Sherlock Holmes was turning twenty, no doubt about that. He had his curly dark hair brushed back and his long limbs were tangled up in a blue robe. The detective sat in his favourtie chair reading a newspaper, looking for a case and hoping his parents or dear brother didnt try to call him or come over. He was just another year older, he didnt see the need to celebrate that. He thought it best to go about his normal business.

The consulting detective went to take a sip of his tea, barely getting the cup to his lips before he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He dropped the cup and clutched his chest with both of his thin hands, pulling his knees to his chest. His left hand went to rub the his right wrist and he silently cursed himself. "Im sorry," he whispered to no one. "Im sorry I died before I got to meet you." He continued to rub his wrist as pain shot through his chest in a spider-web like fashion. He moved to lay on his small couch, his legs still pulled up to his chest.

It was then that he finally looked down at his wrist; he was dying, surely it was at zero. And it was, he discovered, but he wasnt dead. And the pain was suddenly gone. It wasnt him that was dying; it was his soul mate. And Sherlock could feel every ounce of pain they felt. He'd been in pain before, sure, but never quite like that; never that intense. It was as if his insides were on fire and his write was shooting pain up his arm like a snake bite.

Nearly half an hour later, the pain stopped. Sherlock huffed a sigh of relief and looked down at his wrist. His heart dropped. It was still at zero. His soul mate really had died. He lay back down on the couch, rubbing his wrist gently with the thumb of his other hand and silently praying to whoever was listening that he wouldnt be alone forever. Sherlock Holmes did not want to die alone. He knew that from a young age. He loved to be alone, yes, but he didnt want to die alone. He had seen how those people turned out, the people with their counters at zero but still alone. Most of them committed suicide or became heavy drinkers.

xxx

Sherlock awoke on the couch nearly seven hours later with his chest in immense pain once more. He placed one and on his heart, the other moving to sweep his bangs back. He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths before speaking to the silence of the room.

"Damn it," he said between clenched teeth. "Please be okay. Please. For me."

He leaned his head back against the arm of the couch, trying to concentrate on anything but the pain in his shoulder and chest. He looked down at his counter instead. The numbers were flickering, from zero to twenty, then back to zero. At one point, it had flickered all the way up to forty before dropping back down to zero.

"Its okay," he murmured. "Its not your fault.. Blimey, im talking to my wrist." The twenty-year-old man shook his head before sitting up. He rubbed his temples as he stood up, pulling his robe around himself only to have it fall back to the sides. He made his way slowly to the kitchen, expecting his chest to explode in another bout of extreme pain. It didnt happen though. He made his tea and walked back to his favourite chair, crossing one leg over the other and sipping it carefully. Sherlock glanced at the clock and sighed. He was hoping his family wouldnt bother him on his birthday, but he knew his brother would. He always did. Every day on his birthday at exactly three o'clock, Mycroft Holmes would ring his little brother and wish him a happy birthday.

"Two more minutes," he said wearily, sighing and setting his tea on the table beside him.

And just like cloclwork, two minutes later, his cellular rang. He rolled his eyes and picked it up, pressing 'talk' and saying, "Dear brother. Right on time."

Mycroft gave a humourless laugh and Sherlock could imagine his brother in his own home, sitting much like he was, tilting his head back a fraction and laughing before turning to look back at the fire place in front of him. Mycroft had always been an old soul, doing things like their father did, even though he was only seven years Sherlock's senior. "Yes, brother," Mycroft finally spoke. "Happy birthday, Sherlock." Mycroft and Sherlock had never really gotten on to well but Sherlock could tell his brother was sincere. They didnt necessarily like each other, but they were family, and would always love each other.

"Thank you, Mycroft, but dont you have a government to run?" Sherlock said with a small smile.

Mycroft laughed again. "Always the joker, you are, Sherlock. But yes, I suppose I do have a job I should be doing right now." They didnt say goodbye. They never did, they just hung up. And today, on Sherlock Holmes' twentieth birthday, that was no different. Nothing was different, except now his soul mate was dead. And then alive. And then dead once more.

Sherlock set his phone down and sighed, wishing that, for once, his older brother would have stayed on the phone with him a bit longer.


"Clear!" John Watson was choking on his own blood. He knew that, but he couldnt help but try to breath. It hurt to breath, but it hurt even more not to. He had been shot. It wasnt the first time he had gotten shot at, but it was the first time a bullet had actually pierced his skin. It didnt go as deep as a bullet normally would, because of all the layers he was wearing to prevent the bite of the cold weather, but it had still managed to lodge itself into his shoulder. The twenty-five year old was laying on his back on a dingy medical table in a tent back at base, having a bullet dug out of his shoulder, and all he could think about was how sorry he was. Sorry he couldnt save anyone because he was too busy getting saved himself, sorry for never calling his sister back, and above all, he was sorry he hadnt met his soul mate yet and that he or she was going to die alone. He rubbed his wrist and sent a silent prayer up to god that the person, whoever and wherever they were, that they wouldnt be alone.

"I dont want to die," he mumbled out loud. He was aware that he was breathing somewhat normally again, and that there was a nurse beside him telling him to calm down, but he didnt care. "I dont want to die," he repeated. "Please dont let me die."

"Calm down, Doctor Watson! Please, stay still. You wont die. We'll fix you up and youll be good as new." He recognized the voice of the nurse. It was one of the men on his unit. They'd been shipped in together. He'd already met his soul mate, gotten married, and had two kids together. He had more to live for than John did, and he suddenly felt the need to pray for the thirty-something nurse to get home safely to his family.

"I cant die," John Watson repeated to no one in particular. The nurse answered him anyway.

"I know, John, I know. Oh god, please just h-" The voice faded out. He no longer felt the pain. His wrist tingled and he knew he was dead. He could see his own body, his chest covered in blood. The nurse was standing over him, frantically whispering for him to stay alive, to please keep breathing. There was a rush in his ears and he suddenly felt the pain again. There was no odd tingling in his wrist, but he felt the pain again. John Watson was alive.

He gulped in a huge air of breath only to be sent into another coughing fit. The nurse shoved a tube down his throat to help him breathe and he nearly gagged on it. "You'll be alright, John. John, can you hear me?" The army doctor could hear the nurse, but he couldnt feel anything. His entire body had gone numb with pain and he couldnt handle it any longer. He slipped into unconsciousness.

xxx

When John woke up, it was bright out. There was a patch of sunlight near the foot of the cot he lay on and his shoulder was throbbing. He turned his head and saw that it had been wrapped, by the looks of it, a few hours before. There was a small spot of blood leaking through the center of the bandage and he winced at the sight of it.

"Doctor Watson." John turned toward the opening of the tent and smiled. It was the nurse, his hair brushed back and his scrubs clean of John's blood. "Im glad to see you up and breathing on your own."

"Yes, all thanks to you, nurse," he said as he sat up. He winced before leaning back against the wall.

"Oh, no, it wasnt all me," the nurse said with a laugh. "Im sorry to say this but.. I think theyre going to discharge you." The nurse's smile dropped and he sat on the foot of the cot. John's mouth dropped open and he shook his head.

"But im fine. It was just a little wound. Itll heal!" He moved to sit up but the nurse stopped him, grabbing his hand.

"It did more than damage your skin, John. Youll be getting shipped out in an hour. And dont try to walk to hard on your left side. Again, im so sorry, John." John sighed and nodded. "But hey, look at the bright side, Watson. That counter says five now doesnt it? Before, it said thrity-six."

John blinked and looked down at his wrist. It did, in fact, say five years. He smiled and looked back up at the nurse. "Yes, I suppose it does," he said. the nurse nodded and stood up, handing John a cane as he walked out of the tent.

John Watson sat on the cot for hours, contemplating everything from the war to his soul mate. Mostly his soul mate, though, if he was being honest with himself. He thought about their name and what they would look like. He hoped they would have dark hair; he had always been attracted to it, since his first kiss in the fourth grade with a girl named Milly. She had had dark hair. But it didnt matter, because whoever he or she was, they were meant for him, and he for them.

"Youre such an old sap," he said to himself with a laugh as he grabbed the cane and pushed himself up on it. It hurt, he noticed, from his left shoulder to his left leg. "Damn." With one last look around the tent, he hobbled out and went to find the nurse to bid him adieu.