Title: The Man Who Can't Be Moved
Summary: Long, long ago, a statue called Sherlock Holmes was created. His artisan was so talented, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found true love. He withstood the burden of thousands and thousands of years, being taken from museum to museum, and waiting for that one person. Then, John Watson came along. AU.
Rating: T (mild language and romaaaaance)
Parings: Sherlock/John

A/N: Whoah! Thank you guys for all of your kind words/alerts/favourites! I woke up this morning and my inbox was flooded. It really means a lot to me, so really, thank you!

Thank you for reading and please enjoy!


Chapter 2: The First Time


John looked at the clock. It was 9AM and the museum had just opened.

He had skipped class the past three days going to see Sherlock Holmes, but today, he couldn't afford it. Three days missed in a row? He needed to spend that time creating his portfolio and showing the breadth of his technique and style. Instead, he spent the time drawing the same statue over and over again. He really couldn't help it. John felt drawn to the sculpture, as if some unknown force pulled him. If he didn't know any better, he would've called it "love at first sight."

John slammed his head, hard, into his desk for even thinking about it and rebounded, mumbling curses. He held his pounding head in his hands. He was stupid. First thinking about being in love with a statue, then hitting himself in the head? He had enough on his plate and he didn't need to add a migraine to it.

"You all right?"

John turned and looked at his friend, Mike Stamford, through hazy eyes, still seeing stars because of his previous stunt, "Y-yeah. Just… stressed out."

Mike chuckled, "Aren't we all? But try not to hurt yourself."

John smiled and returned to his drawing of the model posing at the centre of the class. The model was gorgeous and a joy to sketch, but he couldn't help but think he'd rather draw Sherlock Holmes.


The hours flew by and John didn't even realise how much time had passed. He was completely sucked into art, his nose nearly becoming a part of his sketchbook and his hand practically welding together with his pencil.

It was only when Mike lightly patted him on the back that he snapped out of it. "Time to go home, John. It's nearly 8."

"Yeah, yeah, just after I finish – wait. Did you just say it's 8?" John's head snapped up and looked at the clock in wide-eyed horror.

"Yeah. You have somewhere you have to go?"

"Oh, shit," he breathed, "Yeah, I should've been there hours ago. It's probably closed by now. Shit!" John collected all of his things, stuffed them into his bag and bolted for the door. "I'll see you at home!"


He was late. John was so late. He ran, ran as hard and fast as he could. The museum wasn't too far from the university, but still, he felt like he had a duty to be on time and Sherlock would be waiting for him, Sherlock would –

Sherlock was a statue. He would always be there, as long as the exhibit was still open. He could go tomorrow.

But John's legs wouldn't slow down, as if they had a mind if their own. In fact, they had sped up and he felt his muscles burning. His heart pumped and his limbs flailed wildly as he silently warned people and cars he was coming through.

The museum was in sight now and he charged on with his remaining strength, up the stairs, but he missed a step and plunged forward. Oh god, oh god, oh god, I'm gonna die, was repeated in his head like a mantra and he squeezed his eyes, ready for impact, but instead of landing on ice-cold stone, he fell into warm, strong arms.

"S-sorry." John managed to say.

"John Watson." The man's voice was kind; a deep, rich baritone.

"T-that's me…"

The man smiled, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."


John had come! He had finally come! And he was now in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock wanted to hold him and twirl him around. He was consumed by joy, but he couldn't startle John too badly during their first proper meeting. When John had found his legs again, Sherlock helped him stand up straight.

John was rooted safely to the ground again. "Wait, you're who?" He thought he heard wrong.

Sherlock was happy to repeat, speaking again with impeccable diction, "Sherlock. Holmes."

"You're Sherlock Holmes? The statue in the museum? The one that I've been talking to the past few days?" John looked like he was going to faint. It really was endearing and Sherlock smiled fondly, nodding. "So, then… you're not a statue. You're actually an employee here."

"No, I am a statue. You've read the description placard. You know my story." Sherlock looked on, expectantly.

"You move… when you fall in love."

"Correct."

Suddenly, Lestrade interrupted. He really couldn't watch in silence anymore, "He was waiting for you, you know!"

John peered around Sherlock and looked at the security guard with doubt, "Really?"

"Yes." Sherlock's smile grew wider.

"Then…" John's brows reached his hairline, as he finally understood what he was being told.

"You have moved me, John Watson."

John's jaw nearly hit the floor. "Am I dreaming?"

"The Inspector –"

"Security guard." Lestrade piped, leaning against the glass door.

"— asked the same question. I punched him to prove my point. I would rather not do the same to you. However, I can take a different approach. You have a sister. Her name is Harry, or Harriet, to be more precise. But she prefers going by a male name. Maybe she's interested in women, maybe not. She's a drinker, you told me yourself. You're an art student and the reason why you were late today was because you're working on a portfolio, something that's no doubt important to your future. How did I know? The smudge on the underside of your left hand, a mix of charcoal and graphite, along with the eraser shavings caught on your jumper and your bloodshot eyes, clearly suggests all you were doing today was drawing. Oh yes, I was very much alive, as you put it, the day we first met."

John stared, his eyes wide and gleaming with wonder, "That was… amazing. Fantastic! You got everything. Well, most of that I personally told you, so you really are Sherlock Holmes, but all the rest of your deductions – you were spot-on." He laughed cheerfully, "Wow."

"Are you hungry?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

John's laugh faded into confusion, "Sorry, what?"

"Hungry? Do you want dinner? I'm sure you haven't eaten yet."

John felt his stomach turn enthusiastically at the mention of food, "Um, yeah, actually. I haven't had a bite all day."

"Excellent. We can have a date. Lestrade," Sherlock turned and held out his hand, "I need money."

Lestrade laughed wryly, "Oh, yeah, that's very funny."

"Please."

The security guard sighed, "Fine. But just this once." And he slapped 50 pounds into Sherlock's palm.

"Thank you." Sherlock gave his most sincere smile and pocketed the money, "Ready, John?"

"Ready? Ready for what?"

"I told you. Our first date! Come on!" Sherlock took John's hand and tugged him along.

Lestrade watched as they dashed through the streets. He was honestly a sucker for happy endings and earnestly wished them the best.


"Aren't you going to eat?" John wondered, digging into his own plate of Chicken Parmesan.

Sherlock shook his head, "Watching you is plenty enough." He set his elbow on the table and propped his head up on his hand, smiling.

John returned with a suspicious look, "Right… Um. So is this the first time?"

"If you mean the first time I've become human, yes. You are my very first." Sherlock smirked seductively.

John flushed and looked down at his food, "Thanks, I guess. But I think you should know, I'm not gay."

Sherlock shrugged, "Neither am I."

"But you moved. Because of me. Which means…"

"I'm in love you with you, yes," Sherlock said it so easily, "But why should a simple label such as sexuality bar us from each other? I don't see the problem."

John let out an exasperated sigh, "Listen. People have become a lot more accepting now than before and personally, it's all fine with me, but they'll still talk."

"People do little else," Sherlock filled John's empty glass with more wine, "I am not in love with just a man. I am in love with John Watson. And you may not feel it quite as ardently as I do, but eventually, you will love Sherlock Holmes. I'll make sure of it."

John felt his ears burn red. Sherlock noticed and let out a low laugh. He really was adorable.


"Thanks for dinner." After eating, Sherlock had offered to walk John back to his flat.

They stood in front of the door, albeit a little awkwardly. John fidgeted nervously, not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock leaned down so that his face was level with John's. "You're not going to invite me in?"

John sputtered and took a few steps back, "You need to go back to the museum."

"Why? I'm not turning back into stone. People will notice that I'm made of flesh now. I have nowhere else to go, John."

John looked appalled, "You were planning on coming in from the beginning!"

Sherlock nodded, flashing a sly grin, "Nothing goes by you unnoticed."

"I live with a friend, you know. What am I supposed to tell them?"

Just then, Mike Stamford opened the window of his room in their flat and poked his head out, "Welcome home, John! Oh, you've brought someone. Well, don't just stand there. Come on in."

Sherlock whispered, "He doesn't seem to mind."

John nudged an elbow into his ribs, "Shut up."


John's flat was plain but inviting. Mike introduced himself to Sherlock and got the fireplace going, which sent warmth radiating to all of the rooms.

Mike had offered them tea when they got in, but John refused for both of them, using "I'm exhausted" as an excuse to retire for the night. His flatmate smiled in understanding, not all questioning his and Sherlock's relationship.


"Are you planning on sleeping here, too?"

Sherlock unwound his scarf and slipped out of his coat, hanging it on the clothing rack beside John's closed door. "I have nowhere else to go."

"No, no, you said that before. But you have that security guard, Lestrade, to help you."

"I'd rather not. He's obviously having trouble with his wife and I don't find pleasure in intruding on their little domestic." Sherlock invited himself to lie down on John's bed.

"No, get off from there. You're sleeping on the floor." John went over to him and tried to pull him up by the arm, but instead, Sherlock dragged him down and he plopped beside him on the bed.

"Relax, John. You had a long day." Sherlock silently slipped his fingers through John's and held his hand, closing his eyes.

John was stiff as a board lying next to Sherlock. He thought his heart was going to beat out of his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, willing his pulse to calm down. He prayed that the hand Sherlock was holding wouldn't get clammy, but just reminding himself about sweating, got him perspiring.

He jumped and opened his eyes when Sherlock chuckled, "Nervous?"

"Yeah." John replied honestly, "It's just kind of weird. Having you here and being like this." He lifted their intertwined hands to show what he meant.

Sherlock hummed, a content smile plastered on his face. "There'll be plenty of opportunities for you to get used to it."

"How can you talk like that? I only met you three days ago and you were a statue then and now you're saying how, how you love me, and you're holding my hand. In my bed." John cleared his throat and almost choked on his words.

"The man who created me said that in my entire existence, there would only be one person who I would move for. Just one. You're the one, John. If you waited thousands of years and you finally found that person, wouldn't you do all you could, as fast as you could, to make sure they didn't leave?" Sherlock turned his head to look at John and found that John was already looking at him. "My feelings for you are sincere."

Before he could even comprehend what he was doing, Sherlock reached for the back of John's head and brought him closer. John allowed himself to be pulled in, eyes fluttering shut. Their lips touched. Their breath caught in their lungs. Their hearts connected and beat in synch with each other. Their first kiss was brief and chaste, but the heat it ignited within them never went away.

They parted. They breathed and stared into each other's eyes for a long moment.

Sherlock smiled the smile of a man who was completely and utterly in love.

John's eyes were wider than normal, his brain trying to process what his heart had already accepted. A pause, and then his entire face became red. He let out a strangled cry from embarrassment, shook his hand free from Sherlock's, and turned his back towards his partner, popping his coat collar up to hide his crimson ears.

Sherlock laughed, not discouraged at all by the reaction because he knew it wasn't one of rejection. He wrapped an arm around John's body and buried his face into his blond hair, breathing him in. "Good night, John."

"Yeah, like I can sleep after what you just did!" He mumbled and curled further into himself.

Sherlock allowed himself another chuckle, "I'm not sorry."