"Do you remember yet, John?"
John looked up from his laptop with a puzzled look on his face. Sherlock had been sitting silently for the past few hours, and John couldn't think what Sherlock was referring to.
"Pardon?" he asked.
"You usually remember by now." Sherlock replied.
"I don't know what you're talking about Sherlock. Are you asking me to make you tea in as cryptic a manner as possible?" John asked, exasperation leaking into his voice. It had been a very long day, and he just wanted to finish his blog post and go to bed. "Just tell me what I've forgotten already."
"Last time I told you before you started to remember, you tried to have me burned at the stake for witchcraft." Sherlock's voice was slightly sulky. "Of course, it was the 1500s, so I suppose I can forgive you for that. You had been raised to be a God-fearing man that time, and I should have realized how you would react."
John's mouth gaped open at his flatmate's comment. "Sherlock, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I have always wondered why I remember every detail of my lives and you recall so little. You start with a clean slate every time. No, not a clean slate, more like a new page of a notepad. The impressions of the previous pages are there, but they are faint, and can only be partially recreated." Sherlock mused.
"Your lives! What on Earth are you- No, you know what? I don't want to know what kind of psychological experiment you are trying to pull on me, I'm going to bed." John stood up, closing his laptop. Before he could move very far, Sherlock had sprung up from the couch and placed himself in John's way.
"John, I need you to remember. I need you back, I miss you." Sherlock had John by the shoulders and was staring intently into his eyes. "Think back. Think of when you used to be Ewan, the chieftain of our tribe and I was your shaman and advisor. Remember when they called me Merlin and you were the greatest king that has ever been. Remember when you fought the Romans, when you healed plague victims, when you saved me from myself. All our lives. Every time you have found me and made me better than I am without you. Please John. Remember." Sherlock couldn't stop his voice from cracking slightly.
"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm sorry, but I don't." John tried to say this as gently as he could. His friend had finally lost his grip on reality, and John started thinking of how he would get Sherlock to agree to treatment.
"Stop, stop thinking that I'm crazy. I'm not. You're always skeptical. In 1881, you stopped talking to me for two months because you didn't believe me. You thought you were imagining things when you started remembering. You called it 'fanciful thinking'. We even had the same names that time John! Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. That's why you moved in with me the second day we met. That's why you trusted a stranger. It's because I'm not a stranger. I never have been."
"You're saying we're what, soul-mates? Sherlock, that's preposterous. There's no such thing as reincarnation. I certainly have never been a chieftain or a king, and you are not a wizard."
"Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't then, either. They just didn't understand me, and called what I did magic instead of science." Sherlock sounded indignant at that. "Regardless, we are soul-mates John. We are meant to be together. There are times when we can't find each other. Those are the worst lives, John. I envy you forgetting those ones." John was startled by the bleak, distant look that possessed Sherlock's face. "Last time-" Sherlock's voice was a monotone; as if he were distancing himself from what he was saying. He took a deep breath and started again. "Last time, I couldn't find you fast enough. You were killed in action, and I turned to drugs. I overdosed eventually. I like to think that is why I had my troubles before I found you this time, but I know it's because I was afraid it would happen again."
John was speechless. If this was a delusion of Sherlock's overworked mind, it was clearly a strong one. He almost wanted to believe. He almost wanted to be someone like what Sherlock described. A historic figure, a legendary being, reborn over and over, paired with this fascinating man for eternity.
They still stood in the middle of the living room, Sherlock gripping John's shoulders too tightly. John stepped back, and Sherlock let go of him, dropping his head to stare at the carpet. Running his hands over his face and through his hair, John tried to get a grip on the situation. Sherlock was always doing odd things, saying outlandish things, acting strangely, but this was a new level entirely.
"I don't even know what to say right now, Sherlock. This is too strange. This is worse than the time you filled the fridge with intestines. This is worse than the time you accused King George III of being an idiot for letting the taxes on the colonies get so high. This is worse than when you told Harry she should get tested for chlamydia."
Sherlock's head snapped up to look at John. "What did you just say?" John continued as if he hadn't heard.
"I mean, she was furious. She wouldn't talk to me for days! It didn't help any that you were right, either. Not that you're often wrong."
"Not that, the thing before it. About King George," Sherlock snapped.
"Well that one almost got us hanged, didn't it?" John sounded aggrieved. "You couldn't have been a bit more diplomatic?"
Sherlock grinned.
"What? What is so funny, Sherlock?"
"You do realize, my dear Watson, that King George III died in 1820?"
John gaped. His face paled and he started to sway. Before his friend could pass out from shock, Sherlock hustled him to the couch and pressed his head between his knees, rubbing his back soothingly and smiling. "Breathe. It's quite a shock, isn't it?"
"Sherlock?" John's voice was weak.
"Yes, John?"
"I remember now."