Holidaysat221b Prompt of the Day - 5/8/19

Your soulmate was an artist of centuries ago, and currently, you're an art student at university (or not but you're taking an arts class). Then one day for a field trip, you go to a far-away museum and you just find yourself staring at what was your reflection, wearing different clothes to fit the timeline but it was definitely a split-image of you, on one of the framed displays. (A fanart answer for this prompt would also be awesome!) - noregretsnotearsnoanxieties

So I totally got this wrong, but the prompt was the inspiration for this fic. Rated K+, enjoy!

Sherlock felt as if all the breath had been sucked from his body as he stared at the portrait of (himself!) William Hooper, the Fourth Earl of Sherrinford, born 6 January 1772 (his own birthday, give or take a century), died 12 October 1867.

The woman standing next to (him) the Earl in the portrait wasn't anyone he'd ever seen before, at least not that he was aware of, but he found himself even more hypnotized by her eyes than by the sight of (himself) his virtual twin. Her eyes were brown, so large in her face that they would have seemed a caricature if it wasn't for the absolute realism the artist had so carefully created otherwise. Some women just have large eyes, he reminded himself, even as he felt those deep pools of brown - warm, caring, friendly - drawing him further in.

Unlike most husband-and-wife portraits of the era, she wasn't seated, but stood proudly by her husband's side. Lady Margaret Hooper, the plaque read, also naming her date and death dates - born two years later than her husband, but died only a few days after he had. Died of a broken heart, some fanciful part of his mind whispered, but he ignored it; after all, he was a man of logic, only taking this course to fulfill some stupid uni requirement.

"Done staring at yourself?" The jeering voice brought him back to the present, tore his reluctant gaze from those of the knowing brown eyes which, painted or not, seemed to stare directly into his soul.

"I was studying the details of the costumes, Wilkes, but thanks for noticing that the late Earl bears some passing resemblance to me," he drawled, automatically going on the attack, always the best option where Sebastian Wilkes was concerned. "I didn't realize you paid such close attention to my appearance."

He batted his eyes at Wilkes, who made a disgusted sound and slouched off with the rest of his hateful cronies, none of whom would pass this course with anything higher than a C. Well, except for the one who was sleeping with Professor Magnussen, of course. And oh, wouldn't his homophobic mates destroy him if they ever found out!

But before he could decide whether or not that deduction should be shared now or saved for some future point, his eyes were once again drawn to the portrait. The rest of the class had moved on, obediently following their professor as he droned on about something or other, until he was left alone in the gallery, just him and the bored security guard who was contemplating sneaking off for a smoke with only one patron to watch over.

Sherlock wasn't sure what impulse compelled him to pretend to leave the gallery, to trail after his classmates and professor (barely competent but blackmailing the department head over something boring that nevertheless could end the woman's career); nor was her sure why he immediately returned as soon as the guard had swanned off to sneak his smoke.

But return he did, staring and staring at the portrait, until suddenly his mind started playing tricks on him; he could have sworn the solemn expression on Lady Margaret's face lightened; that her lips curved up in a ghost of a smile, that her eyes warmed and shifted so she was staring directly at him…and that her hands, clasped demurely in front of her, eased apart and beckoned him closer.

Come back to me, he thought he heard a woman's voice, soft and loving, whisper in his mind. Come back to me, my William, my Sherlock. Come back to me, and live the life we were always meant to have together.

Half-hypnotized, he hesitated, torn between moving closer to the portrait and running away as fast as he could, to rejoin his classmates and the tepid life fate had seemed to have mapped out for him working with his brother for the British government.

It was that last thought that moved him toward the portrait rather than away from it; eyes still meeting those of Lady Margaret, whose smile seemed to become wider with each step, her hands - yes, her hands were definitely reaching out, reaching for him, eyes lumionus with eagerness and something he thought might be love, compelling him but not unwillingly to step closer, closer, closer…

He reached up, fingers grazing the lower portion of the frame, set only a few feet above the floor, easy to step up on that edge, to take those hands in his, to join his love, to go where he truly belonged…

When the security guard returned to the gallery, looking around guiltily, he was relieved to see it was as empty as when he'd left it. Even that kid that had been staring so hard at the Sherrinford painting had finally sloped off, probably back with the rest of his annoying classmates. He snorted softly; he hated those obnoxious twats, with the snide comments and rude looks toward him. At least this time none of them had tried anything stupid in the name of showing off for their mates.

As he took his position by the gallery doors, his incurious eyes passed over the painting and swept along the others he'd seen so many times.

What he failed to notice, however, was the soft, secret smiles that now graced the lips of the Lord and Lady of Sherrinford.

Sherlock Holmes had found his soulmate, one hundred and fifty years in his past.

End note/epilogue based on some questions OhAine raised over on AO3:

"So how'd he die, anyway?"

The mother flipped through the pamphlet. "Huh," she said, as the child craned his head up inquisitively. "It says here he was supposedly killed in a duel when he was 20, but then showed up a few days later without a scratch on him. A few days later he was married to Lady Margaret, and they both died of old age after devoting their lives to one another." The mother smiled dreamily at the romance of it all.

"Could've just said old age," the child muttered unappreciatively.