It hit Sherlock like a bullet train. John was staring up at him, his face furious, his hands clenched into fists. But it was his eyes that did it. Or, more precisely, the heated gaze John was giving him at that moment. And suddenly, he remembered.

Without warning, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and pushed him back, pressing him against the wall. He was awarded with a look of shock before his eyes closed and he pressed his lips to John's. John responded instinctively, his lips parting, his hips pushing up against Sherlock's. Sherlock's moan vibrated through his entire body, and John pulled his head back, surprised, seeming to realize just what was happening.

"Sherlock, what–"

His question was cut off as Sherlock leaned down and bit his neck gently. John's fingers dug into Sherlock's back, and he smiled, pulling away slightly. "You don't remember?" He kissed his way down John's neck, pulling the fabric of his jumper down slightly.

John's jaw clenched as Sherlock began nibbling and licking his collarbone. "Remember . . . mm . . . what?" He groaned, weakly trying to push Sherlock away. "I'm . . . supposed to be . . . ah . . . pissed at you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hand slid up to John's head. Ah, yes, he thought, as he grabbed a fistful of his hair. He paused, looking up at John and grinning. "I like your hair better this way."

He turned his attention to John's jumper, leaving him to ponder that statement and forget this nonsense of him being cross. Sherlock slid his hands down and under his jumper, pulling it over John's head, along with the plain white t-shirt under it. His hands glided up his chest, reveling in the firm – though no longer quite so pronounced – muscles. He smiled up at John again, using the same devilish expression he'd worn all those years ago. He saw a flicker of recognition in John's eyes. "Good thing we're not in a dingy alley this time."

The recognition was there for sure, now. John's eyes widened. "Sherlock?" he gasped. He grabbed the back of Sherlock's neck and drew him up, crashing their lips together.

Sherlock gasped as John spun them around, slamming him against the wall. He pulled Sherlock's shirt out of his pants, slipping his hands beneath the thin fabric and letting them explore the soft expanse of skin beneath. He twisted his head, abandoning Sherlock's lips to bring them to his ear. "I remember," he whispered, reveling in the memory. He gasped as Sherlock's fingers began nimbly working at his belt buckle. "Oh, god, I remember."


"I thought you looked familiar," John said a few hours later, lying in Sherlock's bed. They were on their sides, facing each other, their legs tangled together. John reached up and swept a lock of Sherlock's hair out of his eyes. He let his hand rest on the back of his head. "That night, I mean. I didn't realize it – too drunk, I suppose – but it was because I'd seen you before. When I was just starting out in medical school at Barts, I saw you in the lunch room there, sitting by yourself. I was going to join you, but as I was walking towards you a girl sat across from you. I didn't know what to do, so I just sat down on the closest empty chair. Lucky I did, because I ended up sitting across from Mike Stamford. We'd never have met, otherwise." He laughed. "Well, officially met. And then years later, at the hospital. I knew I recognized you. I mean, you looked different – older, thinner, frankly, like you'd been living on the streets – but I knew it was you. . . . .What?"

Sherlock's mind was whirring as John's recollections stirred up memories of his own. "My second case," he started. "Young woman was murdered in her living room. Police thought it was open and close. Her boyfriend's fingerprints were all over her and the murder weapon, and when they found him, his hands were covered with her blood. They arrested him right there."

John's brow furrowed and he dropped his hand. "Okay," he said slowly. "Not completely sure why you're telling me this now."

"Just listen." Sherlock took his hand, staring at him intently. "I managed to convince Lestrade that the boyfriend was innocent, and they released him. He picked me out, only minutes later and told me if I ever need anything to give him a call and he would do whatever he could to repay me back. And then he left to go meet his friend, who'd come running the minute he'd heard what happened. Just dropped everything to come comfort his friend."

John gaped at him. "Mike. That's how you met him. I wondered, you know. How a self-proclaimed sociopath – which I don't believe for a second, by the way – had someone to complain to about not being able to find a flatmate."

Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly. He scooted closer, still staring at John intently. "You made me lonely," he said. "That night. That was the first time I'd ever felt that way. I'd always scoffed at the idea of friendship. Emotional attachments to people are messy, and it just seemed easier – logical – to keep to myself. But you made me wonder what it was like. If all that mess was worth having someone loyal to you. If I'd been in Mike's position, there would have been no one – absolutely no one – that I could call, and certainly no one who would come, just like that."

John smiled sadly at him, interlacing their fingers. "I'm here," he said. "I'll always be here for you. I'll come when you call."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He looked down at their intertwined fingers, covering them with his other hand. Offering reassurance that he promised the same thing. He looked up at John's face. He understood. Sherlock was satisfied with that.

He frowned. "I think I met your sister when I was 12."


It was some time later, when, they were both nearing the edge of sleep, when John asked, "Do you think we were meant to meet?" He lifted his head off Sherlock's chest. "Like . . . destiny?" He felt slightly foolish for asking, but their lives were intertwined more deeply than either of them had ever realized. And the way they seemed to fit together? It just felt . . . right.

"I don't believe in destiny."

"What would you call it then? All those connections, all the times we nearly met. Finding each other."

Sherlock sighed, pondering the question. "I would call it . . . a series of events that shaped our lives, pushing us forward and culminating in our eventual and inevitable meeting."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"You can define it however you like." John snuggled back down onto his chest, Sherlock's arms wrapping around him tightly. "But that sounds a lot like destiny to me."