*The Universe wants John and Sherlock to get together, and it is very, very persistent.

i

John Watson stands above the broken, mutilated corpse with a gleeful smile on his face.

"Cause of death?" John asks, just to be polite; he already knows. Cause of death: John Watson.

Lestrade stands back, crossing his arms and waiting for John to begin his examination. "Poison, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. Not a pleasant way to go."

"Nope." John agrees, still smiling. He supposes he should try harder not to look so damn pleased with himself, but the charade's just not worth the effort. Inspector Lestrade will know the truth soon enough anyway, they all will.

No one gets to me... and no one ever will.

If John knew then how wrong he was, he would end it all now.

"Witness?" John knows the answer's no. He was so, so careful this time. No loose ends, no untidy messes. A nice, clean murder.

"Actually, yeah."

John's brain stops. Confused, he nearly yells, "What?"

Lestrade looks taken aback by John's sudden show of emotion. "Yeah, an addict. He was hiding behind the door, but he saw everything." Lestrade points towards a hooded man talking to Donovan, and John feels his heart stop in chest. John feels as if he's just seen his executioner. "Want to talk to him?"

John's about to scream 'No!', but he figures that might look a bit suspicious, so he doesn't. Instead, he looks down at the floor, (carefully angeling his face away from the hooded addict), and shakes his head.

"Fair 'nough," Lestrade shrugs.

John turns completely away from the addict, pretending to examine a particularily interesting portion of the wall. "Have the body taken to Molly."

"Okay," Lestrade agrees, no questions asked, every time. The man's loyalty is confounding. (That's what John loves about Lestrade. The man is so willing to trust someone, anyone, and he'll do anything to keep his star sniffer dog around.) "Whatever you say."

John pulls his coat collar up, careful to obscure the most recognizable features of his face. The room was dark at the time of the killing, but the room is even darker now. The contrast in lighting should be enough to keep his identity safe for now.

John walks towards the door with slow, calculating steps. The addict is still talking to Donovan, and he seems to be captivated in some kind of arguement about boot prints. John is nearly in the clear, almost to and out the door when a low voice stops him in his tracks.

"Ah, you must be Doctor Watson."

With a sigh, John closes his eyes and braces himself for the impending hell he's about to go through.

…

ii.

John isn't sure why he volunteered to be on addict-duty.

He doesn't like doing it. He doesn't feel better after he does it. The addict doesn't want him there, and he certainly doesn't want to be there. But there he is, Dr. John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, babysitting a barfing addict in a drug den.

John groans as the addict heaves again. "How're you doing?" John asks, like he doesn't know.

The addict gives a weak thumbs up, but John knows he must feel terrible.

"Don't do that," the addict says, his voice sore and bitterly tasting of acid and bile.

"Do what?" John isn't aware he's doing anything other than sitting on the floor, watching and occasional wiping the addict's forehead with a towel.

"Doing that thing you're doing." John still doesn't get it, so the addict rolls his eyes and continues. "You look so damn condescending. Why don't you just give me the lecture already and leave."

John frowns. "You don't need a lecturer right now; you need a doctor." The man heaves again. "Plus, I think you've learned your lesson."

The next morning, after John has passed out from abject exhaustion, he wakes up to find himself completely alone. The addict is gone, and in his place is a hastely scribbled note.

The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come anyway.

John smiles and hails a cab.

…

iii.

Sherlock Holmes hates group therapy. (Naturally, he hates groups and he hates therapy, so any combination of the two would be a bloody disaster.)

Sherlock listens as Billy promises to never do drugs again. It's the fifth time he's promised this month, and Ella, the group leader, still believes him. Sherlock doesn't. Sherlock never believes anyone.

Ella, who is really just a lovely person, coughs politely and room goes silent. "Excuse me, I'd like to introduce a new member of the group." Ella gestures at a small, sweater-glad blonde man sitting quietly in a plastic chair. "John, would you like to introduce yourself?"

John looks like he doesn't want to talk. Sherlock is entirely sympathetic to his plight. Looking around suspicious, John rubs his (obviously) psychosomatic leg and begins talking. "Um… I'm John Watson, and… Well, yeah."

Sherlock thinks it's the best, most charming speech he's ever heard in therapy. He claps.

Neither John nor Sherlock talks for the rest of the session. They do, however, exchange frequent, meaningful glances at each other.

Afterwards, when the rest of the group has dispersed, John finds Sherlock smoking in the adjacent parking lot.

"You know, those things will kill you," John says in his best doctor voice.

"One of the many things that will," Sherlock replies smugly.

There's a brief moment of silence before both men burst out laughing.

…

iv.

Sherlock Holmes keeps running into some blonde guy all around London.

At first, it's at the library. Sherlock is checking out some routine books on astrophysics and advanced cryptography when he runs (literally runs) into the blonde man. Sherlock's books spill across the floor, and the blonde man helps him pick them up. Sherlock mumbles a quick thank you before running out of the room at breakneck speed.

The second time, Sherlock is at Bart's when he brushes past the blonde man. The blonde man doesn't notice him, but Sherlock does. Sherlock notices everything. Sherlock notices the bags under the man's eyes (not sleeping), and his psychosomatic limp. Sherlock notices the quiet way the man navigates the world, like a lost ship in the sea. (Good thing Sherlock's always wanted to be a pirate.)

Over the next few days, the 'encounters' begin happening with alarming frequency.

In line at Tesco together, in the same coffee shop, at the library (again), at the mall. Try as he might, Sherlock cannot seem to shake the blonde man off his tail.

Finally, Sherlock's had enough. He's at a crime scene (a bloody crime scene! The audacity!), when the blonde man shows up in the crowd of spectators. Sherlock instantly loses interest in the corpse and stalks towards the blonde man.

"Are you stalking me?" Sherlock demands to know.

"What?" The blonde man looks oddly offended at Sherlock's insult. "No, of course not, I –"

"Then why do we keep running into each other?"

"I have no idea! Maybe –"

"Maybe, what?"

The blonde man pauses and scratches his head. "No. It sounds stupid," he mumbles quietly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It can't be any more ridiculous than this. Just say it."

"Well… Maybe… Maybe the universe is trying to push us together."

Sherlock was not expecting that. "Why?"

"No idea."

Sherlock is still incredibly confused. "What? Like soul mates?"

The blonde man looks embarrassed. "I don't know… Maybe?"

Miraculously, it starts to rain.

John stares up at the sky, which he could swear was blue a few seconds ago. "Wow, it's like a buffet of clichés, isn't –"

John is silenced by the fact that Sherlock's lips are connected with his.

The rain is pouring down, and John is soaking wet, but his whole body reverberates with a warmth he hasn't felt in years.

…

V.

Sherlock stands over the body. His eyes are sunken, and his breathing is ragged. He feels like he's about to break down and cry, but he has no idea why. He's seen plenty of corpses before – so why is this one affecting him so much?

"Cause of death?" Sherlock kneels down to examine the body.

"Poison, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. Not a pleasant way to go." Sherlock nods. The smell is horrible, and the corpses face is bloated and pale. Again, nothing new, so why is it bother me so much?

Sherlock is uncharacteristically silent.

Lestrade reaches out a hand out touch Sherlock on the shoulder. "Everything alright?" He asks, because he certainly doesn't want Sherlock to collapse at a crime scene.

Sherlock blinks once, twice, by the third he's pulled himself together. "Yes, of course," he snaps. "Identity of the victim?"

Lestrade pauses, glancing at his notebook. "John Watson."

Sherlock will never know.

Written for the LWS Trope Bingo Card 3 prompts 'Role reversal', 'Teen!fic' (not sure if I made it clear that in story iii they're teens, but hey, you know now), and 'Kissing in the Rain'.