(Hi, guys, it's been a really long time since I've published literally anything, and I'm not even sure if I'm gonna continue this story, but let me know if you guys think I should keep working on it and I hope you all enjoy it. )

(Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters and most of the dialogue is stolen directly from the show, so that's not mine either.)

Chapter One

John Watson was not expecting the words "Oh, thank you. Afghanistan or Iraq?" to appear on his arm one day just before his fifth birthday, but they had. He had been concerned at first, tried to scrub them off, worried his mother would be cross with him for writing on himself, but he couldn't make the words go away. He'd gone to her, crying, trying to explain that he hadn't done anything wrong, but, despite his expectations, she wasn't angry. Instead, she seemed pleased. She explained to him, that he was very lucky. He had a soulmate. They had been born today, and their bond was exceptionally strong, going by how dark the words were. She told him that most people had a soulmate, and the bonds were shown by phrases that decorated their skin, either from the day they were born, or from the day their soulmate entered the world. Those words are always the first thing your soulmate would say to you. She had dried his tears and congratulated him. One day he would find somebody he was meant to spend his life with.

So, he grew up, wondering what his answer to this question would be. What he would do to prompt such a response. What he would say when he heard the words "Oh, thank you. Afghanistan or Iraq". For the longest time he didn't know. Didn't know what his answer would be. He didn't know why anybody would ask him such a question, but when he joined the military he had his suspicions as to why one would ask that. Suspicions that were confirmed shortly after. The question was also answered. Afghanistan. He practiced whenever he was bored. Practiced the delivery of the words. Tried to think of what question he would ask in return. Once he was deployed he didn't think about it as much. In the three years he was there he hardly thought of it at all, and when he did it was very briefly, when he was alone, just about to fall asleep. His right hand would drift over and rub lightly over the words along the inside of his left forearm. He couldn't feel them, but he knew they were there. Comforting, a reassurance that his soulmate was out there somewhere. That one day he would ask a question that was etched on someone else's skin.

But that idea was crushed. Thrown away. Blown to pieces by the same shrapnel that tore into John. One piece going straight through his shoulder… Another piece, one tiny shard of metal, through his neck. He was told that it was a miracle he was alive. A miracle that the scarring was minimal, and that he'd be able to continue his life in much the same way as before… But he'd most likely never speak again.

Now, his soulmate was not his first thought. His first thought has something along the lines of "What do I do now?". He was being made to go back to a home he didn't have any more on an army pension that wouldn't allow him to continue to stay in a decent flat. Not in London, but he couldn't stop himself from going back. He worked on his sign language, not that many people knew it, but it was better than the bloody speaking app that Harry had downloaded for him. It was difficult, but he managed. Still, he knew something would have to change. He didn't know what, but it would have to happen soon.

That change occurred one afternoon while he was strolling through the park. Mike Stamford, an old friend from school, called out to him. Of course, he didn't know what had happened to John in the years since they graduated, but he didn't react too badly. Stamford allowed John to respond on the notepad he'd taken to carrying around and didn't stare to badly once he noticed the one small scar that was visible on the side of the other man's neck. John recounted his accommodation troubles, only to have Mike suggest a flat share. John rolled his eyes and scribbled in his notebook.

'Come on, who'd want me as a flatmate?'

Stamford chuckled, "Well, you're the second person who's asked me that today."

That was how John Watson found himself following Mike Stamford through the halls of St. Bart's Hospital. John was not expecting to be lead down to morgue's lab, but the moment he stepped through the door he knew that something was different.

The man sitting in front of the microscope was absolutely stunning. Tall, striking pale skin against dark curly hair, and cheekbones that didn't seem possible. When he spoke, John, straightened slightly, not expecting the low timber of the other man's voice.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

John stood, watching this strange man who hadn't even bothered to look up from his task for the briefest of moments before his brain started to work again. He snapped to draw the stranger's attention before signing, 'Here, use mine.' he dug the device out of his pocket and waved it slightly to get his point across.

The man looked up at him, seemingly surprised at his presence, his bright eyes looking back and forth between John and Mike before he spoke, "Oh, thank you."

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike interjected as the dark-haired stranger stood and approached John.

He took the offered device and set to work, typing away, his eyes entirely focused on the screen. When he spoke again it took John a moment to realize that this stranger was talking to him.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John's heart skipped a beat. The words were not said the way John had imagined them said, but there they were. They were matter of fact, not really questioning at all. This was the first time John had even thought of the words drawn on his arm since before the explosion, and here he was, standing there, unable to give his soulmate an answer.

He tilted his head questioningly and the man spoke again. "Which was it, Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

The blonde swallowed hard as he started to reach for the notepad in his coat.

"Don't bother. I can sign."

John straightened and signed, vaguely pleased that his hands decided not to shake, 'Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know-"

Before he could finish a woman entered and the stranger turned his attention away from John. "Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you." He handed the phone back to John and proceeded to have a conversation with this Molly woman that made John realize that maybe this man was not his soulmate after all. He was entirely rude. John gave the woman an apologetic smile when he realized he was being addressed by the man, who may or may not be his soulmate, once more.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John tilted his head once more, in question. 'Sorry, what?'

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John stared at the man for a moment before turning to Stamford, who was watching them with an amused smile.

"I didn't tell him anything."

"No, he didn't, but I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

John shook his head. Did this man know everything about him. 'How did you know about Afghanistan?'

The man ignored the question as he put on his coat. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together ought to be able to afford it." He searched something on his own mobile before turning back to John, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

He brushed past John who laid a hand on his shoulder before he could exit the lab. 'Is that it?'

The man raised an eyebrow, "Is that what?"

'We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?'

The man glanced between John and Mike once more, "Problem?"

John looked over at Mike who smiled knowingly. He sucked in a breath, 'We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name.'

The man leveled his gaze on John, his expression serious. "I know you're an Army doctor. And you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him 'cause you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" The man opened the door and made his leave, only to pause and look back at John. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He clicked his tongue and bid Mike afternoon and he was gone, leaving John to stare after him in amazement.

Mike chuckled. "Yeah, he's always like that."

John went back to his hotel room not long after, his mind whirling with… Everything. Questions, possibilities, sometimes just noise of everything that has been or ever could be. Who was this Sherlock Holmes? Was he really his soulmate? Would he ever actually know? He couldn't speak. Did signing count? John settled down at the desk provided by the hotel and opened his laptop. He had research to do.