So. This is my first attempt at translating my fanfictions from Italian into English. And for this I have to thank my beta reader, Zylstra, a fantastic person who has corrected all my errors. Thanks a lot 3
This is the first (long) chapter. Hope you like it!


Chapter 1
Adagio

• From an interview with Dr. Joseph C. Williams, professor of Molecular and Cellular Biology at the University of Michigan, for Nature:

I: Can you explain in layman's terms what a Soulmate is?

J.C.W.: In common terms, a "Soulmate" is the person, male or female, who's destined to be our perfect half, the person most suited for us under each profile. More precisely, it's the person whose name is tattooed on our left ring fingers since birth.
In technical terms, it's called "SIN".

I: And what is a SIN?

J.C.W.: SIN stands for "Soulbond Identification Name". It's a bureaucratic classification method, like a National Insurance Number or a Social Security Number. It's recorded privately at five years age, at which it begins to become fully visible on the skin.

I: What is a Bond?

J.C.W.: A "Bond" is the encounter between two predestined Soulmates. It's triggered by a simple skin-to-skin contact, such as a handshake, which activates a chemical reaction within certain brain centres. It manifests itself as a small, low voltage electric discharge, perceived only marginally from the epidermis, but often identified as a shiver or a muscle spasm. This contact activates, indeed, the Bond, which is a kind of chemical and biological co-dependency that increases with time and closeness. Similarly, it may also decrease with separation but it never disappears completely.

I: What are the Bond's effects?

J.C.W.: The most common effects are undoubtedly emotional inclinations toward the other person. Protection, affection, sense of belonging. In cases of deeper Bonds, an increase of psychic potential has also been identified, such as mutual understanding and profound empathy. This sometimes escalates to a genuine "psychic exchange" in which one component of the pair is able to feel pain felt by the other.

I: Is there a scientific explanation for this phenomenon?

J.C.W.: Currently, there's no proper scientific explanation, just hypotheses that, unfortunately, are not leading to appreciable results. This is partly because each Bond is different for each couple, and partly because pairs who reach this stage of bonding are very few. At the moment, we only know the name that appears on the left ring finger is formed by pigmented cells and whether the colour becomes lighter or darker is directly proportional to the Bond's intensity. The pigment is haematic, so it increases and decreases on a scale of red, from pink to burgundy. It becomes black in widowhood and disappears a few hours after death. Regarding the formation of the Bond, the most common assumptions are those regarding the release of a particular hormone in the body that reacts to the other person's odour but hormone measurement tests give inconclusive results. Some radical scientists speculate that some changes occur at the DNA or Messenger RNA level, but in my opinion it's exaggerated speculation.
I believe the DNA mutation occurred when the first SINs began to appear, centuries ago.

I: How does science explains the fact that a Bond is formed exactly with the person whose name is engraved on the finger? How does our body figure out who is the most appropriate person for us?

J.C.W.: Again, I can only reply on a purely theoretical level.
Some theories point the finger toward Fate, saying that the name appearing on our fingers at birth is simply the result of a statistic "lottery" among names most commonly used in recent centuries. In this example, we only try to form stable ties with people who hold the name that we happened to have by chance, not being concerned to find others with different names. However, purely mathematical and statistic theories as such do not explain the Bond and the whole process that lies behind.
I'm afraid this may be one of those things that science cannot explain.

I: Are there exceptions to the appearance of SIN?

J.C.W.: Yes, there are. Some people do not develop a name on their skin at all. These individuals are called "Bondless" or "Born Without Bond". There are also people who do have a name on their finger but it presents itself as a constantly open and bleeding wound, like an incision on the skin. Individuals of this type are commonly referred to as "BCE" which stands for "Broken Connection Entity", even if popular culture has recently coined the derogatory term "Ribbon" derived from a malapropism of "Rejected Bound".
In both instances, a Bond's normal chemical reaction does not take place.

I: Have there have been cases where a Bondless has managed to develop a Bond, or a BCE whose wound has healed and the Bond restored?

J.C.W.: Not as yet, or if they have they are unavailable in historical documentation.

• From the book Society of Bond by Rajat Nara, Sociologist of Deviance, New Delhi; chapter 3 "Commonly accepted social changes and new minorities".

"The large-scale change in human societies after the Bond's appearance is impressive.
Suppose, for example, to have to do a superficial social analysis, omitting the specific change variables and focusing only on the basic operation of Society. It can be said that any social group, and it's valid today as it was in the past, works based on a specific set of constructs commonly accepted by all members of the community. These constructs define Morality – completely different the religious morality, be it clear – of the social group.
Analyzing artefacts and historical records researchers all around the world have established that the advent of Bond and what we nowadays call "Soulbond Identification Name" (SIN) originated a radical change of common Moral and, as a result, even of those groups sociologically defined "deviants" that formed the so-called minorities.
In a society where normality is displayed by having a Soulmate's name on the finger (since so it is for the 85% of world population) of course minority groups are identified in Bondless and BCE.
In addition, specific distinctions are made within these very sub-groups.
Statistical studies carried out on the world prison population have revealed alarming data on the percentage of BCE inside prisons, 70% of which is sentenced to life imprisonment or accused of serious crimes like murder, multiple homicide or serial killing. Publication of these results has caused, as domino effect, a general mistrust of these individuals who find themselves having problems with simple things like admission to University or find rewarding jobs.
On the other hand, the appearance of SINs and Bonds has caused a change in the people's mindset, leading to the disappearance of social issues such as homophobia, xenophobia and sexism."

• From online forum "Words in the Wind":

JasMine90: This entire Ribbon thing disturbs me a lot, I must say. Have you heard there are more and more of them? All those Broken Bonds aren't normal! The people who decide to ignore their own SIN have to be responsible for them.

Arabesque: JasMine90 nowadays, the obligation of getting together with our SIN is old fashioned. It's like not having sex before marriage, archaic! SINs are not a replacement for free will... I mean, you meet your SIN's person, hang out with him/her a couple of times, then if you don't like them you don't touch them and don't create the Bond. Simple as that.

Cactus742: JasMine90 Arabesque look, the SIN isn't like choosing a yogurt at the supermarket fridge! And yours are the words of a not-yet-bonded person. There's a reason most people still come together with their Soulmates. I can understand there are situations, such as domestic violence and abuse, which push couples apart... or even when two Soulmates fail to meet before a certain age... However it has nothing to do with Ribbons.

JasMine90: Cactus742 it's also written in many books that to not bond to one's SIN in the long run leads to permanently breakage of the Bond over the death-and-rebirth cycle. I'm not making this up.

Cactus742: JasMine90 I never said you were making things up. But your perspective is very Church-and-family. Church with a capital C.

CumbaGirl: I don't want a bunch of melanin on my finger to decide who'll be the companion for the rest of my life.

Cactus742: CumbaGirl wait until you meet him/her and we'll speak again.

• From the conference of Giancarlo Bellini, professor of Theology at the University "La Sapienza", Rome.

"All religions of the world represent the Bond as something unique and meaningful to the belief itself, but at the same time seem to agree on one thing only: the Bond is something unbreakable, a thread that ties two souls in the cycle of birth/death/rebirth.
Isn't it comforting to know you can face death without losing track of your beloved one? Many people find peace in knowing that even in the next life, their soul mate will be alongside them, albeit under a different name or different appearance. The binds that connect the souls become so unbreakable, according to some religious cults, that the souls can even meld together. Many believers of many religions argue that stronger Bonds, those who develop psychic and empathic connections, aren't merely the evolution of two souls that have become one through different life cycles, but a spiritual union of senses and bodies. A total union lasting from one lifetime to another.
Of course, as a result, these Bonds are (for them) something sacred. You must not break them.
Many cults in fact prohibit practiced creed to BCE and Bondless."

.o0o.

A concerned Violet and Siger Holmes were on the phone with their paediatrician when they hadn't seen any name appear on little Sherlock's left ring finger by his fifth birthday.
At that age, Mycroft, their eldest son already had his SIN fully visible.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Holmes," Dr. Abbott had said, however. "Some children develop a SIN so pale that it stays pretty much invisible throughout the fifth year of age. The deadline for registration is on the child's sixth birthday, so there's still time."
He had sounded reassuring with his calm, steady doctor-voice, but when Sherlock's sixth birthday arrived and there was still no trace of his SIN, the doctor had to run a contrast-enhanced ultrasound on the boy in order to confirm whether or not there was a SIN present at all. It was strange for it to stay under the skin after the sixth birthday, but wouldn't be the only case in the world so everything was still possible. And hope was always the last to die.
But his voice was much less reassuring when he told the Holmeses, one of the wealthiest families of Essex, that the youngest of the house had no name on his finger and, consequently, he had the obligation to officially register him as Born Without Bond.
Violet wasn't happy about having a Bondless in her (otherwise perfect) family tree.

Jonathan and Margaret Watson were on the phone, concerned, with their paediatrician the third night in which little John couldn't sleep due to an inexplicable pain in his left hand. There was only a small red speckle on the ring finger but they believed it was completely normal. After all, the child was just 4, it was probably the skin that was beginning to darken and then form the name.
Even Harriett, their eldest daughter, had felt a little pain during the formation of her SIN. These things happened.
But doctor's voice was not at all reassuring when he ordered them to take the boy to hospital as soon as possible, despite being close to midnight.
They left home in a hurry, bringing John still in his pyjamas. Upon arrival at the hospital, the doctor had him sit on the table while he studied the child's hand closely with a magnifying glass, focusing on the red speckle that coloured his left ring finger.
With a broken-hearted sigh, he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "He's a BCE," he told the two parents, who sought in every way to calm John's wailing. "And an early one, at that. I can already see his SIN under the inflamed skin. The hand hurts because there's an ongoing infection. The name will appear within the next two weeks or so. It'll also begin to bleed. I'll give you some anti-inflammatory meds to reduce the pain and antibiotics to calm the infection but..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
Margaret embraced her child, the first lights of dawn on the horizon.
A lifetime as a BCE wasn't exactly what she had in mind for her little blond angel.

.o0o.

Sherlock observed silently as his brother received the little red velvet box containing the silver ring that marked his transition to adulthood. His mother smiled, his father pounded a hand on his eldest son's shoulder and the invited guests applauded respectfully.
Sherlock wrinkled his lips, sinking even more in the sofa at the other end of the hall.
The silver ring was more a social symbol than a real utility. It replaced the coloured metal ring which was worn in childhood to cover the SIN, and it literally meant "in search". He would wear it until he found his Soulmate or until his marriage, when it would be replaced by a gold wedding ring.
He'd never understood the need to follow this practice exactly, but it was tradition. And from a family like theirs, with social relationships and obligations in every part of Essex, a certain "adherence to standards" was expected.
Obviously, this concept didn't apply to him. Sherlock didn't need to wear any ring at all, so he had to learn these things from books (rather than from his mother, as Mycroft did). He was 11 but he thoroughly understood that their mother preferred Mycroft to him.
And it wasn't hard to see why.
"Aren't you going to wish your brother a happy birthday?"
His father's warm baritone arrived barely a moment before the firm hand on his shoulder and Sherlock snorted. "No," he replied simply.
"Why?" asked Siger Holmes with a calm and almost amused tone.
"Because," answered Sherlock, covering unconsciously his left hand with his right.
Sherlock could have inherited his incredible intelligence from his mother but he'd certainly learned the art of observation from his father.
"You don't want to because you don't have a SIN like him?" asked the man.
Sherlock shook his head. "I don't care," he responded quickly but frowned in irritation.
Siger squeezed the hand on his son's shoulder. "I'm sure, however, that Mycroft would appreciate it. You know he loves you, even if he doesn't say it too often. He has the same character as your mother."
"He doesn't care for me," answered however Sherlock, closing himself off even more. "Even mum doesn't." He folded his arms across his chest.
Siger sighed sadly. "Don't say that even as a joke, Sherlock. I assure you it's not like that."
"Yes, it is," insisted the child. "I see them, dad. It's because I am... different." The last word was a choked murmur.
This time, Siger hesitated before resuming. They both observed as Mycroft receive hugs and congratulations from all the guests under Violet's clearly proud and happy gaze, who didn't miss a chance to brag about her son's school career and the equally bright future that awaited him.
"You see, Sherlock," began his father then, "your mother follows a very... puritanical creed. She's one of those people who believes that the Bond is the only true union between two people and any union outside the one between Soulmates is immoral. Consequently, she's also part of a group of people who believe that families of nobility, like ours, are responsible for keeping their family tree perfect – in other words, composed only of legitimate unions and spurious of... dead branches." He explained everything calmly, watching his wife from afar and never removing his hand from his son's shoulder. "Conditions like yours are foreseeable developments of evolution, Sherlock. Although rare, they are completely normal. It's just that certain people, no matter how intelligent, on certain topics struggle to see past the tip of their nose."
Sherlock had never heard his father give opinions so sincere about his mother and, above all, he hadn't ever done it in confidence with him. He turned his curly head in his father's direction, who responded to his gaze at him with a smile.
"Now, go congratulate to your brother. Tonight I'll tell you about Chinese sea pirates," said Siger, igniting in Sherlock a sparkle of excitement in anticipation of a new tale about pirates.

John's mother had repeated many times that eavesdropping was wrong, but this time it wasn't on purpose.
He just had to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water because his hand hurt so, so bad. He couldn't sleep – his finger burned and the gauze patch he wore was already blood-stained – and Harry had threatened to paint his face in his sleep with permanent markers if he didn't stay silent.
Usually, his parents were already in bed at this hour but that wasn't a problem. Although he was 8, John was used to changing the patch alone and recognising from the labels which were the pills his mother gave him when his hand was hurting. He was also able to reach the glasses in the cupboard – by moving a chair and standing on it – so he didn't really need help from his parents or from his sister.
But that night, as he made his way downstairs, the kitchen light was on and the door was closed. His parents' voices came from inside, muffled but audible, and standing in front of the door with his left hand to chest he couldn't help but hear what they were saying.
"It's not his fault, Jonathan," his mother was saying with an earnest but controlled voice.
"Of course it isn't. But this is the third school that's rejected his enrolment. There must be a damn reason, because it can't be just because he's a Ribbon. He's just a boy, for fuck's sake!" John started at the swear word – 'cause you can't say bad words!
"Don't talk about him like that," his mother immediately intervened.
"...BCE," corrected the man.
A loaded silence filled the kitchen and John, standing in the hallway, held his breath in fear of making too much noise. If they found him out, he'd be scolded.
"What are the alternatives?" asked his mother after what seemed like a century.
"The school in town. Perhaps there'll be fewer problems."
"It's an hour roundtrip, Jonathan."
"I'll accompany him until he's old enough to take the bus alone."
"We don't even know if they're going to accept him..."
"We must try. We don't have the money for a private school, Maggie."
"I know..."
"Look, Harriett goes into her second year of middle school this year. We can make her change schools so she can go with her brother and you could just drop them to and pick them up from the bus stop. What do you think?"
"But what about her friends, darling? Harry's been with them since nursery school..."
"It's the only way if we want to send John to school. I don't want to put my son on a bad road – he's already destined to walk one of those."
"John's not destined to walk any bad road!" shouted his mother, and John jumped at the abrupt change of tone. "Stop talking like hose twopenny scientist on the telly. Your son isn't a criminal, he hasn't done anything!" she cried.
"But he could become one, Maggie; you should seriously consider this opportunity! He's a Ribbon, and you know very well yourself that most of them aren't going to end well! Problems with school are only a small part of what we'll have to face in the future; you've got to come to terms with it!"
"I told you not to call him that!"
The quarrel went on but John didn't listen further. He understood maybe half of what his parents were saying but that was more than enough.
He went up the stairs in silence, eyes filled with tears that threatened to fall down his cheeks, and despite the sharp pain in his hand and his desperate thirst, he took refuge among his bed clothes, sinking his face in the pillow.
It was not his fault he was different.
It wasn't his fault.

Sherlock locked himself in the bathroom the night his father died, refusing to open the door even when Mycroft began to pound on it loudly.
He opened the shower jet and slipped under the water fully clothed, ignoring how utterly freezing it was. He sat on the floor of the bathtub and, with a horsehair sponge, began to rub the skin of the left ring finger.
He rubbed with all the strength he had, scrubbing, scratching until it started to bleed. "Come out... come out!" he prayed with broken voice, silent tears of sadness turning into a hysterical cry of anger and pain.
"Come out!" he cried in despair but among the scratches, his finger was clean.
He couldn't remain a Bondless, not anymore. Not without his father.
His mother would send him away, to a boarding school. He had heard her talking about it to his father one night, and even if Mycroft told him it wasn't true and that he would take care of the matter, his mother had free reign without his father to prohibit even the very idea.
He didn't want to leave. It wasn't his fault if that damn name simply wasn't appearing.
It wasn't his fault.
John bundled himself away in the bathroom the night his father moved out, hiding under the sink with the disinfectant bottle and his box of patches. He didn't lock the door because no one was even looking for him. His mother was too destroyed to take care of him, and Harry was just too angry.
He had a fever, but only a slight one and he'd learned to ignore it by now. The doctor had told him that the wound on his finger could often become infected and give him a bit of fever. In the end, it was at least once a month.
He let a few tears slide silently down his cheeks while carefully removing the patch from his finger, struggling where one side was glued to the other. As always, his SIN was covered with dried blood so using a cotton ball soaked in disinfectant, he cleaned it back to clarity. The name always bled and always hurt, but today more than ever it was there, painfully present, alive and red, like a curse.
The wound in the shape of "Sherlock": that was the cause of all this. John's father and mother had quarrelled every night for more than a year, and now his father had gone; Harry had to change schools to accompany him in town and now she wasn't pretty much speaking to him either.
All because he was different.
It was all his fault.

.o0o.

At school, Sherlock's female classmates spent whole days talking about how their encounter with their Soulmates would be.
They imagined themselves in situations worthy of the worst soap opera or romantic comedy ever filmed. Long, understanding gazes with the new guy at the other end of the class, an excited tingling at the thought that he might be the right "Jack", the one whose name lay cherry red under their pink metal ring. After long walks and laughter, finally he would take her hand. There'd be the positive shock and the feel of the Bond beginning to form, sweet kiss at sunset, marriage, six drooling kids and they lived happily ever after.
They were all the same. They were nauseating.
The men's side of the story was no different, except they preferred a more "physical" approach. Hearing their conversations, they all seemed destined to marry a Playboy's model with prosperous breast and perpetually in a swimsuit. He certainly wouldn't be the one to tell them that most of the planet's female population didn't have Barbie's features, unless they underwent surgery and used gallons of hair colour. Ridiculous.
He had no such problems. Having neither a name nor a ring to cover it, he'd the immense fortune of not having to lower himself to his classmates' level, which was the purest form of human stupidity.
Although…
Sometimes – just sometimes – he tried to imagine what it would be like to have a SIN.
To be like everyone else. The times in which his classmates had better things to do than tease the freak (that's what they called him from over their shoulders, loudly enough for him to hear), he was left alone to spend afternoons in the Chemistry lab, skipping unnecessary and repetitive lessons. To hell with the Dean's warning, his more than excellent grade point average was the perfect excuse to devote his time to more instructive things.
He was almost sure his SIN, if he had one, would be a male name. His 16 years of experience were more than enough for him to understand that he couldn't bear females and their unpredictable mood changes. He didn't quite feel physical repulsion; he hadn't felt anything, in fact, the times he'd experienced kisses or more intimate forms of contact with girls and boys who weren't preoccupied of SINs and social rules. His (modest) appreciation of either gender was on an intellectual level, and intellectually speaking, he couldn't stand girls. So, a man.
That man would be less intelligent than him but still above average. Competition only excited him from a certain point of view and he wouldn't have appreciated a high competitiveness with the person with whom (according to social logic) he'd spend the rest of his life with. He couldn't possibly appreciate a person who he'd eventually have to outsmart, especially after outsmarting the person. They'd completely lose attraction. Those were enemies, not Soulmates.
The man wouldn't be squeamish and he wouldn't be bothered by his experiments.
Sherlock imagined a man with a strong character, because Sherlock would become a detective and his partner couldn't possibly lag behind or lament action. Indeed, he almost desired him to be action-addicted. Yes.
The physical aspect wasn't overly important. The man could hardly be taller than him – Sherlock was already very tall for his age – and would be British (although the latter was more a personal preference).
The reality, however, was that he could imagine any person, any name, but none of them would ever have been at his side. He was a Bondless, a Born Without Bond, which meant only one thing.
It was his destiny to be alone.

John had soon realized that if he wanted to avoid troubles, he had to lie.
His mother had bought him a green metal ring, identical to all of this classmates, wide enough to cover a good portion of skin. Or a band-aid.
John spent at least two days per week with the scissors, cutting off the sides of all patches in his possession to adjust them to the ring's width. Unfortunately, he had to change the patches several times a day since the blood stained them quickly. He had to be sure no one saw, especially at school. He usually went out during class, asking to go to the bathroom and locking himself in a cubicle to take off the ring and quickly change the patch.
Many times it wasn't enough – he also needed disinfectant, especially on bad days when the wound hurt more due to infection – but he had to manage with what he had.
Teachers were aware of John's condition and never asked, but his classmates were unaware and hopefully would remain that way. For his own good.
Avoiding answering questions was much less difficult.
The SIN was a private topic that many preferred not to discuss, unless on a hypothetical level. Those who refused to confide their SIN to someone else weren't looked at with suspicion, but with a silent understanding. For some people, the SIN was a very intimate thing and John's was no different.
Except for him, it was more than intimate – it was dangerous. Only once he'd made the mistake of entrusting his secret to someone else: at primary school he'd told it to his best friend but the boy got scared and ran weeping toward the teacher.
The boy never spoke to John again, nor had approached him, and some time later, John's father had received a phone call that said John could no longer attend that school due to some parents' complaints. It was useless to explain that he hadn't done anything (nothing wrong, at the very least), and his father knew it. It was simply the path Ribbons walked and although Jonathan strove to accept it, in the end the stress became too much.
Alcohol and delusion go together nicely. Alcohol and a family of four, a little less.
Since his father had left, John swore he would no longer cause trouble to anyone. Or, if he did, he'd solve them alone. His and Harry's mother was a very capable woman but with two children to raise, she already had too much on her mind. She didn't deserved the hassles that, without fail, he as a Ribbon would bring home. So John concealed, pretended, lied. It wasn't a problem.
His lies were the reason he had a lot of friends (unaware of his SIN status), had had some girlfriends (also unaware), was part of a rugby team with a capable coach (again, unaware) and looked with apprehension into modules for University selection (for many Ribbons, it was difficult even finishing high school, let alone going to University).
But as well as he'd endured his lies, for 17 years John had seen shadows and obstacles around every corner.
He tried to be a model student but it wasn't unusual for him to be involved in fights of some sort, even with older blokes. His sister, despite her acid words about the criminal he'd surely become, had begun to booze and had left college before even starting it, bringinghome problems John managed to leave outside the door. Yet another failure – not having passed the third job interview – did nothing but increase her anger.
She refused to be reasonable and drank instead.
One evening, she drank too much. She ended up in hospital just a few steps from ethylic coma and John, who went to her bedside in the middle of the night to save his mother the view, looked at her from the room's door with resentment.
People like Harry Watson didn't deserve to have a Soulmate.

On his eighteenth birthday Sherlock didn't receive a silver ring.
There was no party with no guests and no cake. His mother just wished him happy birthday and gave him a kiss on the forehead; his brother sent him a package from London that he didn't even bother to open.
He didn't feel at home in that house anymore. His place among those walls gradually faded after his father's death and after an adolescence spent away from home as long as he could, and in his room for the remaining time, he was increasingly convinced about it.
He was aware that his mother couldn't stand his presence although she didn't show it. Probably her maternal instinct was strong, despite everything, or maybe she struggled against the social rules of the mother's role, but they didn't prevent her from seeing her younger son for no more than 20 minutes a day. Mycroft was the only one who tried at least to have dinner with him, but since he'd left to attend University, Sherlock had spent years dining alone with the only company of the evening news.
It couldn't be said that hatred wasn't mutual.
Sherlock's world was enclosed within the four walls of his room amid vials of distilled sap from toxic plants and framed butterflies masterfully captured, finding in Chemistry the friend he never had. A family too indifferent and classmates too ignorant for not being able to see the fact that he was different from others, yes, but also more free than anyone else.
He had no ties, no obligations, and his fate blowing in the wind. He wouldn't be tied to anyone, wouldn't have to share his life and his mind with anyone and if was that the price of freedom, it wasn't a sacrifice. Far from it.
If he was meant to be alone, all the better.

On the day of his eighteenth birthday John received a blue velvet box from his mother, containing his personal silver ring.
She'd chosen one slightly wider than normal – in order to cover the patch – but all things considered it was fine and elegant, classic. She'd also engraved his initials (J.H.W. on top, in cursive script) and was the best gift John had ever received.
He knew his mother had spent more than she could afford on that ring, but seeing the happiness in her eyes John didn't have heart to complain. After Harry had left home permanently, living in London to search for "Clara" (that was the official reason, at least), seeing his mother smile could make John's day.
"It doesn't exactly fit its role," Margaret told him, taking his face in her hands and kissing his cheek. "It'll never be a real Search for you, I'm afraid. But I wanted you to feel like everyone else, because you're not different. You don't deserve to be less loved than everyone else. You're a lovely boy, John, and those who have bias against BCEs are wrong."
John smiled in return, hugging her and immediately changing the ring. He avoided showing the woman the patch which had already been stained in blood for far too long, and soon it was perfectly covered by the silver ring, which slipped like water over his left ring finger.
"It's perfect mum, thank you," thanked John, sitting at the table while she turned to pull the cake from the oven.
Days like these were the ones which repaid him for all his struggles and made him forget the anger and hatred he felt for "Sherlock", who was able to make his life a living hell.

.o0o.

Victor had violinist's hands.
Thin, tapered fingers, neat nails and a delicate touch. He handled everything as well as he played the violin: with elegance and absolute kindness. Flipping through the pages of a book, pulling a cigarette from the pack... if elegance had a name, it would be Victor Trevor.
What Sherlock liked, though, was that Victor never treated him with the same delicacy as everyone else did. Indeed, the exact opposite.
Because Victor may have had gentle hands but his music was passionate and ferocious.
The first time they met, Victor was playing Mozart, the first movement of the Violin Concerto No.3. From the skill with which he was performing, Sherlock had quickly realized that he would never be able to play anything below an Allegro with the same virtuosity. Victor's hands were made for accuracy and speed.
And, Sherlock admitted later, to touch his skin.
Temperamentally Victor was the opposite of him. Cheerful and extroverted, he was so sociable that very few people on campus didn't know who he was. A physics student, not a model one but with very high grades, he was an example of the middle-class family boy who succeeded effortlessly to find a place in life. Good looking, his blue eyes and curly copper-blond hair made him the centre of attention of both women and men.
But Victor liked strange things, and that is why he got to know Sherlock.
Obviously Sherlock was not lacking of rumours about himself inside the campus. Rumours that mostly regarded his small argument with the Organic Chemistry professor, of whom Sherlock rectified almost half of the lesson (and he was even right).
It'd been Victor to approach him first and, despite the fact Sherlock initially didn't want to know a thing about him, over time he started to find his company pleasant in a strange way. In a physical way, he realized later.
There weren't many things Sherlock appreciated in Victor – outside of music and the man's innate passion for troubles – but the one thing he liked the most was that he didn't have any kind of prejudice and didn't support social convention. SINs included.
He hadn't made any secret of his SIN with Sherlock: "Chris". Just as he hadn't made jokes or strange faces when he discovered for sure what all the university already whispered: that Sherlock was a Bondless. He simply smiled – a sly smile – and he stretched a foot under the table to touch Sherlock's ankle.
So it was in that way Sherlock, in his second year of Chemistry at King's College, discovered sex's pleasant side through the hands of a violinist and physicist named Victor Trevor.
Both liked to experience – they were students of Chemistry and Physics, it was inevitable – and sex was no exception. Sometimes it was fast and dirty, sometimes preceded by slow and exciting foreplay, and sometimes it was followed by languid kisses leading inevitably to a second round. But that's all it ever was between them: sex.
Although Victor didn't believe in social conventions related to SINs (like not having sex with anyone other except your Soulmate, for example) he was convinced that "Chris" was the only person who he'd ever truly love and put it straight with anyone he had intercourse with.
Sherlock didn't care. Sex with Victor was pleasant, without obligations and was able to distract him from his overloaded brain for a while, so it was more than enough. He'd go so far to say that they were friends; the "with benefits" was just a useful addition.

Victor's bed's nets squeaked loudly during the last thrusts, at the end of which he joined Sherlock in an orgasm that left them both exhausted. Victor still wore his shirt and socks and Sherlock his button-down shirt, and before pulling out of him to lie down, Victor pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck. Sherlock didn't reciprocate in any way.
They breathed deeply – out of sync – for a few minutes before Victor sat with his back against the headboard, stretching toward the nightstand's drawer and pulling out a box of Kleenex. He took a couple and started to clean himself a bit before handing the box over to Sherlock, who made the same gesture.
Once finished, always silent, Victor reached for cigarettes and put two of them between his lips. Sherlock observed in a glance his smooth and harmonious fingers using the lighter and the rise of his chest when he inhaled the first puff of smoke. Once they were lighted, Victor passed one to Sherlock, who took it with silent gratitude.
Nicotine was even better after sex.
"You weren't in your room yesterday," Victor stated, blowing out a cloud of grey smoke into the half-lit room, illuminated only by the campus' night garden lamps. "I hoped to spend the night with you..." he dropped in the obviousness of meaning.
"You just did," Sherlock answered, dropping the ash in the ashtray that Victor had managed to balance on his thigh.
But Victor didn't fall for it. "That's not what I mean, Sherlock".
"Be more accurate then, Victor," he retorted.
Sherlock knew what he wanted to get at; for that reason he wasn't too astonished when the other man quickly grabbed his left arm, unbuttoning the cuff and rapidly pulling the shirtsleeve up past the elbow. A series of red pinholes, some even livid, marked his pale skin.
"Am I accurate enough now?" asked Victor sarcastically, slightly shaking the arm as if to emphasize his words. "What's it this time? Cocaine again? I thought that time was just an experiment. Do you know how dangerous this is?" He spoke non-stop with an expression somewhere between anger and concern on his face.
Sherlock, taking his arm from Victor's hands, took a breath. "Cocaine. Benzoylmethylecgonine. IUPAC name: methyl-3-benzoyloxy-8-methyl-8-azabicyclo-octane-2 -carboxylate. Formula C17H21NO4. Alkaloid. Hepatic metabolism, 1 hour half-life. Maximum dose between 1 and 1.5 milligrams per kilogram of weig–"
"Okay, all right, stop! You did your homework. What do you want to prove?" Victor, still angry, interrupted him.
Sherlock continued to stare at the ceiling. "That I'm fully conscious of what I'm doing, Victor. There's no way the situation will get out of control and you know full well that in terms of hygiene I'm impeccable," he explained.
Victor frowned. "Yes, you are," he had to admit. "But this doesn't mean I like it," he added in a bitter tone, returning to smoking his cigarette.
Sherlock remained silent for several minutes, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the cigarette consuming itself between his fingers. Only after some minutes he broke the silence.
"It helps," he said.
Victor, squashing the stub in the ashtray, glanced at him. "Helps what?" he asked.
"The chaos," replied Sherlock. "In here." He raised his hands to tap his index fingers to his temples.
He could almost see Victor frowning even without looking directly at him. "Sorry, Sherlock, but I don't get it," he said, confused.
Sherlock sighed. "Indeed..." he said, squashing his stub and turning onto his side, back towards Victor. If fate had wanted Victor to understand, he would have Victor's name tattooed on his ring finger.

John had already realized that the summons by Professor Hardman, Professor of Medical Oncology, wasn't closely related to the curriculum or the exam planned for the following week. It also wasn't related to his scholarship, surely, since his good grades fulfilled the requirements for maintaining it throughout the academic year. His school career was all right.
He thought about what else could be as he waited in the hallway, standing next to the window facing the interior courtyard. He could think of nothing.
Excluding everything else, there remained only one thing. He hoped that this summoning was not for what he feared it was. He really hoped so.
"Come in, Watson," he heard the professor call.
John, taking a deep breath, went in and closed the door behind him.
Hardman wasn't certainly a young man, but to be responsible of a chair in London University he certainly wasn't so old. He was 65 and right as rain, probably thanks to the healthy lifestyle that only a zealous doctor is able to keep up with constantly. (Sometimes, John saw him jogging early in the morning, passing the University entrance.) His greying, thick hair was neatly combed to a three-quarter line on the right and his eyes, of a particular green colour, hadn't lost their attractiveness behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Seated at his desk, he pointed at one of the two chairs placed in front of it. John sat with a short nod.
Hardman sighed, placing aside the papers he'd been reading and rubbing his nose with two fingers. One look was enough for John to realize that the open dossier between them on the mahogany desk was his own.
John swallowed silently while the professor tried to find the appropriate words.
"You know, John," he began, "Before becoming professor, I was a practicing physician, so I gave a lot of bad news to a lot of people. They say that to be an oncologist, you can't feel too much empathy toward a patient, but in reality it's not exactly possible. Empathy is needed when you tell a man that he's slowly dying and his body is quickly betraying him." He took a short break before continuing. "I hope you'll understand if I allow myself to present to you the issue the University Council showed me only yesterday that affects you."
That was not at all comforting. The Council fully gathered only to discuss important cases, which most often regarded a sure expulsion.
They know, John began to think without being able to stop himself. They know, they know, they know.
Unconsciously, he picked at the silver ring with the thumb.
"Your enrolment application was brought to my attention, as well as to the Council's. Initially, I couldn't see anything wrong: the format was properly completed, the admission test passed with excellent grades, the application for scholarship was accepted with no problems. In my eyes, you were a perfect Medical student even on paper. Then I saw this..." Hardman put in front of John a paper marked with General Register Office's watermark. It was a photocopy but a blue ink stamp and the officer's signature labelled it as a recognized copy.
Just one line was highlighted in yellow:

S.I.N.: Broken Connection Entity (Sherlock)

John didn't say a word (They know).
Hardman sighed. "You've been unlucky. London University rarely does such radical controls on students. But given the new statistics published about BCEs, this year we've adopted more thorough methods," he explained.
John stayed completely silent. He stared at that damn yellow highlighted line and hoped, in his heart, that some sort of Karma would return to "Sherlock" after the twenty-three years full of shit he'd endured.
After a few moments, the professor spoke. "I must ask you to remove your ring, John".
He was expecting it but he felt blood freezing in his veins regardless. He'd felt guilty as soon as he'd ticked the 'SIN positive – in search' slot on the application form, four years earlier. He had just hoped that the repercussions on his pride wouldn't be as terrible as he mentally painted.
But it was even worse. John removed the ring from his finger, ashamed like a thief sentenced to the electric chair, who wanted to apologize but simply couldn't. He straightened his left hand toward Professor Hardman, white patch in plain sight, but didn't even try to look up to see the reaction.
The gesture was greeted by silence.
"I must hurt..." muttered Hardman eventually, and John was astonished to hear a note of regret in his voice.
It depends on what you mean, John immediately thought, but his actual answer was different. "Endlessly," he whispered.
"Do you take painkillers?" asked the professor.
Watson nodded. "I alternate Paracetamol and Ibuprofen. Nimesulide when there's an ongoing infection," he replied.
Hardman nodded. "Why did you lie, John?"
John didn't answer right away. He tried to find the right words not to look like a poor victim, but from his point of view he simply didn't have an argument like that. He opted for sincerity.
"When I was a kid, one of my classmates told the teacher that his mother had told him a beautiful thing, the previous evening. 'Matt, if you want something and fight for it, you can do anything'. I think every parent says more or less the same words to their kid, at least once in their lifetime," John said. "My mother never did. Not because she wasn't thoughtful, rather because she didn't want to deceive me. Truth is, even if I give my all, no matter how badly I want it, I can't do what I want all because of this." He raised his left hand.
He looked up to meet to meet the eyes of the oncologist who watched him intently, fingers interlocked and pressed to his lips, elbow on the desk.
"I wanted to become a doctor because it's a noble profession," John continued. "If I cured people and did it well, maybe they'd stop judging me and start to recognize my merits. Without excuses, without distinctions, without doubts. But there are very few, if any at all, faculties open for Ribbons and Medicine is not offered at any of them. I lied to have a chance. A chance that all normal people have," he said, voice now full of anger.
The professor couldn't say anything because John continued talking, eyes thinned by resentment.
"Newspapers do nothing but shoot the mouths off Ribbons, claiming that crime has increased due to them. Public opinion is so focused on the statistics that avoid listing how many crimes are committed by people who aren't Ribbons, and trust me when I say that there are many – I counted them. We're looked at with suspicion just because of these figures, but try to walk in our shoes. Try to grow up knowing that the name on your finger, the one that never ceases to bleed and hurt, is proof of the fact that the only person who would've truly loved you decided to refuse you. And you don't even know when, exactly, or why. Try to imagine what it means to feel alone in the midst of a crowd. We grow up like that. Even worse: we grow up under the wary gaze of others, constantly bombarded by the words, 'I'm sorry but you can't.' No wonder by the time we turn 30 – if we turn 30 – we desire not only to see the world on fire, but to feed flames with gasoline." He ended his speech, clenching his teeth to prevent wrath dominating him completely. He'd closed his fists and now his fingernails were leaving deep furrows on his palms.
The professor said nothing for long minutes but observed him carefully. Maybe he was searching for the right words, but they didn't exist. They had never existed.
Only facts mattered, and Hardman relied on those.
"John, this University will recognize the years of studying you have undertaken and all the exams already taken," he said.
John, caught off guard, widened his eyes.
Hardman continued. "Unfortunately, however, I cannot change the rules. The Dean has already given to the order to certify your expulsion, but I managed to persuade the Council to recognize what you'd earned. You're one of my best students and one of the best in the whole class – I don't care whether you're a BCE or not. You earned those grades by giving your best as much as everyone else, perhaps more. Therefore, you deserve them."
John gasped, undecided on what to say, but the oncologist beat him to it.
"London University will recognize your four years of study as a prize to the perseverance and devotion you've demonstrated. All your exams will be assured, although we'll be adding a note of demerit for misrepresentation on the admission form. As long..." He hesitated. "As long as you continue your studies at the Military Academy," he finished finally.
John frowned, a doubtful expression on his face. "In the Army?" he asked, dazed.
Hardman nodded. "The RAMC doesn't discriminate. If you're deemed worthy to protect Queen and Country, you become a soldier like anyone else. The medical practice, although limited to first-aid surgery, is open to anyone who has the prerequisites to learn and put that knowledge into practice on the battlefield. And you possess those prerequisites," he said.
It was a well-known tale that the Army didn't care about SIN status – how could they, with an ongoing war in the Middle East? – and so the RAMC eventually ended up being the last free port for Ribbons, Bondless and the few who really wanted a military career. Of course, Hardman's clarification was more of an order than a piece of advice: no other universities would admit John despite his certified four years, after all.
In the end, John nodded and accepted the offer. At the very least, he hoped as a soldier he could be useful.
And if indeed there was a God, he would catch a bullet between the eyes as soon as possible.

.o0o.

Sherlock wanted to go further.
Exceed limits.
Experiments could be dangerous but discoveries, the true ones, always had their share of risk. Every great scientist had crossed the line, the boundary between common sense and the unknown; those risks were what made them great.
This wasn't exactly an experiment. He wasn't trying to prove anything. He was trying to find a remedy for boredom, tedium, every little thing that haunted him. The past he'd left behind, a present without a concrete form. A future he couldn't clearly see. It was a silent escape.
It was adrenaline, blood, bliss. One hour of pure, absolute perfection. It was like pins in the brain, needles that stimulated the right points, obfuscating concepts without substance, opening his eyes on a reality he already saw better than others, allowing him to see into the depths of it, to understand the structure supporting it. Everything just by using a hypodermic syringe and a tourniquet.
It was in a mere moment he realized that maybe something was awry, when he perhaps regretted the choice to neglect doses, to try those few extra milligrams so as to be able to bear that little bit more so he could penetrate the very meaning of everything down to the atoms that composed them.
He could see his finger's skin melt and leave the bones uncovered. Felt the pain of the invisible acid eroding it. Could hear even the sound, the sizzle, the smell of cooked meat, human flesh. He screamed and groaned but the acid didn't stop: it advanced, eating layers of skin and flesh, first on the wrists then on the arms...
Hallucinations, a part of his brain was able to tell him. Visual, auditory, olfactory. Probably the last two were an extreme attempt of his brain to compensate for the sensory hyper-stimulation. Side effects caused by the psychotropic substance injected only moments before. On the intravenous fast track, shot straight to the brain.
He realized he'd overdosed only when he opened his eyes and saw the drape of a four-poster bed.
"I didn't believe you could fall so far."
A voice came from the right facing the window, watching the night sky near dawn. He recognized the place from the smell and the voice from its tone.
"Mycroft..." he croaked, throat dry and sore.
Mycroft gave no indication of hearing him. "I wanted to believe that leaving the University without graduating, after passing all exams with perfect grades, was the end of your 'rebellious age'," he said. "I wanted to trust that it was enough revenge and that your occasional work as consultant for Detective Inspector Lestrade was sufficient to catalyze your goodwill. It seems I was wrong."
After a moment of silence, he added, "I worry about you, Sherlock".
Sherlock didn't answer except for an ironic chuckle.
Mycroft ignored his reaction and everything it could mean. "You're under close surveillance from today onward. You'll stay here until you've completed the rehabilitation therapy. Your medicines are on the nightstand."
With that, Mycroft Holmes in only his shirt and dressing gown, left the window and walked straight toward the door. He stopped in the doorway, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
"I do care about you, Sherlock. Whether you believe it or not," he said, exiting and closing the door behind him.
Sherlock, turning on his side, closed his exhausted eyes and sighed.
Who knew why he couldn't believe it.

He barely made it in time to find an empty cubicle.
John threw up everything he ate with violent stomach and throat spasms, and he had to cling to the bowl due to severe dizziness. His dog tags clinked together between his skin and the t-shirt's green fabric, wet with cold sweat.
He heard the door open just before another retch wracked him again.
"Are you all right, Doc?" Lieutenant Tony Monroe's voice barely echoed in the empty room, acquiring an almost metallic note.
John spat, then flushed the toilet and sat on the ground, his back against the cubicle's plastic wall. He suddenly felt forceless.
"Yes... yes, I'm fine," John replied, laying his hands on his thighs. "Must have been the traditional Afghan food."
He heard the other man leaning against the wall beside the door, waiting. "We've eaten that stuff every day for years and it never bothered you before. Seems to me more like an Echo." The Lieutenant used the quiet tone of a person who knew what he was talking about.
John rolled his eyes under closed eyelids.
It was called "Echo": the special ability of a Bonded couple to perceive strong feelings of one another. In the event that one of the two had a serious accident, or fell ill to a serious disease, or in any way faced a situation of great physical suffering, the other individual suffered side effects, most often nausea or fever.
"It's rare. And you know that's impossible for me," replied John, holding his breath at another wave of nausea.
"Who knows?" answered the other man, and John could almost hear him shrug.
"It scientifically cannot be," stated John. "You should know, you're a Bondless."
"Hey, even if I don't have a name on my finger, I believe in love, dude." He answered and John shook his head listening to the invective he began, saying that if the Bond is true it remains unbreakable despite time and appearances.
"You've got a name on your finger after all, so it's not totally impossible," said Monroe.
John sighed, his eyes closed. "It's a hollow shell, Monroe. It's impossible."

.o0o.

Pain, like a tidal wave, came only afterwards, when John was already on the ground.
It came from the shoulder and expanded across his chest making his arms shiver and his head peal. He could afford one rattled moan because the pain was just too much, not allowing him the air to even scream.
Funny. He'd seen many soldiers with gunshot wounds before but not a single oneneglectedto empty their lungs in screams that ranged from delusional to hysterical and all shades in between.
He'd die in silence. All the better.
"Watson!"
John felt the sand beneath him, voices and screams and wailing all around, gunfire, mortars and sub-machine guns. All far, distant, muffled. Drops of cold sweat streamed down his temples and stuck the uniform to skin – where there wasn't already blood to do so.
"Call the doctor!"
"Doctor! DOCTOR!"
"Johnny, Johnny, we're here, stay with us!"
He wanted to raise his hand to touch the wound, to feel how deep it was, where he'd been hit exactly... he wanted to help the blurry and indistinct people bent over him – his comrades, he knew – to tell them what to do, were to press, to check if he was it in a vital point, if the bullet had passed on the other side, if it was still inside, but large tears were blurring his sight and he was afraid of closing his eyes and not open them ever again…his arm was heavy, his hand was heavy, his head was heavy. He'd lost a lot of blood. Bullet had probably hit the subclavian artery considering how much blood... how much time had passed?
"Rip it, rip the fabric!"
"Christ... Jesus Christ, blood's too much..."
"Monroe, if you feel sick, be it somewhere else!"
"Hold on Johnny, okay? Doctor's coming, they called a jeep. It'll take you away from here. You'll get out of this hell, I promise, okay?"
"Jesus... oh, Christ..."
"Morphine, give me morphine from your emergency kit!"
People around him were busy, hands dirty with sand and dust pressed hard in his left shoulder, which hurt too fucking much but he couldn't talk, he could barely take small breaths between clenched teeth.
He didn't want to die but it'd probably end like that. From amidst the increasingly blurry heads, resembling shadows more and more, men who he seemed to know but he couldn't say it for sure, John looked at the sun.
They always say that when you're dying you can see all your life before your eyes, but John didn't. He thought about absolutely nothing. His life just ceased to exist. There was only one eternal present hold in that endlessly dilated minute hand ticking, and the only thing his brain was really able to form was a supplication:
Please, God, let me live.

Sherlock opened his eyes when a cold and violent shiver ran down his back, making his muscles tremble. He recognized the feeling as that annoying, undefined floating of a high fever.
Sherlock slowly lifted his eyelids further, blinded by police patrol's emergency lights placed exactly in front of the windscreen. He himself seemed to lie on a police car's seat, a bag of ice resting on his forehead and wrapped – with coat and all – in an orange shock blanket.
He frowned. "One of these again?" he drawled, but without removing it. He was so cold he didn't even care.
"I always carry one in the trunk," said a voice at his side, from the driver's seat: Lestrade. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock ignored the question. "What happened?" he asked instead. The last thing he could remember was a corpse in a side street of Bayswater, nothing more.
"You fainted," Lestrade informed him, "suddenly, without warning. You stopped during one of your praises of Anderson and the Forensic Division's stupidity and lost consciousness."
Sherlock groaned, annoyed. "I was fine before," he said.
"Seemed so to me." Lestrade nodded.
Sherlock put aside the blanket enough to raise his hand and take the ice bag from his forehead. "The crime scene?"
"You've collected enough evidence, don't worry. The corpse has already been taken away; Forensics is finishing up the evidence collection."
Sherlock shook his head, discontent, but the world suddenly turned too quickly for his liking. He had to close his eyes.
"Aren't you going to ask if I've been using? After all, my brother has elected you as my personal handler, hadn't he?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose in a grimace of disgust to emphasize his words.
Lestrade sighed. "Listen, I only do what your brother tells me to do. And I'm not you handler. And no, I know you're not taking drugs."
Sherlock knew right away what he meant. "Ah yes. Did you enjoy having me followed?"
"I don't care about your privacy during a drug investigation, I'm afraid," retorted Lestrade. "By the way, you sure you feel alright? Do you need to go to A&E?"
Sherlock frowned and shook his head.
"Do you know what might have been?" insisted the Yarder.
"I have two theories," Sherlock began, raising his left hand in front of himself so that he'd see the back of the ring finger, "one of which is impossible."
Lestrade was not a fool; he understood what Sherlock was referring to. "An Echo?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded.
They remained silent for long minutes, each lost in thought, until Lestrade interrupted it.
"It might be," he said.
Sherlock's brow rose of its own volition in a look full of scepticism.
"Legends, you know? Those about Bonds so strong and pure to be unbreakable despite time and appearances. Maybe you have an invisible Bond that transcends ages and reincarnations and now you're suffering from its side effects," he said.
Sherlock shook his head again. "Don't bore me with that nonsense, Lestrade. I'm a Bondless. No SIN, no connection," he snapped, annoyed. "It's a simple as annoying flu. Now take me home, if you don't mind."
The Yarder sighed and, preferring silence to an endless discussion, started the engine, driving toward Mycroft's home in which Sherlock was still a guest.
Looking out the window, Sherlock unwittingly rubbed the back of the left ring finger underneath the blanket.
No, there was no one out there with his name on their finger. There could be, logically, but he didn't want there to be.
When you're meant to be alone, rules are rules.

.o0o.

Sometimes it was just too much.
The pressure, the expectations, the disappointment that followed.
There were too many things to think about, too many problems that afflicted him, too many gazes he noticed now that he wouldn't have noticed before.
John's hand was shaking. His leg had become, on its own initiative, a completely useless limb. His finger was hurting as if it were to break away from the hand. His shoulder was giving him painful pangs whenever he moved the arm in the wrong way.
John, now a former soldier having been discarded from RAMC, had been diagnosed with PTSD, regardless of his scepticism towards the diagnosis. He was now a solitary entity who walked through Russell Square without purpose or hope, looking for something he didn't know the shape of, or even what it was.
An eternal present without any future.
"John?"
He had become the personification of uselessness.
"John Watson?"
John heard the voice calling his name only after returning from that unreality he was drowning in. He turned towards the man who'd labelled him, who just rose from a bench John hadn't even seen a few moments before, and even if the face was familiar it wasn't enough for him to really understand who he was.
The other man solved the problem. "Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together."
That's who he was.
"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike. Hello." John shook the hand offered by the man in trench coat and glasses. John remembered him now, from a training course during third year.
He'd gotten fat.
"Yeah, I know, I got fat."
Precisely.
"No, no..." denied John in a breath, patently false, but Mike decided to fly over it.
Obviously in the wrong direction. "I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?" Mike asked.
"I got shot," John replied simply: it was obvious and didn't want to add anything else. Mike didn't answer.
To see again an old friend was still better than wandering around London without the slightest idea of what to do, so they bought coffee and returned to the park bench. It was obvious that Stamford had no idea of what to say – few people really knew what to talk about in front of a former soldier with a limp and the air of someone who'd throw themselves from London Bridge before evening – so it was John who was the one to find something 'harmless' to say.
"Are you still at Bart's then?"
"Teaching now. Yeah. Bright, young things like we used to be. God, I hate them!" he joked.
John chuckled in reflection.
"What about you, just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked then.
"Can't afford London on an Army pension."
"Nah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know!" exclaimed Mike, perhaps to make him feel better, perhaps to make a joke.
Instead, it made John snap, "Yeah, I'm not the John Watson you knew..." He was unable to pronounce the sentence in full and it became an inaudible whisper. His hand trembled again and he opened and closed his fist, hoping that tremors would pass before Stamford noticed.
The situation was already tense enough without Mike's pity.
"Couldn't Harry help?"
John laughed bitterly. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen."
"I don't know, you could... get a flat share or something?"
"Oh, come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
Mike responded with an amused chuckle.
John frowned. "What?"
"You're the second person to say that to me today."
If Watson had been a less curious person, probably he'd have ignored the thing entirely or would have chuckled at the strange coincidence. If he'd been really desperate, he wouldn't have cared less and wouldn't have asked the question that he did, indeed, ask.
In hindsight, the fact that he'd not yet surrendered had changed everything.
"Who was the first?"