"Mummy?" a small blonde-haired boy walked up to an older blonde woman, the woman smiled, crouched and scooped him up.
"Yes?"
The boy frowned and lifted up his blue-and-white sleeve.
"Why is there a name on my wrist?" he exposed the writing on the inside of his wrist. 'William' was spelled out in scratchy black-blue font. His mother smiled and set him down. "The name means there's someone out there waiting for you to find them. They are your soul mate." She, too, lifted her sleeve to show Henry written there in pinkish-red script. The little boy frowned. "Mines black, but yours is pink. Why?"
The woman planted a kiss on his head. "Because I found mine, he's your daddy."
At that moment, a dark-haired man came through the doorway and the conversation ended as the boy ran to the man, squealing: "Daddy!"
XXXxxxXXX
26 years later…
A haggard solider strode through the sand sacks of Afghanistan. His friend, Alistair, had told him a new man had been sent down to replace Matthew. Alistair hadn't been sure about the name. The solider hoped it was a William; he'd been looking for the person on his wrist for years. He had shunned girls and ditched almost everyone not called William.
Buzz ran up to him. Buzz was only 21, and had a fuzzy crew-cut, half hidden by his helmet. Sand had embedded itself everywhere on the young mans body. Green paint was slashed across his face. He held his rifle, ready in front of him. Buzz was always smiling, always cheery. "Sir!" he snapped to attention. The solider nodded and Buzz started gabbling, words dropping other each other in his haste. "He's called Louis." The youths face was stretched wide with a giant smile. He dropped his gun on the strap over his shoulder. Excitedly, he tugged up his sleeve. Louis was scrawled there, the black type fading, turning red. "He has my proper name too!" the older solider smiled down at the youth. "Congratulations!" Buzz jumped up, turned in mid-air and dashed back to where he'd come from. The second he back was turned, the haggard soldier's smile drooped. He'd been looking so long…
XXXxxxXXX
He was out of the war now. Away from the guns and sand and bangs and soot and screams and- everything. The adventure, the adrenaline rushing through his veins as the hazy forms of the other army approached through the heat. He'd been shot in his shoulder. But he used a cane, on the other arm of course. That way if he was in a fight, the enemy would underestimate him and go for the leg.
His therapist said he was a bit unhinged from the war.
He had to agree.
But now he was looking for a flat and a flatmate and a job and every thing like that. A million miles away from the war.
He wandered along a path, not really taking in the scenery. His gaze fell on a be-speckled man trudging towards him. He sighed. He knew him. Damn.
A few hours later…
He was facing a man across a lab bench. The other man was supposedly studying a microscope but the ex-solider could see his icy blue eyes darting around the room. Watching him. Studying him.
"Hello. I'm John."
With them three words, the man stiffened noticeably. He stretched out a hand, as if to check the time, but he knew it wasn't that. The man was looking at his wrist where his soul mates name would be.
The other man nodded and stood up, swinging his coat around him whilst putting it on. He half-smiled at John, and walked to the door. "Wait!" John got up, putting out a hand to stop him. "Who are you?" the man put his head around the door. "The names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street."
XXXxxxXXX
Sherlock put his head around the room, being careful to shield his wrist from John. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." He examined johns face. When he'd said John, the mans face fell and his brow furrowed. So he wasn't the name on his wrist, but Sherlock had John on his… for the first time ever, Sherlock stopped thinking and just turned off. Soul mates were confusing.
XXXxxxXXX
2 years later
John had ended up moving in with Sherlock. As the months went by, John found himself falling in love with Sherlock. After a while, John stopped asking peoples names obsessively. He gave up on finding his William, and focused on trying to tell Sherlock he loved him. For such a talented genius, he was very thick. But still, he kept trying and almost never looked at his wrist.
And then Sherlock fell, and he had cried, cried harder then when he'd heard Buzz had been shot and killed, harder then when his mother died, harder then ever before.
He'd met Mary at the doctor's surgery. They had talked for ages and at the end, he'd asked her for drinks. For then, everything had escalated. They had been eating in the 'The Gilded Truffle' the place John was originally going to tell Sherlock how much he liked liked him. That had never happened. John remembered how the waiter had sounded familiar but John didn't pay attention. Sherlock would have paid attention, Sherlock was better then John. Always.
Anyway, Sherlock had shown up and John was stuck between laughing and hugging Sherlock and throttling him to an inch of his egotistical idiotic reborn life. As Mary was there standing next to him, he went for the latter.
As more time went by with the newly alive Sherlock, John felt himself falling back in love with the man.
When Magnessen trapped him in the bonfire, Sherlock had come and rescued him. John had a gag around his mouth, he couldn't breath, and fire was lapping at his feet. He was terrified. More terrified then the war. Then Sherlock came. There had been terror on his face too. Sherlock had run straight into the fire and pulled John out, who was half-conscious by that time. John had looked up at Sherlock, with smoky, weepy eyes and out of the pale-black blur; he only saw his intense bright blue eyes. That was when he knew -properly and forever- he would always love Sherlock, no matter what the 7 letters on his wrist said.
Everything was fine, then Sherlock was shot, and John found out Mary did it. He had no idea how to respond to that. Then, Sherlock told him he was being exiled to some place in Europe. John had practically given up on hope that he and Sherlock would ever date.
And then, the kicker came: they were all on the tarmac, saying goodbye to Sherlock.
"And, John?" Sherlock and asked. They were facing each other, a few feet away from Mary.
"Yes?" John was almost ashamed to feel this expectant.
"Sherlock is actually a girl's name,"
John had to laugh; it was so un-Sherlock to say that. "One more thing, John. Sherlock isn't my real name," John stared up at the raven-haired man. "It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
John felt himself choke; he reached for his arm and lift up the sleeve. William was glowing slightly and fading to pinkish-red. Sherlock lifted the heavy sleeve of his trench-coat and showed the name on his wrist. John.
For the first time, in what felt like forever, John felt Hopeful…