John sometimes likes to lift his metal bracelet, to look under it. He could stare at the name for hours, if he were allowed. The writing is swift yet sharp, curved around his wrist in a soft blue, which would only be soft when not held against any other colors. When the silver bracelet had been pushed up to his hand, the blue looked sharp, as if the word would draw blood, crimson against a tiny piece of the sky.
When he tugs the band back over the looping letters, he feels as though he is suffocating his soulmate. It seemed to him like it was unfair when he did not feel the suffocating when they, his soulmate, put their bracelet back on. He could never bring himself to watch the name as he covered it. John never really knew why.
During the war, each soldier had been supplied with gloves for their hands that went up to their elbows, as to avoid distraction. They were a thick, heavy leather, able to withstand the work that John was typically occupied with. When he was shot, his gloves had been faintly splattered with the crimson blood , like the stars that would dot the sky, undisturbed by lights of the city, unlike the stars back in London.
John supposed that the stars were the only thing he truly could bring himself to admit that he missed from the war.
When he had met Sherlock, John knew that this man would be his. He had to be. The way his brilliance shone like the sun, or his curled hair twisting into its own darkness. John had been desperate to know the man's name at first. When the man had told him that his name was Sherlock Holmes, John could feel his heart sink. It was a wonder that Sherlock didn't notice. If he had noticed, at least he hadn't pointed it out.
John had accepted the flat share, and they became… John wasn't sure what they were, exactly. They could be considered coworkers, but neither of them technically had a boss. They could be considered friends, of course. John had shot a man for Sherlock, and they knew each other fairly well. Then, there was what other people assumed about them.
John and Sherlock both wore their bracelets, as was common courtesy, so it really wasn't all that surprising that people had assumed such things. Sure, John knew how Sherlock took his tea, and they did live together, so really, he couldn't blame them. He wasn't sure why he felt a small twinge of pain every time he had to correct them.
Sometimes, late at night, when Sherlock deep asleep- which was definitely not a common occurrence- John would pick up the blue pen Sherlock kept on the coffee table for notes. It was a deep blue, but also a dark one, unlike the handwriting on his wrist.
It was in these moments that John would cross out his soulmark, whether it be through a scribble or by simply crossing it out. John could never bring himself to write the name he truly wanted on there, though. He could never have the name he so desperately craved to see on the sensitive skin that lay over his wrist. Sometimes, he wished that he had been one of the few people to be born without a soulmark, but with the ability to choose. John had always known that he may never be able to meet his soulmate, and he had known that he would be alright with settling. But his feelings for Sherlock felt so out of place with the name on his skin.
John had never been able to see Sherlock's bare wrist before, the tall man keeping his band on at all times. He sometimes wished that Sherlock would show him. More often, he hoped he would never see the words on the other man's pale skin. Because he knew that the name 'John' wouldn't be there. It would not be in his own sharp form of handwriting that all his colleagues despised. He knew that it would not been a stormy blue-ish green-ish grey-ish color that the name was written in.
It couldn't stop him from hoping, that one day, it would appear.
And then Sherlock had gone and died.
Sherlock had jumped off the roof, Sherlock had gone and died, leaving John all alone. He moved out of Baker Street, found a nicer flat, a less dusty one. The carpeting was more modern, as was the general layout of the place. John despised it.
He'd found a nice girl, Mary, and he could see a future with the woman. She was blond (no matter how much he wished that t light color would turn dark). She was barely shorter than John (even though all he wanted was the person who towered over him).
John had been ready to commit to her. He had been ready to move on, and even though she wasn't her soulmate, and she had no mark at all, he would be okay. Then Sherlock came back.
John had left Mary, claiming emotional distress. When he told her that, a week later, the engagement ring forgotten in his desk drawer, she gave him a soft smile. One might have even called it a knowing look. John wouldn't.
Everything had been going well, more cases, and a spectacular large one that had Sherlock all wound up about. He had started to date a sweet girl, and John had pretended to not care. He cared too much to let it show.
Then Sherlock had gone and shot that damned man, and he would have to go into exile- hiding, whatever Mycroft was calling it.
They had been given a moment alone, for the two men to say goodbye one last time. Sherlock had given him a sad smile. John returned it.
"John," Sherlock had said, his words unsure, unlike the cool flow they typically were. "There's something I should tell you. I've wanted to tell you for some time."
Sherlock had pulled off his silver bracelet, revealing the word on his wrist. It was sharp script in a blue-ish green-ish grey-ish color, and they spelled out 'John'. The man who possessed the name felt tears flow into his eyes, and one even found its way out.
"Sherlock… I…" John pulled off his own band, revealing the looping letters that intertwined softly in a sky blue.
They spelt out 'William'.
Then it was Sherlock's turn to cry. He embraced the shorter man and sobbed quietly.
"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
"What?"
"My full name. It's William Sherlock Scott Holmes."
John pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip, and stared into the clear eyes in front of him.
"I didn't know." Sherlock told him. " You never let on that my name was on your wrist, and I never told you my full name. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought that my mark was just a coincidence, and that since it's such a common name I-" Sherlock was cut off by John's lips on his own.
Sherlock kissed John's face repeatedly, going on and on. "I'm so sorry," kiss. "I love you," kiss. "I should have told you," kiss.
"I love you too," spoke John, followed by another full on kiss, wet with their combined tears.
Sherlock pulled away, smiling even more sadly than earlier, and boarded the plane. He didn't stop looking out the window until they were above the clouds, and he couldn't see John. He couldn't see John ever again.
If Sherlock had just told John the name on his wrist, or even just mentioned his own full name, they could have had more time together. They could have had more than a few hurried kisses before parting.
They could have had lazy Sunday mornings where neither of them had wanted to do anything but stay together in bed. They could have had more cases, and they could have walked onto crime scenes hand in hand.
But they didn't get that.
When Sherlock was asked if he missed Moriarty through the telly, he smiled. The game was on and London needed it best consulting detective back.
He smiled again when he got the call from Mycroft.
He smiled when the plane landed.
He cried when John leapt into his arms.