Chapter 2

The Anchor at the End of my Tether

A/N: Sorry that it has taken so long to post this chapter! I haven't really been writing this story in any sort of order at all and so it makes uploading regularly quite difficult. But on the bright side it means that I have a few of the later chapters planned and mostly written already! Oh, and also, in this fic John and Sherlock happen to be the same age as I found that it worked better with the plot. Oh and (last thing I promise) warnings for this chapter: there are mentions of drug use.

Anyway, here's chapter 2...

Sherlock was thirteen when he first heard about The Time Circle. It was Mycroft, much to Sherlock's annoyance, who had informed him of it.

As absurd as the story was, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was not one to be taken by such a sentiment as storytelling, nor did he seem to have a sense of humour. So naturally, he believed him. But this did not make the story any more appealing to him. He didn't want a Soulmate. He'd never had a friend, nor did he need one. Being alone meant he could think without someone interrupting him. It meant he could perform his experiments without distraction. Although admittedly he could do with a spare pair of hands for certain parts…but no, he would just have to make do. He always did.

So he told Mycroft that he did not care in the slightest and so wouldn't be needing any further information about the topic.

Then he went up to his room and researched it further in private.

Mycroft never spoke about it to him again. He did not simply give up however. There was more than one way to seize the interest of Sherlock Holmes. Every so often he would leave excerpts from essays discussing the inexplicable science behind the timeless wonder of this magic in odd places around the house, in between pages of Sherlock's books being his favourite place.

Sherlock never mentioned finding them of course; the idea of letting Mycroft think that he had helped Sherlock in some elder brotherly way was quite nauseating. However he did, on occasion, glance at them. For science of course.

The night before Sherlock's sixteenth birthday however, Mycroft could no longer rely on these petty games. He decided that Sherlock needed to take this seriously, he needed to be prepared. So he tried, for the first time in three years, to bring it up again.

"It is your birthday tomorrow." He said, walking into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock did not look up from the experiment he seemed to be engrossed in, "You know, for all the lectures you've given me on manners, you are certainly missing a few yourself. Knocking for example."

Mycroft ignored him, "You'll be sixteen."

"I didn't know you were counting." He said, still keeping his back to him.

"You'll be of age."

Sherlock looked up, stiffening. "Already told you, Mycroft. Not. Interested."

Mycroft clenched his fists in silent frustration and walked up to him, "Look Sherlock, I am only telling you this because you seem to have a very strong possibility of receiving this magic." Mycroft sighed, resigned.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Sherlock snapped.

"Well…often people who feel lonely or-" But Sherlock interrupted, "Being alone and being lonely are not synonymous, Mycroft. I may be alone but I do not need nor want for anyone else, therefore I am not lonely. Just…independent." He finished with a small nod.

But Mycroft continued as though Sherlock had not spoken, "….or people who need love the most."

"I do not need to be loved!" He shouted, whipping his head round to face him - an outburst which seemed to have surprised both himself and Mycroft.

"Perhaps," Mycroft said, quickly recovering, "or perhaps you just don't think you deserve to be." He then turned and walked promptly out of the room.

Sherlock froze, breathing heavily, unable to reply. He was quite glad that his brother could not see his face in that moment, but he also had the sickening feeling that he didn't need to.

As he was finishing up his experiment, he decided that having a Soulmate couldn't be any worse than having a brother. If he could deal with Mycroft and his contemptuous arrogance then surely he could put up with this Soulmate thing. The question was however, whether they would be able to put up with him. He had never engaged in a romantic relationship before, and could not see one ever going smoothly if he were to be a part of it. He just simply wasn't good at sustaining connections like that. He wasn't good at getting people to like him.

Perhaps he wouldn't have to have a romantic relationship with this person, according to the research he had done throughout the years there had been Soulmates who had found a love of a different, but equally powerful kind; that of deep, unswerving friendship. They still had one another's names written upon the inside of their wrists, and their connection was deep and abiding. People who had experienced this form of the magic had described their Soulmate as an anchor for them, always there keeping them grounded, ensuring the other never lost their way. It was rare, but it happened.

Sherlock supposed that wouldn't be too awful. Only, nobody had ever wanted to be his friend before; indeed his only companion had been a skull for the past seven years - but if this person truly was his Soulmate, then surely that would mean that they would want to be his friend.

A Soulmate would mean somebody that wouldn't laugh at his differences, or insult his deductions…somebody that would understand. Maybe somebody would like listening to him explain the findings of his particularly interesting experiments, and somebody would like to know how he could deduce people. Besides, all the best detectives needed a partner. And explaining facts and evidence to his skull had lost its appeal as of late, he found that over the years it had become increasingly more difficult to maintain a conversation with an inanimate object.

That night, as he lay awake in his bed, he turned over his right arm and ran a thin finger fondly along the inside of his right wrist. In that moment he decided it; he wanted his Soulmate. He wanted his friend. It would be difficult to find them, but so very much worth the effort. He couldn't wait for the name to appear, for the curious black letters to stain his skin in ink, revealing the name of the person that he would someday come to know as a friend.

But it never did.

Sherlock did not trace his fingers over that particular patch of skin for three years. He ignored the throbbing emptiness within him that seemed to have begun there, flooding its black misery through his veins.

He did not think about the friend he never had, about the name that was never really his. And when he found himself recalling aloud interesting findings from his experiments, he did not think about the deafening silence that always answered him so faithfully.

He did not think about any of it. Until now.

Until he was lying there on his bed, with only darkness for company; needle in one hand, the other, palm open, facing upwards, sleeve rolled up to his elbow. He trailed a thin finger across the pale skin of his arm, wondering how the very spot that was supposed to bring such happiness could be the cause of such pain.

Now, however, it would be used as a channel for a different kind of bliss. A lonely kind of happiness; self-administered, managing to go deeper and yet so much shallower than any other kind of happiness.

As he held the needle just above the skin, hand shaking, a tear ran across his hollow cheek. He grit his teeth and brushed it away angrily with the back of his hand. But loneliness wrapped itself around him, squeezing tighter and tighter, almost suffocating him. He gasped for air, but it was like breathing through a straw, receiving just enough air not to pass out. He tightened his grip on the needle and pressed it into his skin, but before he could do anything else, before he could complete the act that he had been trying to do all night, something odd started forming beneath his skin. It was like a black cloud, slowly unfurling and twisting strangely. He immediately removed the needle, staring wide-eyed at the black swirls. What was happening? A bad reaction? Impossible. He hadn't injected anything yet. He ran his fingers over the dark cloud which was now forming into – he dropped the needle.

Letters.

A name was slowly beginning to form across his wrist. But that was impossible – it was too late… he was nineteen, if he was to have a Soulmate then the name would have appeared three years ago – it always appeared at the age of sixteen…well, he thought, always until now.

But something stopped his thoughts entirely; the name had formed.

John.

Sherlock smiled in disbelief. John. He was real. The person he had mourned for years was alive and breathing, somewhere out there. There was a real person waiting at the other end of the invisible tether that ran between them, securing him to the ground, making sure that he would never float away, would never disappear into nothingness.

In a world of endless change and motion, in which he knew that nothing could ever be certain, there was one thing that he could be certain of; he would find his John.

15 years later

It was a regular day of work in the hospital when it happened.

It had been fifteen years since the peculiar name had revealed itself across John's wrist, and he had spent those past fifteen years ignoring it. He knew that he'd finally got what he'd wished for. He knew that he should be grateful, overjoyed…but he just couldn't. He couldn't help feeling like the magic had let him down. He had waited years for it, sure that it would come, and when it hadn't... Nothing could take away the years of loss and disappointment he had gone through, nothing could take away the loneliness that he had suffered. Not even the name scrawled across his wrist.

It was just too late.

But there was another reason why he always pulled his sleeve over those cursive letters and ignored the subtle pulse that seemed to throb directly underneath them, serving as a constant reminder that there was a real, living and breathing person out there, connected to him in ways no-one else could ever be...

That reason was Mary. He had met Mary at the hospital, they'd been dating for quite a while now and the moment he saw her he had wished desperately that it was her name that those letters had spelled out so lovingly across his skin…But nothing could change that either.

There were so many things in his life that he had no control over. So many things that he was helpless to stop or change. He'd had enough. It was time to take control of what he could.
He could not control who the universe was telling him he would fall in love with, but he could choose to ignore it. He could choose to love Mary. All love had its magic after all. Just because his love for Mary was not destined by some great act of fate, it did not mean it was any less worth protecting.

It had been fifteen years and he had not once met a person called Sherlock, perhaps he never would. And he was perfectly okay with that. It was fine.

Maybe someday the universe would realize its mistake and someday he would wake up with the name Mary patterning his wrist. And then he would never have to think of this Sherlock, this…void that grew inside of him…this calling that he sometimes heard, or felt…he couldn't quite be sure; It was neither sound nor physical feeling…and yet it was both and it seemed to echo from all around him, caressing his senses, pulling him…and then it was gone again, leaving nothing but a quiet murmuration in its wake. A ghost of a song. And sometimes he would wonder…if that song were to take on a form…what would it look like? Would it be beautiful and strange like the song?

No.

He'd let his mind wander to him again! No matter how hard he tried – no matter what he did…it always came back to him. He was plagued by him. He infiltrated his way into his thoughts, his dreams…his mind. The one thing that was his and his alone. The one thing that nobody else should be able to control. But somehow he could! He shoved his sleeve up his arm violently, glaring at the letters that danced across his skin so mockingly. His fist was clenching and unclenching, and short, sharp breaths were treading over his lips. He may not know him, but God, in that moment did he hate him. He hated this Sherlock. He hated him for weaving his way into John's life. He hated him for showing up late. He hated him for refusing to be forgotten. But most of all, he hated him, for not being here, with him – because he couldn't very well shout at his own wrist!

He sighed and placed a hand over his tired eyes, calming himself. It was pointless. He knew it. This hatred he felt was futile. It didn't help anything. And besides, he knew that it wasn't really Sherlock's fault…he had no more control over all of this than John did. No the blame here, lay with fate.

He slid his hand over his face and then made to pull his sleeve back down over his wrist – but something stopped him.

The name across his wrist…was fading. The skin beneath it seemed to throb frantically, as though in panic. He frowned at his arm, as a memory seemed to surface in his consciousness; a memory of his grandmother, of the faded name across her wrist, of the lost look in her eyes when he'd asked her about it. The reason why he'd never seen the person owning that name…Suddenly all became clear.

This person, Sherlock, was…dying.

John stood up suddenly, eyes wide, watching in horror as the letters slowly faded into his skin, still throbbing, painfully now. He was watching this life drain away and he was powerless to stop it. He grabbed his wrist tightly, in some frantic attempt to cling on to this person fading between his fingers, but it was like clinging desperately to a ghost, fingertips closing around thin air.

He felt like this person, Sherlock, had been this faceless but ever present figure in his life– standing beside him, impossible to ignore or forget, but equally impossible to know. He was a spectre that had anchored himself to John, intangible…but so very real.

He suddenly felt a burst of anger ripple through him. He felt cheated, he never even got to meet his Soulmate and now he was being taken away from him! He didn't know how to feel about this…he wasn't supposed to feel anything about this. He didn't know this man. He'd never met him in his life. He couldn't possibly care about him.

Why then did it feel like his throat was closing up? Why did it feel like all the air had been sucked out of the room? Why was his heart pounding fretfully in his chest? Why did it hurt?

He ran out of his office, running down the corridor, he had no idea where he was running to or why…and then he felt it. That song…the sound that pulled him, he followed it.

But it was hard…the song echoed, bouncing off walls chaotically, like the person on the other end of this chain that ran between them was rattling it in desperation. But then the song would whisper…fading, and he would miss the deafening sounds.

He ran along corridor after corridor, trying to chase the dying notes, but then he collided painfully with something, or rather someone. They were unconscious and being wheeled on a trolley at a rapid pace by a pair of paramedics, surrounded by several nurses.

The song stopped.

All sound stopped. And for a moment there was only silence as he stared at the limp figure before him. All he could hear was the steady thumping of his heart in his chest. And then a ringing in his ears, getting louder and louder until he was hit with a wall of sound, people speaking in quick sharp voices, all at once, feet moving swiftly, monitors beeping.

"Dr Watson? What are-" Someone was speaking to him. But he ignored them; his eyes had suddenly fixed on a specific point in front of him. The man's wrist…he reached a hand out slowly and turned it over, eyes widening as they took in the sight of a small, neatly written word.

John.

As soon as he'd touched it the letters began to grow and deepen in colour, the skin throbbing excitedly beneath them.

Someone was speaking again, one of the nurses were asking the man for his name. But the man was fading in and out of consciousness, giving no response.

John was staring at him in horror, he suddenly felt like his whole life was hanging on the life of this man, clinging to the rhythm of a heartbeat. He had to do something. Try something. Anything.

He placed his hand over the patient's cold one. As soon as the tips of his fingers had come into contact with the man's pale skin, a rush of energy flooded through them, spreading waves of pleasure across his body. Part of him wanted to yank his hand back in fear, but another part of him never wanted to let go of that hand or that feeling ever again. He then remembered what he needed to do; he leaned in closer and used his free hand to tilt the man's face towards him, feeling a second surge of energy wash over him beautifully.

"Sherlock – is your name Sherlock?"

Suddenly the numbers on the monitors soared. The man's eyes shot open. For one torturously short moment his eyes locked with John's. They were wide and bright, predominantly blue, but with hints of gold around the iris. But more importantly, they were staring with a brilliant intensity into John's own, as if there was no one and nothing else around him.

John just stared at him, legs working quickly as he followed Sherlock's form being wheeled into surgery, but all else seemed to have stopped - his mind, his lungs, his heart, just for one immeasurable moment – and then it ended. Sounds came flooding back, his lungs accepted air again and his heart resumed its steady, if not elevated, rhythm.

And then, his gaze never leaving John's, the man's eye lids fluttered closed.

John turned to the paramedic on his left, "What are we dealing with here?" He asked gravely.

"Cocaine overdose."

"Right."

John removed his hand from the man's face and placed it firmly on the trolley, pushing with the crowd of nurses and paramedics. His eyes set darkly in a look of utter determination. In that moment only one thought filled his mind; he was going to save this man's life.

So thanks for reading! And thank you to all those who have followed/favourited and reviewed, you're all wonderful :D

Oh and as you may have noticed, John works in a hospital in this fic, this again just works better with the plot.

Until next time, dear readers...