FACT THAT YOU, ARE. NOT. DROPPING. OUT."

"You are not Mummy, I will do whatever I please. Now goodbye, I have better things to trouble myself with." And with that he hung up the phone.

He didn't know where he was going to go. But what he did know was that he was not staying at this blasted university for a moment longer. How dare Mycroft tell him what to do. He needed to stop doing that ages ago. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. Sherlock shoved some of his belongings into a backpack, making sure he had what little money was left in his wallet and his belt as he slipped out of his dorm.

His head was swimming with thoughts. No matter what he told him, Mycroft wouldn't understand. 'Mycroft was practically the British government, if he wanted to find his soul mate – which he didn't – he could spend a few minutes on a computer and come up with him.' Sherlock thought before scoffing to himself. He tripped on a crack on the pavement and went tumbling, long limbs flailing around him as he hit the concrete.

Once he caught his breath he sat up and looked down at his feet. Damn it, he had tried so hard. He thought he had found the one... he thought he had found His John. But the damn bastard had lied to him! He pushed himself up off of the concrete and broke into a dash. He had to get away from here. He was done looking.

John was startled by the sound of people bursting in to the building – a patient. John dashed over to his station pulling out things he expected he would need.

"Any open stations?" One of the people called.

"Over here!" John cried shifting things off the bed.

"His name 's Will. 23. Gunshot to the abdomen." One of the soldiers said in a panicked voice.

He went into doctor mode, immediately putting pressure on the wound. "Nurse I need a numbing agent!" This man's name was Will. Or... William? Damn it he needed to save this man! "Shh Will, it will be alright. Deep breaths." he said to the man, even though he couldn't hear him. He had passed out from the pain long ago.

"Damn it, Nurse?!" He shouted but she was right around the corner. He knew he was going to be too late. Damn it this could be his chance. His only chance! He shoved the IV needle into Will's arm, draining in the medication. But he saw no motion in his eyes under the drawn lids.

John pressed his fingers onto the man's neck hastily searching for a pulse. There wasn't one. John Watson, an army doctor, who saw several deaths a day was almost in tears. He picked up the patients other wrist and looked down at it. His heart sinking a bit before he finally willed himself to look.

Looking down at the man's wrist he was finally able to breath. The name on the man's wrist was Hannah. God, this was the last time he was getting his hopes up. He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve.

"He's Dead. Take him away" Dr. Watson turned with a solemn expression and began to clean up his station.

A grubby 23 year old, with a wild mess of dark matted hair, sat huddled in a back alley of London. He was shaking severely and his arm itched. God, how his arm itched. It had been three days. God he needed a fix. Maybe he could go steal some from the bloke down the road.

He managed to get on his feet and a pain shot through his stomach. When was the last time he ate? Oh what does it matter, food is boring. What he needed was something better, something to sooth his aching mind. He stumbled down the road looking for Jim.

He came around the corner when he spotted him. "Hey Jim, you got what I need?" He asked. Jim nodded. Sherlock's current plan was to take the drugs and run. "Always do," He smirked, pulling a baggie and waving it tauntingly. This was Sherlock's only chance. He grabbed the baggie and turned on his heels breaking into a full out sprint.

A gun shot rang through Sherlock's ears and he couldn't stop himself from mumbling "Dammit Jim" as he turned around to face the angry little man having not made it far. Sherlock immediately took the gun out of the picture, by slapping it out of Jim's hand and across the alley. He was not prepared for what was next. Jim quickly sucker punched him in the nose, and Sherlock could hear the terrifying crunch of the bones as blood spurted out. He threw a blind punch in Jim's direction, only to have his momentum used against him, as Jim threw him to the ground, continually kicking him in his ribs. Sherlock moaning in agony as each kick bruised his ribs more and more. The pain was getting unbearable, and then the kicking subsided.

Jim approached Sherlock "Better Luck Next time!" he chimed as he collected his drugs, strutting out of the alley.

Sherlock began to think death might be welcome. It was clear to him he would probably never find his soul mate John, who's name dark on his wrist teased him so. He hoped that death would collected him soon, so the pain that rang through his body would be gone, but he mostly wanted death to get rid of the stronger pain in his heart. Why couldn't have that man just been his John. He wouldn't be here if he had been. Sherlock curled up in a ball and waited for death.

As a shadowy figure approached, he thought it was the figure of death himself, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to be no longer. But the figure spoke "We're going to help you, don't worry, I'm here." It wasn't death after all, it was Greg Lestrade , and the police sirens could be heard howling in the back ground as he faded in to unconsciousness.