A/N: This is a soulmate AU, which includes, but is not limited to, eventual Johnlock, eventual slight Mystrade(I don't even ship them, but I couldn't not), drug use in later chapters, some slight cursing, etc.

Suddenly, I hear a noise, soft and faint, somewhere far off but right beside both my ears. It sounds sort of like a wind chime blowing gently in the afternoon breeze, like the one we have outside our house. At first, I want the noise as far away from my thoughts as possible, but it's difficult to delete a noise so close to your ears and so pertinent to your life.

I already know what the sound is, knew from the moment it sounded in the air, but just because I wanted to hear it then doesn't mean I want to hear it now. Just because I know what it means, or because I feel the swell of interest in my gut, doesn't mean I have to acknowledge it.

So I don't.

I don't glance eagerly down at my wrist to see the arrival of a name, written in colored ink: a color that I can't see, mind you.

I just sit on my gray bed, staring at my gray notebook, in my gray bedroom, looking at the gray window panes, then at the gray cement, and the gray puddles on it, formed by the gray droplets of rain that are falling from the gray sky.

I look to my gray mirror, tilt my gray head, and wonder when all the gray will forever leave my eyes.

I won't glance at the colored label, but I still can't help but recall a time when I was fascinated with the very prospect of soulmates.

Mummy would always tell me of how, when you saw your soulmate, you'd just know that it was them. I'd asked how you could just know by a glance that you and someone else were meant to be, and you'd immediately see the colors, but she said it wasn't nearly as simple as it sounded.

You really don't know your soulmate by a glance. It isn't like in fictional movies where the characters see each other for the first time, and then there are heated kisses and confessions of "I love you"' formed by their lips, like the films I saw as a mere child. It's more like, when you first talk to them, there's supposed to be a spark you've never felt before. Something pulling you to your counterpart. And then, no matter how small the increments, you see color for the first time. That's how you know they're The One.

I suppose the immediate attraction between two soul mates is helpful, considering the fact that there are many Marys and Johns and Michaels and Lisas in the world, and the colors don't always come right away to confirm your relationship.

I used to always ask Mummy if there was someone out there for me, someone who would love me unconditionally and not hate all of my supposed quirks and icy comments. She had always said that there had always been someone who loved me, and who would always love me, unconditionally.

I hadn't know then that she meant family.

Despite my best efforts to try and ward off my curiosity, I find myself desperately wanting to pull up my sleeve and examine my name. The name. The one I will most likely be attached to for the whole of my life.

Unless one of us dies, that is.

I've researched plenty about how deaths affect a soulmate. The wrist of the counterpart left alive will have its name wiped away, erased forever, like they had never even known they had a soulmate, let alone spent most of their life with them. Also, all colors will be reverted back to dull shades of gray. Usually, a person whose soulmate has recently died will fall into a mass depression, and suicide is usually imminent.

I keep thinking my soulmate might be in danger, like they might die and I'll never even meet them, let alone know who they were.

I would just know their name, the lone, colored title branded on the underneath of my wrist, and I wouldn't even have seen the color of my marking. Then, I would never know if someone was able to deal with my alleged idiosyncrasies, like I had asked Mummy doubtfully, so many times.

I suddenly find myself hoping that my counterpart, whatever their name is, wherever they may be, is safe.

Finally, I find my patience has worn thin as I idly spin my fork on my plate, twirling spaghetti around its tines. I haven't told my parents that I've received the mark, and they wouldn't know, considering only the recipient of the marking can hear the characteristic chime, and every person receives their mark at different times in their life.

Frankly, although I hate to admit to a weakness, I'm scared to tell anyone about my soulmate.

After all, I haven't even seen their name myself. I don't know what gender they are, or where they live, or what they're doing, or if they're tall, smart, friendly, loyal: anything!

There are so many things I don't know about my partner, and I find myself wishing I could deduce a person without even seeing them.

The niggling in my skull suddenly becomes unbearable, and I find myself wrenching my left sleeve down. Before I can glimpse my arm, though, I close my eyes, allowing my fingernails to skim over the sensitive flesh of my wrist. This is where it is. This is where my soulmate's name lies...

I count to five, and then my eyes are blown wide, adjusting to the change of light. My eyes are unfocused at first, but I can see that the writing is a deep shade of gray, contrasting immensely against my almost-white skin. Then, my vision focuses, and I see it, the name, branded on my skin in spidery print...

John...

Suddenly, I feel vaguely crestfallen: John is such an ordinary name. So common, in fact, that I've met precisely 17 Johns within my 14 years of existence. And then, my despondency boils into anger at how utterly unfair it is. Why do I have to have such a dull, boring, common, unextraordinary name printed on my wrist?!

I suppose all I can hope for now is that his personality isn't as dull as his title.

But then, I remember that my name isn't really Sherlock, and William is probably just as common as John.

My anger subsides dramatically at the thought.

I remember I used to always converse with Mycroft about soulmate markings, and I'd always be sure to ask if he finally got his. That was when I cared significantly about finding my "Other Half", and now, I haven't even bothered to remember his partner's name. Abruptly, I realize I'm curious about his soulmate, even though I seem to have deleted their mention from my Mind Palace. I guess, now that I know I have a soulmate, and I'm not one of those few, shunned upon outcasts who don't have a marking, I've reinvested myself in the world of soulmates.

"Fatcroft!" I shout, my voice ringing throughout our home. I wait a few minutes, anticipating for him to forcefully wrench open his door and cooly, calmly talk down to me in that condescending tone of his, but it doesn't come. I wait even longer, but then I realize suddenly that my call has fallen upon deaf ears.

Mycroft isn't here anymore: he's away at college.

But I'm not deterred so easily.

"Mummy?" I call, canting my head left and right, scouring our backyard garden. Then, I spot her by a bunch of marigolds, and I start towards her kneeled position as she beckons me over with a wave of her hand. I've never understood her like for gardening as a suitable past time: seems rather dull, to me. Maybe the colors are attractive to her, since she can see them?

"Yes, dear?" she asks, and I unconsciously bristle at the implication of the pet name. Brushing off the term of endearment, I settle on the soil beside her trowel and shovel, watching her tend to the bright gray flowers.

"What did Mycroft's soulmate marking say?" I ask inquisitively, subconsciously leaning in to hear her response.

"Oh," she smiles, moving her hands to tend to the next flower. "It said Gregory, dear," she finishes simply, not turning to glance at me. Well, I suppose my parents are okay with my soulmate being male, then, if Mycroft's is. That's good, I assume.

"What color was it?" I continue, shifting slightly to avoid crumbles of dirt, deciding to ignore her use of the nickname 'dear', again.

"Hmmm...it was forest green, I believe, like the color of the needles of a spruce tree. Quite pretty," she ends offhandedly, tilting the water pitcher in her hands for the liquid to cascade over the flower's petals. I suppose looking at the things in a garden wouldn't be too bad, that is, if mother isn't exaggerating about all the variant colors of flowers.

"Speaking of markings," she continues, finally turning towards me. I already know what she's going to say: how predictable. "Have you gotten your name, yet?"

I debate on whether to tell her the truth or not, but I suspect she'll know that I'm lying: she has been around me my entire life. Before I even open my mouth to respond, she gives me a stern look, and says,"And you better not lie to me, William." First name; she's serious.

I sigh heavily, conceding,"Uhh...yes..."

And she beams at me, her teeth nearly completely white compared to the black of her hair.

"Ah: let me see it!" she exclaims, reaching out and wrenching my hand towards her face. She inspects it for a moment, face slightly amused, yet...soft(?). "Oh, guess we won't be getting any grandchildren from you boys, huh?"

I realize suddenly that her seeing the mark isn't so bad. "What color is it?" I blurt out, pulling my hand back to my side and smoothing my palm over the name. John...

"Ah, well," she starts, eyeing the marking with a small smile,"it's one of the most lovely shades of blue I've ever seen..." And she must see the mixture of wonder and confusion on my face as she gives an understanding smile and continues. "I think everything I've ever seen that's blue has always been pretty. The ocean, flowers, the sky, rain, your eyes..."

I remember when I'd asked her how I looked when I was young. She seemed contemplative for a moment before telling me about my curly, raven hair, my pale skin, my blue eyes. She had emphasized my eyes very much in the description, saying they were the most interesting thing about my face. How they changed in every lighting: sometimes green, others blue, then teal, maybe gray, often a blend of exotic hues she couldn't call just one specific color.

"Why, that scarf you always wear is blue," she admits, gesturing to the scarf around my neck. I glance down at it for a moment just to see a rich hue of gray wrapped around my neck. No blue, just gray, and suddenly I'm aggitated at the fact that colors simply can't be described. You can say that the ocean is blue, but what is blue? How do you describe blue to someone like me, who's never seen anything other then black, gray, and white?

"Yes, Mummy," I respond, fidgeting with the, supposedly blue, fabric constricting my neck. "But what is blue like? Describe it to me," I demand, shifting to sit on my haunches.

Her smile falters.

"Well, it's hard to describe it, Sherlock. I could tell you that blue feels cool and soothing, like ice, or that it's relaxing and nonconforming, like waves, or that it's crisp and cool, like blueberries. Or I could tell you it's depressing, correlated with tears, or it's soothing and soft, like a breeze. But I know you'd particularly loathe those answers, so I'm afraid I can't answer your question. There are no scientific facts or adjectives I could use to describe any color, and when you first see blue, you'll know exactly what I mean."

She's right; I do like factual information. It's safe and understandable, but obviously colors aren't considered safe and understandable. If Mother could explain blue to me scientifically, she would.

I sit silently for a moment, examining the gray flowers and wondering all about colors: what color are the flowers, what color are Mummy's eyes, what does green look like, and blue, and every other color I've yet to know about? And then, I wonder about John. The color on your wrist is supposed to be the first color you see, so I can't help but wondering what the first blue thing I see will be.

"What do you think I'll first see that's blue?" I query, leaning forward to pick at one of the marigold's petals. I rub it between my thumb and forefinger, waiting as my mother hums thoughtfully.

"I can't be sure, dear, but it could be anything. When you first see blue, all the blue in the world won't just appear all at once: it will appear slowly, gradually, in increments. So many things are blue that you could see the sky, first. Or a building, a sign. Maybe a shirt. It could be anything, at any time, and I know it's frustrating for you not to have a definite answer, and I'm sorry I can't give you one."

She's right again; I am frustrated. I want to know everything, and I know it isn't possible, but that doesn't mean it doesn't anger me.

I rise from the ground, sparing a glance at the garden and Mummy before I leave. I see my mother smile, something in her eyes I can't quite place, and, as we've already established, I don't like not knowing.

Hmmm, it's curious, the predicament I'm in, looking up soulmates on my laptop when the last time I've done that was when I was 7. I just can't seem to get John out of my head, now that his name is branded on my wrist in this peculiar "blue" color. I was tempted to give up this whole soulmate nonsense before, after I thought I was never going to get one, but now that I've found that I, indeed, have one, I can't get my Mind Palace in order. It's rather frustrating.

I see an old Chinese proverb quote on an image, so I enlarge the photo and read:

"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break."

I suddenly wonder what it'd be like if I always had a red thread wrapped around my hand that stretched to wrap around my pinky, which was connected to John's. I find that it's difficult to imagine the whole situation: I don't know what red looks like, I don't know what John looks like, and it seems unlikely you could ever be born with a thread around your finger.

I wish there was a red thread though; at least I'd be able to see the color. I wonder...

What's red like...?

A/N: Any feedback is much appreciated.