They were called Charms, and nearly everyone had one. Nearly everyone, mind that. 15 percent of the U.K. population didn't. And a fraction of a fraction of that specified percentage was made up by John Watson. Not that he cared. He got along just fine without one. The need for Charms was outdated. Inventions like microwaves and spoons and shoelaces had all but replaced the necessity for such things. But they were still nice. Convenient, one would say. Little things that small children would get jealous over. And adults, occasionally. But not John. He was above such things, and nearly all of the rest of society was. But still he felt a little empty; as if there were a few scattered pinholes in him, and little whistles of wind were slipping through.
Nothing that couldn't be patched with a few sturdy jumpers, though. And an enrolment in the army, where there was little time for pondering the worth of one's soul, as one was in danger of being shot often.
And how ironic that this story begins with John Watson, fraction of a fraction of a specified percentage, being shot. And the bullet that ran straight through his shoulder pushed him to the ground in reality, but metaphysically sent him whirling from Afghanistan all the way back to London, in a tiny little flat, on a tiny little bed. Not being able to send a little heat into his covers or light up the room with a flick of his wrist. Just sitting. Occasionally typing on a forlorn blog that failed to help him adjust. Less than occasionally walking about the reformed city he lived in. And really almost never running into old uni friends who insisted on obtaining coffee and catching up and chatting about living situations.
...
"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?"
"You're the second person that's said that to me today"
"Who was the first?"
...
Remember when I told you that out story began when John Watson got shot? A mere two sequences ago? Well, I lied. It begins much before that, several years and months and days; the specificity of which I am not entirely sure of nor care about. The things that matters is, it was a long while ago that Sherlock Homes took his first breath and began his remarkable life.
Now you see, when a child is born, they do not have a charm. It is not marked on their skin, nor running through their blood, nor hidden in their gaze. They are, for that period of their lives, Charmless. Charms are not passed through heritage, either. Families may have Charms in the same general field, but no two people had the same one. For example, Little Mycroft could turn small pieces of metal magnetic, while his father could effortlessly twist fragments of silver. And everyone awaited what promising young Sherlock wold prove he could do when the time came.
The time did eventually arrive, when our young hero was approximately three years of age (a tad late for most children, but not so far out of range to be considered abnormal) and he began sparking. Like a live wire. Scared the deuces out of his nanny, walking in a toddler producing electricity. Most people would have the same reaction. It varied in its size. Sometimes it just danced over his skin, and others it formed a sort of field around him, that could grow to immense sizes. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't control it. Not like his mother could control the way the air around her swirled when she wanted it to. Not in a way anyone had ever seen.
Doctors were baffled. Psychologists suggested that maybe he was doing it on purpose. An electrician they called suggested giving him a pair of rubber gloves and watching him carefully. And his parents, bless them, did the best they could, truly. But after one too many burns, they eventually told him that he had to stop touching people, no matter how careful he was. To wear long sleeves and pants and avoid metal.
Hugs stopped, too. All the physical affection a child needed for proper emotional development just couldn't be given to him. And nearly all verbal niceties halted when the observation began. When he started pointing out everything he saw, and what it meant, he was shushed and given the cold shoulder.
Eventually he figured out what it was that caused his Charm. Emotion. The strong kinds; affection and hatred, the warm, fuzzy one that settled in his gut when he was just content, which sent jagged streams of energy over his palms and fingers. Before, his tiny body had been filled with love and excitement and fear and surprise for everything he experienced. Once he figured out what caused it, he was determined that he could figure out how to control it. So he purged himself of all emotion. Let himself be consumed with science, and chemistry, because logic was the enemy of feeling. He gained a little more respect from his parents, and they encouraged it because it made him seem a bit more normal, not throwing sparks about all the time.
When he was 12, he found a book of psychology, and within its pages there was a definition for the word sociopath; a person who cannot feel emotion. And Sherlock Holmes had a revelation. He has to become one, because no one would want him any other way.
He still wore his gloves at all times, just to be safe.
He went to boarding school, like any other child his age would, and was bombarded with questions about his Charm. He responded with the statement that he didn't have one, for it was better to be simple than dangerous. It didn't last for long, however, because declaring yourself a sociopath at the age of 12 comes with negative attention from those who cannot find a better way to entertain themselves. One too many teasings resulted in an incident that left him branded with a nickname.
...
"He doesn't care about anything." They whispered. "Watch."
"Oi, Sherlock! Your mum's fat!"
Only a shift of shoulders. They tittered with giggles. "Let me try." Another one said, as if Sherlock's psyche was a handheld game. "Sherlock- I bet no one loves you." This time it was not silent. A lightning-blue snake crackled across Sherlock's neck, punctuating the air with a pop. That, however, was only the calm before the storm, because before they knew it, their game had stood up and spun around to face them. "Stop it!" he yelled, nearly drowned out by the buzzing of energy that swarmed around him. "Don't you ever shut up!" He threw his hands out in front of himself, and sparks bounced toward the group of boys, causing them to scamper away. "Why can't you just LEAVE ME ALONE?!"
After he realised what he did, tears filled his eyes, and he sat again, heavily. He pulled his knees to his chest, and hid his face in the gap they provided, so no one would se the streaks of wetness on his face. Not that anyone could get close enough to; a huge field of electricity had formed around him, large and intimidating enough too keep out anyone even slightly inclined to break through.
...
He hears the whispers that follow him, passed from person to person, as if he is some sort of legend.
"Did ya' see what happened? I heard he was shooting sparks everywhere, like some sort of mad freak."
And he accepts his new alias, because it is the closest thing he knows himself to be. Eventually the rumours die out, and the newcomers doubt what their seniors tell them, and Sherlock can just about go unnoticed, because he doesn't let anything like it happen again.
...
At uni, he finds the closest thing he could ever call a friend in Victor Trevor, a young man who can catch snippets of sound in his hands, whose companionship he only seeks when he is in need of a solution to his ever-buzzing mind. As months pass, his time spent with his makeshift companion becomes more frequent. They shoot up together, laugh about things his sober self would find insufferably stupid, and sit in companionable silence. Victor always keeps his distance, because when Sherlock's mind is at ease, his body ripples with blue lightning. Victor catches the crackling noises with his palms and listens to it with his eyes shut tight. He tells him that it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard.
And one horrible and glorious night, when Sherlock is too high on cocaine and companionship and maybe even a little love to care much about anything, he doesn't realise that Victor, out of his mind and high as fuck, is darting in to kiss him, just relishes the unique feel of someone else's touch. Neither of them see Sherlock's energy field expand hugely in size and engulf them both. It lasts less than 10 seconds before Sherlock is holding a limp body instead of the one person who ever tried to break past his sociopathic demeanor.
They are found a day and a half later by people who have reported Victor missing. When they break open the door to his house, they see first a corpse laying over the side of a couch, and then Sherlock, sitting in a corner, staring at nothing with a blank face. He is charged with negligent manslaughter, possession of illegal drugs, and failure to report a death and is expelled.
Due to an outside government influence, however, he is released after a few short weeks and finds himself similarly incarcerated in a rehab facility, from which he tried to break out of twice.
...
Once he is discharged, prominently free of his addiction but still possessing a subtle background desire for the stimulant that possessed him for quite a while, His brother rents him a flat in a decent part of London. He almost never goes out but when he does, he buys copious amounts of newspapers to take home and look at the crime section to try and solve what the police are puzzling over. He puts together quite a lot of them, but never goes forward.
That is, until he listens to newscasters every night spiel on about how no one knows who killed Eloise Spears, and out of frustration he goes to New Scotland Yard to anonymously report that it was her boyfriend, thank you very much and is nearly out the door before he is arrested for possible involvement in a homocide. Once they find out he's recently out of rehabilitation, Sherlock is forced to take multiple drug tests and explain how he knows what he knows before they are convinced of his innocence. And before he is let out of the building he's stopped by another officer, not to arrest him, just to ask him a few questions.
...
"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes!" A man with salt and pepper hair comes jogging up the hall to stand next to Sherlock.
Sherlock stops, his hand on the door handle, still facing the direction he was walking. "Yes?"
"So, that thing you can do, the uh, the deducing. Is that something you do a lot?"
"Constantly."
"Wow. You know, you could really be an asset to the force, if you're looking for a job-"
"I have no desire to be one of your pathetic officers."
"You don't have to be involved officially, just come in and...do your thing."
"Consulting?"
'Yes, exactly!"
"I'm a sociopath, I don't mix well with other people, I doubt I'd get along well working with the people I've encountered today."
He's opening up the door and about to leave when the man throws in his last card. "I looked at your file." Sherlock halts and snaps his head around to look a the man, his eyes narrowed and questioning. "I don't think you're a sociopath, but I do think you're someone who can do great things...but hasn't been given a chance. " He holds out a hand "What do you say?"
Sherlock looks at this hand and then back to his face. "If you've looked at my file you know that's not a smart move."
"I'm asking you to trust me." The man replies. "I might as well do the same."
Sherlock turns slowly, and a gloved hand comes up to lightly grasp the one already in the air. "My name is Greg Lestrade" The man says, and he holds his new acquaintance's hand a little tighter and shakes it.
...
Which, after the setting up of a blog, a few dozen robberies and a good amount of murders, brings our hero to a point in which he is he is brutally hitting a corpse with a leather riding crop; watched occasionally by a mortician who keeps flicking her wrist to create a tiny gusts of wind to rid the report she's working on of eraser shavings, rather than using her Charm to dramatically blow hair off of her shoulder like she was the day before.
When she offers him coffee, he accepts and tells her where he's going to be.
...
After following Mike down a series of corridors in a very familiar hospital, John Watson, for the first time in his life, arrives in the same room as Sherlock Holmes, whose name he does not know, but whose stature and poise he is impressed by. Sherlock, in turn, is more suspicious of, than impressed by John's offering of his mobile. From what he could tell by the limp and his hair and his comments, he had nothing to gain by offering him something. And something he could actually use, at that. Damn touch-screens were popping up everywhere, irritated him to no end. To use them he had to remove his slick, black rubber gloves (which still accompanied him throughout adulthood, albeit they were larger ones) and reveal his hands, which after decades of being subjected to darkness were ghostly, and Sherlock would even admit it to himself, a little creepy.
So he thanked John, and used his phone to text Lestrade. Still nothing. No reason to dislike him, either. So Sherlock decided to get this over and give him one.
...
"I like to play the violin when I'm thinking."
"What?"
"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other. I like to play the violin. Helps me think. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, occasionally I uncontrollably produce electricity."
"Wait, who said anything about flatmates?" Well. That was unexpected.
"I did, this morning, told Mike I'm a hard man to find a flatmate for."
...
And when Sherlock exited the room with a wink, and without any harsh comments following him, he was thoroughly stunned. He felt a telltale tingling of energy on his forearm, and willed it to stop. He walked through the hall to get his riding crop, his face stoic and chest feeling empty, as usual.
...
And John, being left behind, turned to Mike in confusion.
"Yeah, he's always like that."
"What did he mean by 'I uncontrollably produce electricity'?"
"That's his Charm. Something must have went wrong, though, 'cause sometimes he just starts sparking."
"Is he dangerous?"
"I thought you were one for danger."
"Spontaneous electrical death really isn't my cup of tea."
"Well, he still needs a flatmate, if you're interested."
"But how did he do that thing? You really didn't tell him anything about me?" Mike smiled again. "Not a word. Why don't you go and ask him yourself?"
And so John did.
...
Sherlock arrived at Baker Street at nearly the same time as John, smiling warmly in greeting rather than offering a hand. He made his way to the door, and when it was opened by an elderly woman, his face lit up and he kept his hands firmly behind his back, nodding and gesturing at John to follow him in.
They reached the flat through a short stairwell, one that didn't keep John too far behind his newfound acquaintance, what with the limp and all. The apartment was respectable, if a bit messy, but before John had a proper amount of time to look around, a grey-haired man entered, calling out to Sherlock about suicides and someone named Anderson. Sherlock kept a serious composure until the unnamed man left the room, and then He jumped with apparent happiness, and John saw it for the first time. ripples of sharp blue extending criss-crossedly around his forearms, and over his clenched fists. It was extraordinary.
"Four suicides and now a note! Oh, It's Christmas!"
"Sherlock, dear, be careful!" Mrs. Hudson called out from the kitchen, her head suddenly poking around the corner of the archway. "I won't have you shorting out my flat."
Sherlock rolled his eyes in response. "That was once, Mrs. Hudson, and I promised not to touch the outlets anymore." She just tutted.
"I'm going out," Sherlock said to John, wrapping his scarf around his neck, "Make yourself comfortable."
...
As he walked down the stairs, he heard a sharp banging from above, followed by a shout of "damn my leg!" that was most definitely John, and he stopped. He knew what is was like to have something that stopped him from following others. Something that kept him at bay when life had already shown him there could be so much more. And he couldn't bear the thought of someone else living that way. His fate was set, but he could save John still. And so he turned around, and went back up.
...
And then, suddenly, he had a friend. For the first time since Victor, he had someone he could talk with, someone who would listen, someone who wasn't terrified that Sherlock was going to turn around and murder them in cold blood one day. And they weren't even doing drugs! And so he slowly let his walls down, let himself be outwardly happy or appalled or entertained sometimes, because John wasn't afraid. And John himself noticed this, and he began asking Sherlock about it.
...
"So," he began one day, when they were alone in the flat, "I've noticed that the, the...sparking, if you will, doesn't happen randomly, like you told me." Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope he was peering into. "Oh?"
"Yeah, it happens when you're excited, or really mad. Like it's somehow connected to your feelings."
"Mm." was all the response he got.
John drew out the one sided conversation with an accusation. "You're not a sociopath."
"I am. I have to be." Sherlock replied, going back to his microscope.
"What do you mean you have to be? You can't just decide you're a sociopath."
"Where there's a will, there's a way, John."
John was getting more confused and indignant as the conversation continued. "Why would you do that?" Now Sherlock was gripping the dials of the instrument. "I told you. I have to, I'm dangerous. It's not safe for people around me."
John thought for a moment, then replies softly. "I'm not scared, Sherlock. You don't have to, will yourself, or whatever you call it so hard around me. I trust you."
Sherlock's face softened and his gut dropped, for he knew that even though John trusted him, his situation was going to get far more dangerous that he had ever known it to be.
...
After Irene Adler, he was again curious. This time he queried when they were alone, in a lab at Bart's. "Sherlock, I was thinking about Moriarty's nickname for you, and it's safe to assume that he's right, what with your Charm and all, right?"
"Correct. Would you hand me that file?"
"Sure, here. But I know you can restrain yourself most of the time, and I was just wondering, say, If you've ever gotten physically close with someone at all. Hugging, or even kissing, maybe."
Sherlock paused for a moment, considering his answer; or perhaps, rather, the question. "Once. I haven't touched anyone since."
John looked at him, suprised. "Really? How long ago was that?"
"16 years ago."
"Must have been an awful kisser if they put you off of it for 16 years." John joked, trying to lighten the mood, which hung over them heavy and thick with restrained pity. Sherlock opened his mouth, a reply forming on his lips, but instead closed it, put on a strained smile that few could see through, and nodded minutely. John was one of the few.
"What's wrong?" He asked, tilting his head to look at the detective, who was slumped over an array of papers.
He kept his eyes on the scattered pages and and casually denied the claim.
"We already talked about this, Sherlock, you can trust me. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you can, still."
The dark-haired man stared blankly at the table before glancing up at John quickly, and then averting his gaze. "He-" he began, softly, almost brokenly, "He died. I killed him."
That was something John did not expect. "God, Sherlock. I'm- sorry."
"No need for you to be." Sherlock retorted quickly. "Would you get me a coffee?" He never looked up.
"Yeah," John said, wide eyed, "sure, just a moment." before skittering out of the lab. And with his back turned to the door, he didn't see the bright light that escaped from the windows hold for a few moments and then die out, ruining a bunsen burner and two microscopes in its wake.
...
In the weeks that followed, Sherlock became increasingly distant in terms of proximity and John. Whereas he used to lounge on the sofa comfortably while John was in the room, he now resided in the kitchen, no matter what he was doing. That is, unless John was also there. Then he would bound casually over to the window, and look out upon the street. He stopped accepting offers of tea, and no longer demanded that John follow him to the morgue on cases. It was enough to make anyone, including John, suspicious.
It became paramount, however, when John attempted conversation from the living room, while Sherlock was seated at the kitchen table, looking into a microscope with no slide.
"Has Lestrade called recently?" He asked, ruffling the newspaper he held.
"No."
"He'll probably ringing you soon, this kidnapping looks pretty promising."
"Mm." At this John looked up. Sherlock was glaring into the instrument, gripping the knobs lightly. Like some sort of security blanket. "Sherlock." He didn't respond.
"Sherlock!"
"What?" He asked, slowly.
"What's going on with you? You're avoiding everyone, you barely talk to me anymore, God knows when the last time you ate was. What's wrong?" Sherlock stood up.
"Nothing inside your realm of control, John." He then walked to his room and softly closed the door.
And though they will never know it, they both groaned in frustration at the same time; Sherlock's face pressed into his pillow, and John's nose buried in newsprint. Their botheration was for two entirely different circumstaces, however. John wanted to help his impossibly stubborn friend. Sherlock just wished he could fall out of love with his.
...
Sherlock's plan of avoiding John until this whole love thing blew over was actually going quite well in terms of avoiding his flatmate. Ridding himself of affection was another story. He was still very much in love when he woke up in the mornings, fell asleep occasionally at night, and just about every waking moment in between. That includes his time strapped to a pole in an abandoned warehouse by the same perpetrators of the kidnapping John had mentioned earlier that week. He had been stupid, really, he thought to himself as he waited for someone, anyone to come. Should have brought John along with him, walking around the perimeter. Harder to take down two people with just a two by four than one who hadn't seen it coming. He leaned his head against the beam behind him and winced. Still aching.
When he had come to, sitting on a grimy and cold floor, he had realised they took nearly everything he had on him, his coat, his phone, his wallet, even his gloves, which really was bad, because he needed those, and he was really going to burn someone when he gets out of here.
I might have a concussion, He thinks to himself as he hears footsteps pounding down the corridor behind him. And more footsteps. And are those police sirens? Yes, he thinks, yes, they are. They cries of a small child can be heard around the corner- they must have found him. The kid. Good. Voices. John? John. John's voice getting closer.
Ah, yes. There's John. He thinks as he sees his friend run toward him. Saying something. Running around behind me and- Shit. Shit. I don't have my gloves. He feels fear in the form of sparks run down his arms and just as John reaches down to untie him and he can't stop it now, he's too afraid, more afraid than he's ever been and Oh god John is going to die, because of me, and he tries tell him to stop but it just comes out as a squeak, and he waits for the inevitable buzzing and horribly familiar feeling of someone slumping against him-
But it doesn't come. He feels John's fingers scrabbling at the rope against his skin, and he hears his heavy breathing, but the sound of electricity is gone. Vanished. And John comes around and pulls him to his feet and says something again, but Sherlock isn't listening. He's staring at his hand, which is wrapped around John's. He looks up at John again, who is now staring at their hands in the same curious manner. John pulls his hand away experimentally, and Sherlock's fingertips light up with energy. He touches him again, and it stops. In its place is a minuscule light, yellowish -almost golden- and just barely illuminating the room. John grasps his hand fully, and it grows.
Sherlock is like a deer caught in headlights. Or in this case, a strange touch-based sort of friendship light. And it doesn't take him long to tear his eyes away from the phenomenon and look at John, who seems to be transfixed by the glow. And then, Sherlock does something entirely dictated by emotion and not one bit of logic, and he dives forward and entangles John in a rib-crushing hug, burying his face in his friend's shoulder. And slowly, John returns it. It's wonderful, a feeling that Sherlock hasn't experienced for decades, just to simply be held by someone.
...
And later, it is determined that John Watson is no longer a fraction of a fraction of specified percentage, but something far more rare and powerful. A conductor of light. Something- someone- whose underlying abilities are not revealed until they meet the right person.
And Sherlock Holmes is still the only abnormality of his kind, but now rather than an insulator protecting him from the rest of the world, has a metaphorical copper wire wrapped around him, finally making use of the thing that has burdened him for so long.
...
After what became known as "that touch" by nearly everyone who knew the consulting detective and his blogger, (and it is quite a phenomenon, that within a small group of people, a single recognisable phrase can constitute so much meaning) Sherlock stopped wearing his gloves all the time, and instead held onto John's wrist when they went to crime scenes, and 3am dinners, and when interviewing suspects. This gained some strange glances, as did the glowy light emanating from Sherlock's extremities, but they didn't let it bother them. And it eventually expanded into John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and simply intertwining their fingers, and sitting close enough together that their sides touched. And if this manner leaked into life at the flat, what of it? And if Sherlock was milking his situation for all that it was worth, and actively leaning into John while they watch 'those ridiculous James Bond movies' on the couch, who cares? And If John was slowly beginning to reciprocate Sherlock's feelings, who was to know? It didn't matter.
Except it did. It really, really, did. Those idiots.
...
It progressed to a point in which Sherlock's head in John's lap was commonplace, and the telly didn't have to be on to allow such behavior. John stopped flirting with women, because he fell in love with his flatmate, and Sherlock kept looking up 'signs of a relationship' checklists, and was told numerous times by vibrantly pink web pages that he was 'totally dating' John.
It's also worth mentioning that each of them pushed the boundaries of their circumstance every day. Whether it be John, raking his fingers through Sherlock's hair; or Sherlock planting his head on John's chest and finally telling him about Victor, they tried to squeeze in as much affection as they could without relabelling their relationship.
Until one day when it had taken priority over everything else in their lives; work, crime, bad telly, jam- and they finally did something about it.
...
They were pressed together on the couch, John leaning against the arm of it, typing up their latest case, and Sherlock tucked into his side. Sherlock had been glancing over at John for the past ten minutes. They were both doing their best to pretend it wasn't happening. That is, until Sherlock looked over, brought his face very close to John's, and didn't move away. John, aware of what was going on, slowly raised his eyes from his laptop to wall in front of him, and then swivelled them toward his flatmate, who was currently 7 centimetres from his face.
"John." Sherlock said, deep and slow and without question. He turned his head to face Sherlock, slightly confused and very much restrained.
"Is this...okay?" He continued, moving his face even closer, so that the tips of their noses touched, all while keeping intense eye contact.
"Yeah" John replied. "Yeah, this is- good."
And it wasn't exactly clear who closed the gap, but it happened, and Sherlock may have panicked for a split second, and after a moment John may have fumbled to get his computer off of his lap, but then he laughed, an almost giddy laugh, and Sherlock smiled a smile that reached his eyes, and John ended up wrapping his arms around Sherlock and kissing him, making up for lost time.
...
And if you were passing 221B that day, as a few people were, you would be extremely aware of the windows above Speedy's, and wonder to yourself what the hell was going on up there, and why it seemed like they had a floodlight in their living room.