Sherlock opens his eyes again in a flat he's never been in before. The window shades are covering the light from the outside street lamps, and it's very cold.
He sits up and looks around, finally spotting a man crouching over something.
Sherlock clears his throat and the man swivels around.
"Welcome," the man says, smiling.
Sherlock can't help but smile at the man. He has no idea who this man is, no idea where he is, but somehow he feels completely safe. And somehow drawn to this man, as if he's known the man his entire life.
"Who are you?" Sherlock wonders.
The man stands and goes over to Sherlock, then holds his hand out to help Sherlock up. "I'm your husband."
Sherlock lets go of the man's hand in shock, then chokes on his own spit. "What?!"
The man catches Sherlock before he can fall. "Easy there," he says. "There you go."
"What do you mean you're my husband?!" Sherlock cries.
The man pulls Sherlock to his feet. "I mean we get married, kid. In 2013. You're too light, are you eating?"
Sherlock shakes his head, terribly confused. "Who are you?"
"I can't tell you my name. You can't go find me. And you would, that ridiculously brilliant mind and willpower of yours."
Sherlock looks at the man. "Nobody's ever said…"
The man grins at him. "I know. But I do, all the time."
"I don't get tired of it?"
"Of course not," the man says. "Thirty years of not hearing it? You always want me to say it. And my god, you're cute."
Sherlock blushes. "Really?"
"Yeah, really. Man if I was fifteen, and—" the man shakes his head. "Off topic."
Sherlock chuckles. He's smiling widely at the ridiculously good smelling man, and he feels truly happy for the first time in many weeks, even months.
"Now," the man says. "Back to work."
"Hmm?"
The man steps over and leads Sherlock to what he was looking at earlier. Sherlock follows and sees a dead body; the man's dead body.
"Wait, what? Why are you dead?"
The man crosses his arms. "You tell me."
Sherlock licks his lips and kneels next to the body. There's blood everywhere, so he's mindful of his shoes.
"Bullet wound, here," Sherlock says, pointing at the wound in the man's skull. "You shot yourself? Why?"
The man holds his arms up. "You tell me! Really, even for you it's quite obvious."
Sherlock stands and begins to look around the room. The first thing he notices is the desk. He goes over and sees a computer (a really small computer), still on, and logged in to a screen to type.
"It's called a blog," the man tells Sherlock.
"A suicide note?" Sherlock asks, reading the words on the screen.
The man nods. "I thought it right, you know?"
Sherlock goes through the rest of the desk. A coffee cup with an Army crest on it stands out.
"Soldier?" Sherlock asks.
The man nods.
"Recently back," Sherlock says, gazing at the man's wrists. "Tan hands, not above the wrist."
The man grins. "There it is."
The man shifts on his legs, releasing the tension in one, and Sherlock watches him.
"Limp?" Sherlock asks. "Injured in war?"
The man nods. "What else?"
"But not your leg…"
"How do you know?"
"You would've sat down by now. But there's only this desk chair and your bed. You don't even have a comfortable chair. So leg, no."
The man just continues grinning.
"Injured at war…somewhere," Sherlock says. "Psychiatrist issued 'blog', as you call it. You're depressed, so you killed yourself."
"How do you know I've got a psychiatrist?"
Sherlock looks at him like he's an idiot. "Why wouldn't you? Fire her. She's obviously not helping."
The man grins. "This all sounds very familiar."
Sherlock wants to ask how, but he decides to take another approach. "What's this got to do with me, then? Surely I didn't cause your suicide."
"It's the day after we were supposed to meet," the man says. "Yesterday, I went to a useless therapy appointment, then I met an old friend, and in my reality, he introduced us. But you don't exist. I never met you. I got to thinking. Then I…"
Sherlock listens and absorbs it all.
"My life isn't the only one you save, Sherlock. Women, children…they look to you, love."
Sherlock's eyes flash to the man. His heart skips when the man calls him 'love'.
"Without you, Carl Power's murder walks free and kills more, many more."
Sherlock nearly gasps. "I solve Carl's murder?"
The man shrugs. "In a way, yeah. And many more. You solve robberies, kidnappings, and a few obscure cases here and there. And I'm with you every step of the way. The night after we met was…" the man grins. "The greatest night of my life."
"Why?" Sherlock wonders. "Do we…y'know?"
"No, hormonal teen, we don't 'y'know'. We have an adventure, I guess."
Sherlock smiles.
"I love that gorgeous smile," the man says.
Sherlock looks at him. "Everything you're saying is the truth? I help people? I fall…" Sherlock nervously swallows. "I fall in love?"
The man smiles. "Yes, Sherlock Holmes. You help people with that amazing mind of yours, and you fall in love. With me."
Sherlock smiles down at his shoes.
"I want you to live to see that day, Sherlock. I want you to see the first major case you solve. I want you to see how Lestrade treats you at a crime scene. I want you to see your rivalry with your brother, fighting over who's smarter. I want you to see me, Sherlock. I want you to save me."
Sherlock nods.
"It'll be hard, very hard. But you can't give up, ok?"
Sherlock nods again.
The man holds his hand out and Sherlock takes it. "Come on," he says. "You have to get back."
"How will I find you?" Sherlock asks as he's led back to the spot where he woke up. "How will I know if I forget you?"
"You'll know," the man says. "There isn't a universe of events that occur that day where we don't meet."
"We're meant for each other," Sherlock mutters as he lays back.
The man smiles. "See you, my darling."
"See you in fifteen years," Sherlock sighs as the man covers his eyes.
He feels a kiss pressed against his forehead, then everything disappears.