Your Shadow I Follow
A/N: This story is a translation of the work 'Your shadow I follow' written by MiraHerondale. I do not own the plot of the story 'Your Shadow I Follow', MiraHerondale does. I neither own the TV show 'Sherlock', Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat do. Further, the TV show 'Sherlock' is based on 'Sherlock Holmes' by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Long Summary: AU-Soulmates. In the distant future, a new variant of humans has appeared: the dystopians. These types of individuals have an animal spirit that represents them symbolically and accompanies them from puberty until they meet their soul mates. Through dreams, the couples keep in contact until they meet in real life. Everything seems perfect when Sherlock dreams for the first time with his sand-colored wolf, but a new government appears in London. Soon, the society is divided into two: the side of the 'pure' and the dystopians, causing the separation of many kindred spirits, including Sherlock and his mate. What was the cause of the terror? His name is Leader, but others call him Jim Morairty.
Chapter 1: Painting the Target
The first dream that Sherlock Holmes had with a wolf, occurred on his twelfth birthday.
The wolf's fur was a pale tone, it looked as if it were clear honey; it was sprinkled with white in the tips in areas where it became darker, behind the ears and in the edges of the lower back. The blue eyes of the animal followed all of his movements while it scurried around with its hanging tongue, sniffed the air with his snout, and moved his pointed ears backward and forwards. He observed the wolf from above. His most recurring fantasy was of flying, he always felt comfortable with the idea of rising over everything else. Sometimes, he dreamed that he was a fierce and daring pirate, but he couldn't compare the freedom of flying with being a fierce pirate that was feared.
The sensation of floating above everything else was much better.
Normally, he wouldn't approach the ground in his dreams. There was nothing interesting down there, but that time it was different. He felt an immense curiosity about the wolf; he knew it was important, although he couldn't remember why.
He descended among the bare branches covered in snow in the forest that he was located; it was dotted with white and ochre as an early snowfall occurred in the last days of autumn. The wolf raised its head and sniffed until he was found. He landed on one of the lower branches, not wanting to go lower, and observed from there. The animal walked with its paws treading gently but firmly the fallen leaves, branches, and snow. It walked with a certain elegance, gently wiggling its bushy tail behind him. By the way, it looked its surroundings; you could even say it was lost.
Sherlock noticed, despite his limited knowledge in the animal field that his unexpected companion of dreams was no more than a puppy. Its head was still bigger than its body, and the legs would bounce as if it was wishing to play at any time. The pup reminded him of Redbeard, he wanted to descend and play with him.
Knowing he was small and light, Sherlock planned to descend on top of the wolf and landed on its side, trying to get his attention. The wolf turned its head to look at him, licking its snout. Sherlock looked down and, in a small puddle, he saw his reflection for the first time. He was a raven, small and slim, with long feathers that were black and shimmering like the jet gemstone. He croaked, opening his wings and flapping them gently.
After both, wolf and raven, walked together through the snowy forest –the raven perched on the wolf, kneading the hair with the claws without scratching the skin–, Sherlock started to wake up, and forced himself to fly away, wishing to dream again with the wolf with the sandy fur. He flew off, drawing circles as he rose, and he heard the clear howl of the wolf when it raised its head elegantly to howl.
When he woke up in the morning, he told his mother that he dreamt with a wolf. She got tremendously excited, at the edge of ecstasy, as the dream brought great news with it.
Mycroft and his serpentine dragon with blue topaz scales appeared during breakfast. His brother had a book between his hands, and the dragon snaked through the air beside him. When he sat down, the dragon curled itself in his chair and poked its head above Mycroft's, releasing a light cloud of smoke–smelling as the incense 'Night Queen'–through the nostrils. Sherlock liked to play with Mycroft's dragon, although it also used to be quite ... despotic. However, what he loved most above all things, was sitting by the fireplace to read and having the dragon lying beside him, to smell the incense-like smell that floated around.
"Congratulations Sherlock. You've become dystopian."
In that area of the new world, people emerged with prophetic dreams. Along with creatures that ancient civilizations had called as guardian spirits. They were the shapes of the embodied under the disguise of animals that protected their owner and ensured that they could find their other half. The ones destined to share their hearts.
Not all dystopians–this is how they had called them in the early twentieth century when the first humans with animal spirits began to emerge–were destined to a partner, as they could die before meeting each other; or you could be a dystopian and your animal could never manifest. Furthermore, being a dystopian married to another dystopian did not guarantee that the offspring would also be one, so they were a part of the population that was quite unpredictable.
Despite the seemingly random factors of being a dystopian, it was known that, as a general rule, the first dream with the chosen soul mate would happen in the last years of puberty, when the character of the child is practically formed and the animal spirit can take shape.
This is why, at twelve years of age, when Sherlock announced that he had dreamed with the sand-colored wolf, a giant celebration was done in his home, specifically because it was quite premature. People his age did not have the dreams that early. People his age did not usually have symptoms of dystopia. But that didn't matter.
Because Sherlock had a soul mate and it was waiting for him somewhere.
He only had to search for him or her and pray that nothing happened to them along the way.
The second time that Sherlock dreamed with the sand-colored wolf, the wolf itself was a bigger size, with an abundant coat and strong legs. It had its tail between its legs, fallen, trying to not show itself. The wolf was wearing a chain around its neck, thick and heavy, which bound him to a throne made up of stone, covered with grass and vines. The wolf was looking around, whining and yelping, pulling the chain to break free.
He watched everything from one of the branches over the wolf, waiting to see that there was nobody that could attack him. Everything about the place reeked of being a trap. However, the pitiful yelping of the animal started to break him inside, so without thinking, he glided until he stopped on the floor in front of him, studying the chain, looking for an opening. The wolf looked at him and cried, stretching out to its maximum height, begging for his help. The crow pecked at the bonds without success, and only managed to hurt itself. However, he stayed with the wolf, watching and thinking of a way to free him until he woke up.
The animal, on the other hand, seemed to be comforted only with his company.
When he awoke, Sherlock found himself in the ugly den of drug addicts in which he had gotten himself into a week ago. He was pale, puffy-eyed, and he could easily count his bones by only touching himself. A couple of junkies that gave no signs of breathing at his side were killed by an overdose and kept him company. He blinked, feeling his dry eyes, and could only think about the bound wolf. His soulmate was suffering, somewhere. He could feel it and he knew it.
He got up and walked to the window, opening it wide, watching as the glass bounced, almost falling into the void. The streets of London looked exactly the same as nineteen years ago, only that the world had changed drastically. Sherlock had seen the world change around him so often and in so many different ways, all for worse that now nothing surprised him anymore.
A couple of years ago with the arrival of the new century, a brilliant young mind had overtaken the British government that his father had been serving. Corruption extended through the most influential parts of government, and the leader of the Neolithic Revolution raised itself with the power and the control. In just a few months, the politics of terror spread through London and, later, throughout Great Britain: the dystopians had been considered a pest. Now, being dystopian was punishable by law, and penalties ranged from going to prison to paying a fine, passing through the firing squad at dawn. In the slums of the city, Sherlock had heard that if you were interesting to the Leader, he compensated you by letting you live. And by serving him they would forgive you. But, you had to be interesting.
So for a dystopian, to know if you live or die one more day had turned into a lottery.
And the families who had dystopian children were punished severely. The government could easily command them to leave their property and possessions. Many of these people were evicted, as they couldn't afford to have a house because they could not pay the fines.
Countless had thought of emigrating, fleeing the country, but news soon came that other regimes had taken control of most European nations and had embraced the new politics of hate. Those who escaped to France from the coast of Dover never reached their destination, and the few ships that escaped from the East Coast to Ireland (which remained outside the control of the anti-dystopian and had big fights with the government of the pro cleaning north), or to the Americas, mysteriously sank on the way. Also, there were strict controls at airports and at train services.
The dystopians, who wanted to maintain a slightly marginal life, paying their fines, had a special identity card and a mark on the ear as if they were cattle. A small electronic earring facilitated the control of your pace. If you wanted to get rid of it, you had to cut off part of the ear cartilage and risk being caught by the authorities.
What had once been a source of joy and pride quickly became a social stigma of the worst kind. Often, it became a death sentence.
Sherlock extended his arm towards the outside of the house, a small arm, of a ridiculously small diameter. The pale skin was sticking to the protruding bones of the wrists. For two months he did not taste a mouthful food. The last truck with provisions for the 'Lion's Den' in the neighborhood, where low profile dystopians had been confined, had passed a few weeks ago, with too much security so no one could assault it as they used to do it before.
Rationed food was not enough for anyone. People were hungry. People died. Everything began only three years ago.
The last thing he had eaten had been a piece of bread. He gave the rest of the bread and a piece of cheddar to an orphan boy living on the streets who was now under his responsibility. He was called Wiggins, Bill Wiggins. The child had a golden eagle as his animal spirit and said that he had dreamed with a salamander.
A large crow, black and with bright eyes landed on his arm, it looked as physical as if it were real, albeit with a slight translucent tint. Sherlock reached into the room and closed the window again. The animal let out a squawk, leaving something with the beak on Sherlock's outstretched hand.
Nuts. The crow had brought him a small pouch with ten nuts.
"Thank you," he replied. He really felt it. His body had grown accustomed to the lack of food (largely thanks to the use of narcotic substances, moving freely in the Lions Den). Hugin had always kept him alive, no matter how complicated the situation was. And if Sherlock was hungry, he always managed to bring him food. At least, the one that was available and easily accessible. Sherlock had tried to teach him that he should not risk it too much.
In the depths of his heart, he knew his soul mate was somewhere injured but alive. And it would not let it be killed being that way. He would not cause such pain to anyone, even an unknown stranger. And as matters stood, to survive and to find your soulmate was the only available happiness that the government could not control completely.
Sherlock caressed with the back of his index finger the feathers in Hugin's breast. He was called after one of Odin's ravens, the Norse God. Sherlock had always liked the old myths. And the name had its own joke since it was the thoughts were the only thing capable of keeping Sherlock alive in recent times.
He ate a pair of nuts, which he opened by hitting two loose bricks hitting with each other. It was great. There were five hundred and seventy-six calories in your system for each nut. That would be enough to hold for a couple of weeks.
He dressed and opened the window again so that Hugin could fly away. The good thing of the animals spirit was that they could be mistaken for the real ones if they were seen from afar, so a dystopian who had relatively common animal had more chances to go unnoticed that someone who, like his brother, exhibited a Chinese dragon.
Sherlock could have had a normal life in the "clean" area of the city, across the Thames, but it was not what he wanted. He had been in the care of Mycroft after the death of their parents. Although saying death was sugar coating the obvious lie. It would be more appropriate to say it was a murder because after the authorities found that Mycroft was a dystopian by identifying him with his dragon, he was sentenced to death. He would have been shot if it weren't for the Holmes parents to take the responsibility for it. The government accepted the change as long as Mycroft worked for him them as their personal adviser, but he would have to reside in the Lions Den, like all the other dystopians. And he could never have a partner, or they would be executed.
They would have also identified Sherlock if it had not been because Hugin was perched in an oak tree, away from him and of the Scotland Yard agents. Mycroft had asked if he could be allowed to stay with his brother because he suffered a variety of Asperger that was very strong, and needed constant care as days could pass without him speaking. The agents checked Sherlock and as they didn't find his animal spirit, they decided it was 'pure' and let him go. At that time, during the first year of the new regime, Mycroft was twenty-one years old. Sherlock was sixteen. They put the tracker on Mycroft's the ear. It was an ugly black button that had a flashing green light. They didn't put any tracker on Sherlock.
Since then, they had resisted in a small house on the outskirts of The Lions Den, with Mycroft coming and going. And when there were visitors coming, Sherlock had to pretend to be abstracted with anything, and that his brother had to help him when feeding. He never spoke when there were visitors, and Mycroft spent the first months lost in the drinks, not sleeping at night and working for the Leader during the day. He never forgave himself for the death of their parents.
Mycroft's dragon had been locked in Baskerville, a center where experiments were done with animal spirits and some dystopians that were alive, hoping to get a "cure". Mycroft had been left destroyed, as the dystopians were extremely sensitive to the distance with the animal, and if they were too far it made them suffer. Sherlock once had left Hugin at home while going to get food to the clean side of the city, for security reasons. But, when he stepped on Blackfriars Bridge he had to turn around, he was in agony. There was such intense physical pain that he could not imagine the ordeal that his brother was passing with the kilometers that were separating him from London to Baskerville.
Sherlock bought once the incense 'Night Queen' when he was a little older in one of his trips to the clean area. When Mycroft came home late that night, the room smelled like his dragon did, and he could not help but strongly embrace Sherlock, with tears in his eyes.
It was the first and the last time that he saw tears in the eyes of his brother.
Weakness was not an option when working along with the Leader.
After leaving the nuts in Bills hideout, making sure he was eating properly and he was far from where the raids could find him, Sherlock went to his brother's house, to restore some strength. Mycroft always made sure to have some food hidden between the floorboards, just in case. He also knew that the door of his house was open to him as well.
He sneaked into the building quietly and quickly, avoiding being seen. Officially, Sherlock Holmes had died two years ago from an overdose of cocaine. That was the way his brother had given him some freedom. If someone is dead then, you are not looking after them nor you threaten them. If someone has nothing to lose, then they cannot be coerced. So to some extent, Mycroft had become immune to their Leader.
More than once, Sherlock had tried to pry him what they had sent him to do while he was there. What would anyone not want from a political science student with great deductive skills? Mycroft, with a glass of cheap alcohol in hand and with a lost look, took a few minutes to answer. "No, Sherlock. I do not want to remember."
He would then finish his drink and go to bed, rubbing his temples. The days would pass on without any noticeable changes. Sherlock never went to high school or to university. Everything that he had learned was through practice or through the chemistry books that his brother secretly brought from the 'clean' side of the city. Sometimes, Barton Church a science teacher who could no longer teach and who lived in one of the nearby buildings gave him some books. His license and title had been withdrawn for being a dystopian. Sherlock continued learning and asking his brother the same question again and again. However, he only did it when it seemed that Mycroft came in better spirits within his everlasting anger at himself and the world. He never got an answer.
The house was completely empty, the lights off. And so they stayed. Turning them on would make it possible to know that the house was being occupied when the sole owner was not present. An accusation of trespassing private property would not help him. If the police came and saw that he was there, they would believe that he was a ghost or more likely, they would arrest him and discover his secret. His life would be over, and Mycroft would also be punished for high treason or the closest thing that had existed at the time that what was known, as a betrayal to the crown and country.
He left his old shoulder bag that was full of holes and patches on top of the table in the entrance. The building was small, a block of apartments that was falling apart. The money that Mycroft received was little and exaggeratedly low. The suits that he used in his work were provided in Buckingham, but he wasn't allowed to take them outside work areas. In addition, the ration card that gave him to buy what little food that was available in the Lions Den was barely enough to give Mycroft the adequate amount of food. It was nearing the mediocrity, but everyone was under the same condition, so everything was the same. So that's why feeding two people with a mediocre ration was asking for the impossible. Sherlock only needed some food to hang on to. In two weeks time, when there would be no more available nuts, he would begin to vomit by the lack of comestibles in its body.
And if it were not because there was someone out there still waiting for him, holding on, he would have let himself die. He knew that for Mycroft everything would be much easier if he didn't have to worry when thinking about someone discovering that Sherlock was alive. Maybe he could make the report in Scotland Yard on his supposed overdose a reality. It would be the cleanest and most logical solution. However, if Sherlock hadn't known that there was someone that was looking after him, tolerating his pain without him knowing about them and that they were probably as or more fucked up than him, he would have done it.
But Sherlock had long stopped being selfish.
He took a quick shower to remove the stench of death and drugs so that he could get a change of clothes. Additionally, he was covered in filth from being a whole week in the absence of the world because of the opiates that he had taken.
Then, when he finished, he went to the small guest room with its walls chipping off and the floor bent by the moisture to pull out the chemistry book under the bed that Mycroft had assigned him. From there, he took his own notes on the various explosives and substances. Since the reign of terror began, and chemistry began to make sense on his head thanks to the material and the teachings of Professor Church, Sherlock decided it was time to put his brilliant mind to the service of the revolution.
He had learned that information was important, and in return, he had memorized the entire map of London on his head in an incredibly accurate way. Of course, having an eidetic memory helped. Another thing that he had done with time was to trace with a map the underground lines of the city, including the subway lines that connected the two ends of London like veins. Obviously, the underground channels that passed through the Lions Den had been blocked, but they could be easily freed with a little bit of Semtex or classical dynamite.
There were also the tunnels of the sewage system and the pipelines of River Fleet, which entered until they reached to the 'clean' area.
It would be difficult sneak a bomb into Buckingham palace and to blow it up with the leader inside, but it wouldn't be impossible. The problem was that a sacrifice was needed, and he knew that no one would want to be the willing spare one. And he did not want to be the author of something like that. The simple idea disgusted him. So, he kept thinking about the idea and various available alternative plans.
Mycroft arrived at night when the street lamps began to light up. If he was surprised to see his malnourished brother sleeping on his sofa, he did not comment on it. He left the briefcase with the reports he had to write for the next morning on the kitchen table and began to prepare some dinner for Sherlock. Luckily, he had eaten something secretly before returning because God knew his brother needed it more than him.
Mashed boiled potatoes and an egg were all that Sherlock got dinner that night. At first, he looked at the hot plate with desire, albeit with some reluctance. He was accustomed to not eating for long periods of time, but not his brother, who had to walk among the abundant feasts on the 'clean' side, knew it was forbidden to him to eat. In addition, his job required for him to be in an ideal condition, and the regular feeding that he did not have was basically what was needed to achieve that goal.
"I ate before arriving," Sherlock arched an eyebrow; he couldn't believe Mycroft stealing food, "Mike gave it to me."
Sherlock nodded. Mike Stanford was one of the few "pure" that lived on the clean side that had a semi-regular contact with Mycroft. Mike did not support the new government and he was walking on thin ice by giving food to the dystopians working there, as well as offering blankets, clothing, or any medicine that they may need. Sherlock was sure that sometime they would catch Mike, but until then, it was the closest thing to a guardian angel that they had in a long time.
After that, he attacked the food like a hungry wolf. When he finished eating his stomach hurt so much from the amount of eaten food that he even wanted to vomit, but he didn't allow himself to do that. Food was not thrown away. He felt guilty for eating the two nuts. They were two nuts less for Wiggins.
Sherlock remained sleeping on the couch for a while longer, while digestion was being done. Mycroft sat down to work at the table, filling reports with the regulatory bottle of alcohol before him. The glass was empty, untouched. That was weird. His brother's daily routine was to arrive at home, have a drink and then to continue to work. Sherlock saw his chance when he woke up and saw that Mycroft had finished reports, neatly stacked in front of him. He had his hands covering his face, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt half open, and the bottle in front of him was empty even when a couple of hours ago exhibited itself new and full.
When Mycroft was drunk he would not evade the questions. When Mycroft was drunk he answered to all of the questions. And they were usually truthful.
Sherlock approached him, removing the bottle and glass, and called his name until he looked up at him. If all of the evidence weren't pointed to the contrary, he would have sworn that his brother was sober. He had dark circles under the eyes, which were clear, cold and clear. They were clearly not the eyes of a drunken man.
"What do you do for him? What does he want from you? What do you do?" And this time, the answer came. And from that moment forward he wished he had not asked for it. "We found a group of dystopians," he said, looking at him with lifeless eyes. Alcohol and years of service with the Leader had cooled what were once the warm eyes of, his brother. The years of separation with his dragon had also affected him, souring his character. Now, the denomination "Iceman" was finally living up to its title. "And we took them up to him. Then, if it is necessary, we ... get rid of them." In the presence of Mycroft's words, Sherlock froze in place. He had expected something bad, but not as dreadful. Mycroft took his hand and squeezed it tightly, so much that it hurt. "It's fucking hell, Sherlock. Stay away from there."
The next day, Sherlock seemed more recovered than when he had arrived. He had slept all day, hidden in his stinky room on the top floor of the apartment. It was not until late at night that Sherlock woke up. He had heard Mycroft's footsteps make the old wood creak under his weight as he went up the narrow stairs to his room. This time, they divided the food, bread with cheese like every Monday. While they were eating, Mycroft looked at him. He waited until they stopped chewing the food, they did it slowly in order deceive their stomachs with the illusion that they would have more food inside that would really be. When he spoke, it was soft.
"Today, a child arrived at the department," Sherlock swallowed, without an appetite. Through his head flew the image of little Bill Wiggins and everything fell into place. Mycroft wouldn't have drawn that type of topic so unless it was important. He closed his eyes, not wanting to deduct anything else from his brother, no more than he had done. He did not want to hear it. He left the crust of bread left for him to eat on top of the plate in disgust. He did not realize that his hands were shaking until Mycroft grabbed them above the table. He fought the urge to be revealed and remove them from his brothers' grip. "Did he suffer?"
"I made sure it was fast. He did not notice any pain."
Sherlock swallowed air. "Good."
With that said, Sherlock stood abruptly, the chair scraping the stone floor with a sharp screech. Mycroft closed his eyes, pursing his lips, as the younger of them fled in a firm step to his room, leaving the bread on the plate. When he got there, he sat on the bed, dizzy. The floor was spinning. Everything was unstable. All of him trembled.
He did not realize that he was lying on the bed, curled into a tight ball of skeletal members until Hugin, who had come through the window, crouched into his chest. He deposited a cluster of splendid purple grapes in front of his face, pushing them with its long ebony beak. Sherlock thanked him, as always, and stroked its chest with his finger. However, this time there would be no one to share the spoils.
Neither this time nor the following ones.
"I met one of Jim's toys today," Finally, the monster had a name. It had been seven years since Bill's death, and Sherlock had spent every one of them focused on his plan to end it all. Although contrary to his plans, over time the government had become stronger and stronger. And the 'Lion's Den' had grown exponentially. It was as if whatever caused the birth of a dystopian was itself making it known to the world, testing the ability of the people wanting to eliminate all of them. Challenging them to kill more and more. The more you kill, more I will make appear.
And, as logical as it was, being faced with the fall of the 'pure' population caused panic to spread everywhere and make the measures more drastic in order to control everything. In the end, nature was not helping. If not, worsening the situation.
He discovered the Leader's name when he appeared in an official statement put on the weekly report on the TV. The image barely lasted twenty seconds, but Sherlock was able to remember. And with the name and the face, the bastard's days were numbered. Sherlock was twenty-six years old, and Mycroft was thirty-one.
Apparently, he made his workers call him Jim. "I was in the lobby of Buckingham. He seemed ... pleasant.
Sherlock knew of the rumors about the "activities" and "services" Jim was asking in recent times to the dystopians that he held prisoners in exchange for sparing their lives. Whispers that spoke of servitude in all of the possible ways in which a person could be subjugated to another. They even said that they forced them to find their partners. He let them loose so that they could find them and then he made sure to make them disappear. It was as if it were a cheap soap opera to him. Also, there were talks of slavery. There were parties that were thrown in Buckingham with the upper circles of the 'pures'. There, dystopians and their animals were sources of fun and victims of all kinds of depravities.
However, the scariest thing of all was that he had a machine that was able to tell who was the couple of who. And that was making everything scarier lately.
Sherlock did not want to know the misfortune of all those dystopians. He had long surrendered in trying to empathize with them. He had enough with Wiggins, the engine that was moving his plan. It was what lit his thirst for revenge. "I do not care what that maniac does. He cannot be stopped. I do not want to know."
"Oh. This will interest you, Sherlock. It turns out that he is a dystopian," said Mike.
He had been sent to the 'Lion's Den' along with a team of doctors in order to perform a collection of samples that all of the dystopians by force had to be present. Sherlock sneaked into the hermetic exam room, passing the DNA sample to Mike, by taking the identity of one of the dead junkies in the usual smoking room. It was his only way to have five minutes alone with him. And, in a way, to smuggle contents it in a small extent. It was just enough to get by.
And of all the horrible things in the world, Mike had to take out the worst of them all. It was a curious way to raise the spirits.
"Like all. Do not think I feel camaraderie for those who are like us because you're wrong. It's no good, Mike."
"However, this is different." he pointed out, as he tied the bag full of medicine and sausages in a vacuum package around his body and under the shirt in order to take it home and avoid the police check.
"What makes him different? Is he smart? Half Blood? Does he have a cure to it?" He mocked him. But Mike denied it.
"He has turned into James' personal dog. And when I say personal dog, I mean that literally."
That got the full and complete attention and seriousness of Sherlock, who turned around to look at him, forgetting the smuggling, forgetting everything. He had told Mike about his soul mate a few years ago, after he insisted too much about it. Somehow, he eventually asked him indirectly that if he saw a sand colored wolf in Buckingham or the surrounding areas, to let him know. If his soulmate was in the service of Jim Moriarty he preferred know, as bad as it was than to remain in ignorance.
It was why that small and short conversation was so important. It was because if Jim had dared to lay his filthy hands on his soulmate, the person that gave him a reason to not end his life and stopped him in killing himself in those first three years of the dictatorship; he would kill him slowly and painfully. If his wolf was one of those people trapped in the hell that Mycroft had to come and go every day, he would then lose his mind.
"What do you mean?"
"Than Jim's dystopian is a sand-colored wolf."
That would definitely accelerate their plans.
Original A/N:
Bueno, he montado esta especie de experimento con el AU de las Almas Gemelas, porque hacía tiempo que quería hacer algo así. Iba a ser un One Shot, pero me parece que se va quedar en Short Fic. Aunque los que me seguís desde hace un tiempo sabéis que de poco valen mis estimaciones… así que ya veremos.
Espero vuestras opiniones, a ver si este nuevo tipo de Johnlock tiene buena acogida!
Va a ser un poco angsty, pero os avisaré con antelación si hay algo muy hard para que podáis decidir si queréis o no pasarlo por alto ;)
Gracias por vuestro tiempo!
MH
Translation of original A/N:
Well, I have created this sort of experiment with the AU of the Soul Mates, because for a long time I have wanted to do something similar. It was supposed to be a One Shot, but I think that it's going to be a Short Fic. Although the ones that have been following me for a long time know how little value my calculations have ... so we will see.
I wait for your opinions, let's see if this new type of Johnlock is welcomed!
It's going to get a little angsty, but I'll warn you in advance if there is something strong going to happen so that you can skip it or not ;)
Thank you for your time!
MH
A/N of the translator:
I hope that you guys like my translation of this Fic from Spanish to English. I would also really appreciate if you could comment on any error that I have missed so that I can correct it.
This Fic has eleven chapters and is still in progress, and I have only translated the first one. In two weeks time, I hope that I'll have the second chapter translated so that you guys can continue reading this Fic.
Iglublue12
