Authors Note: There will be a pairing for him later on (I think I might leave this as a one shot, though) as well as an explanation as to why there aren't any words on his arm. Anybody who can figure out the answer will get a virtually cookie!
Everyone was born with a soul mark.
Except for Sherlock Holmes, that was.
.
.
There were many many things that Sherlock understood.
At the tender age of twelve, he was able to masterfully play the violin, hack into government databases and read people- he knew how to find their most intimate secrets; he knew their fears and their regrets.
Their life stories were open to him.
Yes, Sherlock Holmes was intelligent, there was no doubt about it. He knew a great deal of things, had knowledge that could rival that of a college student in some ways and while he didn't waste brainpower on unnecessary knowledge, he was able to understand things at a very rapid pace.
What Sherlock Holmes did not understand, however, was why he didn't have a soul mark.
.
.
Soul marks always appeared when you turned eleven.
Nobody understood why, not even the most advanced science or technology was able to explain soul marks.
All anybody knew was that since the beginning of time, soul marks had existed.
On the day you turned eleven, writing would appear on the arm of your soul mates dominant hand, in their handwriting, and those word, they would be the first words your soulmate would ever speak to you.
Except for Sherlock.
.
.
On the day he turned eleven, Sherlock had been crushed.
He had woken up to find his arms bare.
Sherlock was not an expressive person by any means; he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve- he was cold, callous and didn't care for the same petty things others did.
But to find out that he didn't have a soulmate was a punch to the gut. It was a testament that all those cruel things the others said about him at school were true, that the words they called him, the names that he wouldn't wish on anybody, the bullying that almost breached the point of physical sometimes, it went to show that they were right.
He was a freak.
The day of his eleventh birthday wasn't spent with others, he didn't celebrate nor did he want the love that his parents gave him, the birthday gifts or the teasing from his brother about how he was growing up.
No, the day of his eleventh birthday, when his family had asked about what his soul mark said, he had run off, ignoring the worried exclamations for him to come back.
He spent several hours watching the other kids at the park play, trying not to break down or cry.
It was only later when Mycroft had tracked him down and had asked him what was wrong that he cracked, that he broken down and spilt all his fears to him, had told him about how there was no writing on his arms, about how his bullies were right and that he was a freak.
.
.
That night, his mother came to him with his favourite book, peppermint tea and read him to sleep, just as she had done when he was younger and had night terrors.
That night, Sherlock vowed that he wouldn't ever care for pathetic things like love and soulmates.
From that point on, Sherlock Holmes was the freak everyone called him.
The only faith he ever placed was in science.
Authors Note: I hope you all enjoyed this! This is the first piece of writing that I've been proud of in awhile. Reviews are glorious and I love them very much! Please don't flame though because I'm flammable and I think being burned would hurt
