Chapter 1

Being immortal isn't all it's cracked up to be.

For years upon unending years, the body will continue to move and the mind will continue to mature, and yet there will never be an end in sight. To watch those around you grow and age and wither and die, while you yourself are stuck in your prime until the Earth cracks and shatters and leaves you floating in the wide expanse of space.

Or so he assumes. The Earth has yet to do any cracking or shattering and so he cannot be certain of what will happen, but he feels it's an apt conclusion to be making.

Watching technology advance and humans learn to understand how much they don't know is fascinating. But there are the days inbetween, the months, the years, where it feels as if everything has stopped and there is no more advancing forward. There is nothing else to grab his attention; to grab it by the reigns and steer him toward awe and interest.

There's boredom. Years and decades and centuries of it. To not be stimulated mentally is hell on Earth, and without death's sweet embrace to end it all, he's forced to endure the mental torture.

There had been a time, long, long ago, when every day was new and fresh and exciting. Where boredom was never a threat. Where he'd been loved and reciprocated the feeling in kind.

And then his ego had ruined it all.

Long ago, he'd had John Watson at his side, and then he'd lost it all when he'd finally pissed off the wrong person.

Walking along a cobbled street, Sherlock tries to keep the sneer from his face as he watches children run by and adults chatter inanely. Pulling his coat tighter around himself and raising his chin high he sweeps by a man selling papers and pays for one without so much as a word. Plucking one of the pages from his hand he began briskly walking away, glancing at the date underneath the heading.

October 17, 1657.

There was no keeping the sneer away now as he chucks the paper aside, not bothering to watch as it lands in a puddle.

0-0-0-0-0

The first time he didn't die it was 1347 and he was 23. Unluckily for him, he contracted the Great Mortality, later known as the Black Death.

The whole town was swept with it, and so it was only inevitable that he ended up getting it himself. Suffering through the aches and pains and chills and fever had been insufferable. Not to mention the weakness and vomiting, and then the blackening of his fingers and toes. He'd thought for sure that he was going to die, that that was the end of him. However, he was proven wrong when, after four days of sickness, he awoke feeling better than he'd ever felt in all of his life up to that point. The blackening slowly dissipated and the fever abated, leaving him illness-free and lively.

At first, he believed that he was one of the rare few to survive the horrid illness and counted himself lucky.

As time passed though and he became 30, 40, 50, even 60 years old and he didn't seem to age a day, he began to think that something may be amiss. It seemed others around him also believed this as he was quickly accused of making deals with Satan and sent to be executed. Even then he'd always had an abrasive attitude toward others, and so it didn't help his case when he only mocked his jailer's intelligence for thinking such insane things.

The second time he didn't die, he was hung from the gallows and left choking for fifteen hours before he was taken down and imprisoned once more.

It was then that he began rethinking everything. He didn't have much knowledge about the human body - virtually nobody at the time did - but he knew enough to know that the noose was definitely supposed to have killed him. He'd heard of people surviving the initial drop, but they had always choked shortly thereafter.

What they didn't do was survive for fifteen hours with nothing more than a faint echo of pain in the neck.

He had never been one to believe as resolutely in the idea of God and Satan as everyone else around him had, but it was at that point that even he was wondering if he'd unknowingly made some sort of deal with the devil.

Word spread quickly through the town that they had a true witch on their hands and everyone was left at a loss of what to do about it. Some demanded drowning while others screamed for beheading, and all the while Sherlock sat in his prison with his mind whirring as he tried to make sense of how he'd survived.

When he was saved, his first thought was that he was looking at Satan himself, but then he thought better of it and realized that the man dragging him out of the prison was a man not unlike himself.

"You can't die." He'd said, only to be shushed harshly and pressed against a wall as torchlight passed by.

"When we're out of here I'd like to know how you know that." The man had said, eyeing the light carefully until it was out of range. At once he was pulling Sherlock along again through the town and into the trees surrounding it.

It wasn't until an hour later that they finally took a break, each sitting against their own tree and eyeing each other carefully.

"How did you know, then? That I can't die?" The man asked eventually when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't going to be saying anything himself.

"You saved me. Everyone in town saw me survive my hanging and so it has been sealed in their minds that I am indeed a witch. Word has spread about this and even those who weren't there at the hanging have heard of me. However, I happen to know that you were there, and so it isn't something you need proven to you." Sherlock began, listing off his observations and deductions as he had them.

"You're new to town, only arrived here a month prior. It is not often this town gets a new face. You may not believe as strongly as everyone else in the legitimacy of witches, but the proof of my survival would have swayed even the most skeptical of men. However, rather than call for my death, you have instead freed me." He continued, his fingers plucking at the grass as he spoke. He looked into the trees just to the left of his savior rather than looking the man in the eye, but he could see the lack of expression on the man's face as he spoke, waiting for the conclusion to tie it all together.

"What would be the motivation behind an act such as that? Maybe you yourself are a witch, but you rolled your eyes at even the suggestion just there, and so it can be determined that you are not one. Perhaps you would like me to use my so-called powers to your benefit, however, there was no hesitation when you released me from my ties. No fear. If you believed me to be a powerful witch you would have taken necessary precautions to ensure I could not hurt you in turn. That, or you are quite dumb, in which my next words will be for naught." He said, but when the man didn't say anything he decided to go on.

"You have already confirmed you do not in fact die. You asked how I knew rather than refuting it. What was merely a theory was proven by my asking. If you were not under the assumption that I was a witch, the only other reason to save me was if you saw a likeness in me. You cannot die, and I cannot die, and so you saved me." Sherlock finished, finally looking the man in the eye once more as he did. There was a second where the man's expression remained carefully blank before awe began shining in his eye and a smile was turning up his lips.

"That was magnificent." Sherlock could only blink in surprise at the words.

"That is not how others usually react." He said a tad uncertainly.

"And how do they usually react?" The man asked.

"Heretic. Witch." The two smiled at that for a moment before they began laughing in a mixture of amusement and relief now that their adrenaline was beginning to fade. And when their laughter, too, began to fade, the man spoke.

"My name is John. John Watson. I believe that you and I are immortal."

0-0-0-0-0

He's visiting his many-times-over-great-something-or-other who is days away from having a baby. Throughout his immortal life, the Holmes' have all known about their mysterious relative Sherlock who never dies, and while Sherlock has at times felt it was better to sever ties with them altogether, he still has the initial Holmes values ingrained into him.

Family comes first.

It is something that seems to have been passed down throughout the generations as they welcome him with open arms despite his many abnormalities - the least of which being his immortality. Even the family grapevine has had their own rumors and speculations about his resistance to death, and while they never mention it while he's around, he still sees it in the wary side glances he receives.

For the most part, he has as little contact with them as possible, only visiting whenever a new member of his closest relative is to be born. He had only had one other sibling survive the plague alongside him, and he has followed that sibling's line through the generations ever since.

He knows that John did the same with one of his family lines, but he didn't want to think about John right now.

So as he sits beside Charlotte Holmes' bedside she tells him about parties the family has held and stories she's heard of him from her husband William Holmes and Sherlock tells her about being in England at the time that James I was crowned king, and consequently when Guy Fawkes attempted to blow him and parliament to smithereens. He tells her about his travels all throughout the world, but how he always comes back to London every few decades. He tells her whatever he can think of, but never anything from 1510 or before.

However, Charlotte is far more curious than he gives her credit before because she eyes him carefully as he's telling one of his stories, and noticing her wandering mind he pauses.

"What is it?" He asks her curiously.

"Have you been alone all this time then? There really is no one else like you out there?" The words bring about a hesitation in Sherlock as he turns to look out the nearby window. He swallows, and while Charlotte is eager to hear his response, she's also waiting patiently in the bed, her hands resting on her bulging stomach.

"I wasn't always alone, no. But they're long gone now." Sherlock finally decides on saying, turning his eyes back to her once he's finished. She gives him a sympathetic look and he only notices he's twisting the ring on his ring finger when she places her hand on his.

"I'm sorry for your loss." She says sincerely, and Sherlock can see that she means it. He gives her half a smile and nods in acceptance of her words, patting her hand back.

"It was a long time ago." He tells her, letting her continue under the assumption that the person he'd traveled with had died.

"What was their name?" She asks after a brief silence. There's another hesitation from Sherlock, a long-fought battle of what's saying too much and what's safe to reveal. Finally, though, he decides on answering, feeling that it should be safe enough to do so.

"Joan." He switches to a more feminine name, though similar enough to the one he truly means. While this is his family, it is also unforgivable in most anyone's eyes nowadays for such a relationship to even be hinted at. Charlotte is oblivious to the switch as she smiles, moving her hands back to her belly.

"Joan. That's a wonderful name." She says in a soothing voice, fit for a mother to be. Sherlock's smile grows on his face as he turns back to the window.

"Yes. It is."

And so, on August 8th, 1732, Joan Holmes is born to parents William and Charlotte Holmes.

0-0-0-0-0

John Watson was exactly 204 years older than him.

After the man had saved Sherlock from prison, the two had decided it was better to stay together than it was to separate. After all, John had already lived the past 160 years alone once realizing he was different from everyone else and that wasn't exactly a happy existence.

And, alright, Sherlock found him utterly fascinating.

Here was proof that he wasn't alone in the strange world of immortality. He had always been an outcast due to his mind and ideas, and with this new state of being - or was it always his state of being and he'd just been unaware of it until now? - he was even more so. To have someone else like him, someone to who he could relate, was a novel experience for him.

He would do anything to keep John Watson.

Not only was he there to share the burden of immortality with, but he was also just as mesmerized in Sherlock's mind as Sherlock was with John himself. He didn't yell and curse and spit vile at Sherlock for his deductions and observations - unless Sherlock truly upset him, which happened often, but he was always forgiven in the end.

Which is when he realized John was as unlikely to abandon this newfound friendship as he was.

And so it seemed that their companionship was a match made in heaven. The two left behind the town Sherlock had grown up in and began to hop from village to village from there on. They didn't stay long enough for anyone to realize they didn't age, and that was just fine with them.

However, with a mind like Sherlocks, there was a desire to learn everything there was to know. During their travels, he would question John on everything he knew so far of their immortality, and upon finding out that that was abysmally little, Sherlock turned to outside sources. This was an exercise in futility though as he realized that even that was few and far between, and whenever he did find something that could be potentially promising, it always turned out to be the ravings of the truly mad.

But that was alright because there was still so much more to learn aside from their immortality, and Sherlock was determined to learn it all.

0-0-0-0-0

It's overcast, just as it had been yesterday and the day before that and even the day before that.

Despite its deplorable weather, Sherlock still can't help the pull that draws him back to London yet again. The bustling, overcrowded, smelly city that has grown and thrived over the many many years. He comes back to watch brick and stone slot together to form buildings meant to house as many people as possible in as tiny a space as possible. He comes back to watch as Kings and Queens take the throne. He comes back in the hopes that, someday soon, he'll be coming back with the one person he wants at his side.

Shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts, Sherlock looks out the carriage window, observing and deducing what he can from those he sees passing by. It's a good test of his mental capabilities, to determine as much as possible about a person from just a brief glimpse, and it helps to stave the impending boredom for just a scant few moments.

When the carriage finally comes to a stop, Sherlock steps out without a backward glance and moves swiftly to a man selling the news. He's hollering about something, waving the bundle of papers high in the air to grab people's attention and draw them in, and it seems to be working if the small crowd around him is anything to judge by.

Making his way to the front, Sherlock buys a paper before removing himself quickly from the growing throng of people and into a nearby, empty alley. Pleased to no longer be overwhelmed by so many, he begins to read, looking for what was so interesting. When he spots it, his grin widens and he can feel the giddy excitement building up within him.

'Another Horrible Murder In Whitechapel - The Victim Frightfully Mutilated'

November 9, 1888.

0-0-0-0-0

They've been traveling together for 89 years when Sherlock finally realizes what it is he's feeling.

His fascination with John, while understandable in the beginning, had yet to abate even after these near nine decades together. The two of them know each other as well as they know the backs of their own hands at this point, and yet Sherlock doesn't look at his partner and think he's become dull or boring or predictable.

John Watson is still as new to him as the day they met, and for so long, Sherlock couldn't understand how this could be the case.

It isn't until he and John are traveling to the next settlement that he realizes it's not just fascination that he feels for John. It's not just comfort, or comradery, or any other feelings you may feel toward a friend - a best friend even. This is distinctly different. Deeper. More meaningful.

He's gone and fallen in love with his only friend. The only other immortal that the two of them know of. The only person who seems to be able to stand Sherlock's eccentricities - immortality aside.

He's fallen in love with a man in the year 1436 when that is very very much a not-good thing to do.

0-0-0-0-0

Rather than sitting at a bedside, Sherlock sits on a sofa and watches as his heavily pregnant distant relative bustles in and out of the sitting room, bringing a tray of tea and a dish of biscuits before settling down in a chair across from him and pouring them both a cup.

"You really mustn't go through all of the trouble," Sherlock tells her imperiously as he moves to grab a biscuit and cup. She blows air through her nose in a huff of laughter, pulling her own cup to her mouth as she speaks into it.

"Musn't. I'll do what I well please, thank you. Honestly, it's no longer medieval times, Sherlock dear." She tells him in good humor. A smile twitches to life on Sherlock's lips as he settles comfortably into the sofa.

He thinks that Margaret Holmes would have gotten along quite well with Charlotte had the two been alive within the same time period. Where Charlotte was soft-spoken, as was the expectation of women of her time, Margaret was embracing the freedoms a woman was gaining through the progressing times and was far more outspoken than he was used to.

It was one of the many thrilling things about watching humanity grow and change. Watching as culture and society shifted to change things as simple as gender roles and norms. Where a woman was once subservient and nothing more than a piece of property, they were now slowly starting to gain rights of their own through protests and rallies.

There was still a long way to go for them, sure, but Sherlock knew it was going to be fascinating to see.

"Yes, I'm made aware of this every time I walk along a pavement that isn't made of cobble or dirt. Not to mention all of these roaring vehicles of yours and the smog in the air." Margaret smiles at his words as she sets her cup aside, giving Sherlock her full attention.

"It truly is fascinating, how you still live. If I wasn't so in love with mathematics, I think I would have changed professions after Sigerson told me about you." She admits, to which Sherlock nods in agreement.

"I don't think my state of being is something that can be answered within your time, I'm afraid," Sherlock tells her sincerely as he sets his own cup down. With advancing technology, Sherlock had done his best to find out himself as to how he was still alive after all of these centuries, but there wasn't anything different in his composition compared to a normal, aging humans.

Either he was missing something, or technology had yet to advance far enough for the answer to become known, and Sherlock wasn't anticipating an answer anytime soon.

"It's a shame, that. All these years and no answer. I wish there was something we could do to help." Margaret says with a sigh, and as is usual when speaking about his immortality, he spots the sympathy easily on his relative's face. Forcing a smile, strained as it is, Sherlock nods amicably in agreement.

Knowing what topics are to come from a conversation such as this, Sherlock glances quickly around the room in the hopes of finding something to change the subject with. He doesn't want to answer questions about whether he was lonely, or whether there was anyone else like him out there, or how depressing it must be to watch everyone you've ever known age and die while you remain young and alive.

"Something will come along eventually, I'm sure. Let's not blather on about myself, though. What about your work? It sounds fascinating." He tells her, putting on his best sham of interest as he leans forward in an imitation of eagerness that Margaret sees as genuine if her beaming smile is anything to go by.

"Oh, it's just magnificent! You wouldn't believe how much there is to learn when it comes to something as simple as numbers. But they're infinite and-" As Margaret drones on, Sherlock finds the tension releasing from his body, relieved to be off the topic of himself.

It seems more trouble than it's worth, visiting his relatives, and yet it's the one constant within his ever-changing life that he can't quite get rid of.

Even when he had once thought that he wouldn't need his family. Only John.

But John wasn't here, and wouldn't be for some time yet. Soon, though. Soon they would be together again, and it would be a reunion that would bring about emotions so strong, Sherlock felt choked up just imagining it.

Whether those emotions would be good or bad though would be anyone's guess.

After all, it's Sherlock's fault that they were separated in the first place. After all of this time, John may have decided that he doesn't want to risk staying at Sherlock's side anymore, lest there be another repeat of this occurrence in the future.

If John decided he no longer wanted to be with Sherlock, he was sure that he would wither away; immortal or not. He would find a way to end his miserable existence because, without John, he wasn't living. Already, with just this taste of life without John, he found it a struggle to continue his days. If there wasn't the light at the end of the tunnel, the knowledge that they would reunite in the future, he would have given up long ago.

He just had to hope that John felt the same. That he hadn't moved on from Sherlock.

The rest of his visit with Margaret and Sigerson was tedious, but at least the two made for a good distraction.

And three days later, on July 17th, 1973, Mycroft Holmes was born.

0-0-0-0-0

After finding out the depth of his feelings for John, Sherlock had taken to watching the man for any hint that he may feel the same for him. To confess your love to someone was to accept the risk of rejection, but for a man to confess his love to another man - or a woman to woman - was to risk much more than just rejection.

And Sherlock had to decide whether he thought it was worth the risks and all they entailed.

If Sherlock confessed to John and John did not accept, and worse, became enraged with Sherlock for having such thoughts toward another man, then that would probably be the end of their partnership. They would part ways and Sherlock would lose the one man he not only loved but the one man he'd ever called his friend.

Furthermore, there was the possibility of John outing him to whichever village they stayed at next. That would cause an uprising for sure, and if John went so far as to announce his immortality as well, then he would most likely be condemned to eternity rotting away in a cell.

Or maybe they would finally find some way to kill him.

Whatever the case, Sherlock had to be certain - absolutely, one hundred percent certain - that John Watson shared his feelings before he revealed anything.

He also noted that he should wait until they were between villages to tell him, to avoid a cell as much as possible.

So as they traveled over the days and months, Sherlock watched the reactions of those in the settlements that were in love. He watched how they reacted to one another, how they treated each other, how their pupils dilated and their skin flushed. At one point, he'd even had the chance of checking someone's heartbeat when they were nearby to their lover.

He continued making these observations at each settlement they traveled to, taking note of the commonalities between each couple as well as the outlying symptoms.

And when he felt he had an accurate enough baseline, he then turned his findings to John. The two of them had never been very physical with each other, but Sherlock was able to remedy this by manufacturing situations in which it wouldn't be questionable. He watched how John reacted to his presence nearby, noted how quick his heartbeat was with Sherlock's close proximity - though it may have been beating so quick due to Sherlock having tripped him - and checked the size of his pupils when a suggestive situation arose.

After careful observation, Sherlock felt that it was safe to say that John felt for Sherlock as Sherlock did for him.

And yet that didn't make it any easier to come out and reveal those emotions.

As planned, he waited until they were traveling between villages and were surrounded on all sides by trees and woodland creatures. He had decided when they were leaving the last village that this would finally be the time he did it. He would tell John, and they would either progress their relationship from just friends to something more, or John would deny him and his feelings and they would separate.

It was an all-or-nothing scenario, because as kind and accepting as John was of many things, if the man didn't want to accept what was surely his returned love for Sherlock, he would instead get angry. He would channel all of his surprise and confusion, and possibly even disgust, into rage, and it would all be directed Sherlock's way.

Everything had to be perfect for his announcement. John had to be in the best mood possible.

To achieve this, Sherlock kept up an easy, yet dull conversation throughout their journey. He made sure they were well-stocked on food and water so that the man wouldn't worry if they were going to have to suffer hunger or thirst during their journey. He made sure to steer John through the trees in the least perilous route, avoiding steep drops and roots sticking out of the ground.

And when night came, Sherlock made sure they had a warm fire to chase away the chill of the night. As they sat on opposites sides of the blaze, Sherlock considered the idea of putting this off until tomorrow, because surely John was tired after such a long day's journey, and his feet probably hurt which was not the optimal mood.

But as Sherlock looked over the fire at the man smiling gleefully his way as he talked about how interesting it had been to start learning how to read from a man back in the previous settlement, Sherlock could feel himself getting choked up with emotion.

He wanted to tell John just so he could get rid of the anxiety that plagued him daily just so he would finally know one way or another if this relationship was going to continue or not.

Which is how Sherlock found himself interrupting John mid-sentence.

"John, there's something I feel I should tell you." He starts, his voice coming out much more confidently than he was feeling. While surprised, and a tad bit annoyed at being interrupted, John blinks and closes his mouth, nodding.

"What is it? You haven't stolen something else, have you? We've enough to carry without you adding other's belongings to it." John says with a raised eyebrow as he uses a stick to stoke the fire.

"No - well, yes, I have, but seeing as you were just raving about reading I don't think you'll be too angry with me for taking a few books from Smith." However, John looks plenty angry which was not how Sherlock had wanted to start this conversation at all.

"Sherlock-!"

"No, wait, we'll discuss that later." He says the words hurriedly in the hopes of quelling the anger before it has a chance to fully ignite.

But honestly, how else were they supposed to continue learning to read if they didn't have anything to actually read?

"Fine. What is it that you wanted to say?" John asks, calming himself and relaxing his posture.

Sherlock swallowed now as he remembers exactly what it was that he wants to tell the man, and so instead of meeting his gaze, Sherlock turns his eyes to the bright orange and yellow flames. While it was only a few simple words, the weight they held was insurmountable and he found it difficult to form them on his lips.

"Sherlock?" A quick glance told Sherlock that the man was concerned, probably by Sherlock's unusual hesitance. Over the many decades spent together, John could probably count on one hand the times that Sherlock was this hesitant about something, and usually it was nothing good that followed.

"John, I-" Clearing his throat, Sherlock tries again when his voice sounds far too choked for his liking.

"I have come to the conclusion," He starts again slowly, still refusing to meet John's eyes. The heat from the fire is burning his face, but he refuses to move away from it, trying to capture as much warmth as possible before he possibly has to leave it and venture into the cold dark forest alone.

He most definitely should have waited until morning for this conversation. John was always more accepting of difficult conversations in the morning due to the haze of sleep that would cling to his mind.

"I have come to the conclusion," He repeats after the silence stretches on just that much too long for him to feasibly continue his previous sentence.

"That I - ... John. I care for you. Deeply." He says, hoping that that would be enough; that John would read between the lines for once and understand what it was Sherlock was trying to tell him without having the man spell it out.

"I care for you too, Sherlock. You know that." Clearly, Sherlock's hopes were too high, or else John didn't want to read the subtext. Didn't want to face the fact that Sherlock was trying to say he had feelings for a man - that man being John Watson. Another glance shows Sherlock the furrowed eyebrows and slight frown, and Sherlock is unable to determine whether it's confusion or slow understanding at play.

"You misunderstand me, John. My feelings for you are of a more... romantic nature..." His voice comes out small and at first Sherlock thinks that John couldn't hear him over the crackling fire. He doesn't want to look to check though. He doesn't want to see the disgust and the anger twisting John's features into an amalgamation of hate.

Instead, Sherlock stares unblinkingly into the fire and struggles to breathe evenly. He replays every moment of the last 89 years they've spent together in his mind and prays that his observations were correct. Prays that John will be accepting.

"Sherlock," His name is said evenly, with no inflection to help Sherlock determine which emotion John is currently feeling. Sherlock remains silent, waiting for John to say something more, refusing to make eye contact.

"What you're saying... You..." He trails off and Sherlock bites his lip, his heart thundering in his chest and adrenaline pouring into his veins.

"I do not have a good understanding of my emotions most times, especially those regarding romance, but I do believe that I am... I am in love with you, John Watson." Finally, the admission is out as clear as possible. There would be no misconstruing Sherlock's words into anything but what they were intended as.

Which meant this was the delicate moment before the climax. Whether there was to be rejection or acceptance was yet to be seen, and while Sherlock wasn't hoping for the best case scenario, he was at least hoping John would still want to travel together. If Sherlock was going to live forever, he didn't want to do it alone after having met John.

Maybe if they had never met it would have been better. He would have never known how wonderful it would be to travel alongside John, he would never have known what it was like to experience joy of this magnitude, he would never know what it would be like to experience love.

He would never have to know what it was like to lose John.

He would have gotten by just fine on his own, he's sure, but he doesn't think he would have enjoyed himself nearly as much as he does now.

Shaking himself from these thoughts, Sherlock swallows and raises his eyes to the surrounding trees, still not able to look at John but getting closer.

"I want to be clear here. You love me romantically. Not as a brother loves a brother, but as a husband loves a wife." John states, his voice still devoid of any telling emotion. Sherlock finds that his anxiety is quickly taking change into irritation at how difficult this is to get across. He'd thought he'd been very clear on this point already.

"Yes, John. Can you decide if that is going to be an issue or not already?" He all but spits out, his irritation allowing him to finally rest his eyes on John's form. He's more than a little surprised to see that there is a faint amusement to the tilt of his lips, and possibly even relief, though Sherlocks not sure if he's only seeing what he wants to see and so decides not to make any assumptions until John speaks his decision aloud.

"I think you will see that I find no issue with your affection. In fact, you will see that I return it, no?" John asks in turn, to which Sherlock blinks, far more surprised now than he had when seeing John's reaction before.

And looking closer, he does see that. He sees the open posture John has, indicating that he's receptive to Sherlock's declaration, as well as all of the same signs he'd noted previously that told him of Johns returned affection. To hear him declare it so plainly though was more than shocking.

"And you are alright with it?" Sherlock asks skeptically, still waiting for John to yell and spit and rage at Sherlock for having such impure thoughts about another man.

"With my love for you, or yours for me? In either case, I am more than alright with it." John assures, the muscles in his arms twitching as if he wanted to reach out, which would be absurd seeing as there was a fire separating them.

"Truly? You don't believe it immoral for two men to feel such a way about each other? You don't believe it to be an act against God?" Sherlock presses, unsure if he actually wants John's easy acceptance or not.

On one hand, it's everything he had hoped for and more, and yet he can't help but feel it's all been too easy.

"Well... we cannot die, correct? That in of itself may be an act against God. That's not to mention, I'm 319 years old. I won't say that back when I was still young, I believed a man should bed with a man, but time has passed since then. My opinions have changed. And that's due in part to meeting you and realizing how deep my affection for you has grown. So, yes, Sherlock Holmes, I love you." Sherlock blinks a few times in disbelief, frozen and unable to fully comprehend and process John's words. His thoughts begin to wander, and he starts to become sucked into the labyrinth of his mind.

Before he has a chance to fully retreat within himself, however, John stands and moves around the fire to sit beside Sherlock. The hand that rests upon Sherlocks is warmed from the heat of the flames and it draws Sherlock out of his head in an instant, eyes drawn to John's hand on his.

Sherlock is sure that the wonder on John's face is reflected by Sherlock's own because he can feel that his eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly open. The fire is painting their skin in bright oranges and yellows, glowing in their eyes and flushing their cheeks from the heat, but they don't move an inch away from it, too drawn into each other to do much more than stare.

But then John is moving, and their lips are meeting and their eyes are closing.

And Sherlock thinks this is probably the happiest he has ever been.

0-0-0-0-0

"Are you quite sure all of this... mess won't have any adverse effects?" Pulled from his musings, Sherlock slowly draws his gaze to the man picking his way through the scattered papers and discarded tools strewn around the place.

"Do you mean the state of this decrepit flat or the drugs?" The immortal man asks slowly, looking back up to the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"Don't bother saying anything, the answer is yes regardless," Sherlock says before his visitor could even open his mouth in reply. There's a sniff, and the sound of the wooden chair at the table creaking in protest as weight is placed onto it.

"For being an immortal being, I can't imagine this is the best use of your time." He can't hold back the scoff as he sits up from the sofa and turns to sit properly.

"And what would you know of time best used, Mycroft? You've lived a mere 26th of my life and you believe you, a child, can reprimand me for drug use that will have no damaging effect on me?" Sherlock asks, sitting straight and tall despite his altered state. Mycroft doesn't look cowed by his words, however, and if anything, is unimpressed.

"I believe that there is a slim likelihood anyone could relate to your state of being. That does not mean, however, that I cannot tell you off when you behave as a child would. How old are you, precisely? Two, three hundred? More? Less? You never tell anyone your age, but there are stories passed down through the family that state you were present for each and every one of our births all the way back to at least the 16th century, possibly further back than that." Mycroft says, appearing unruffled by Sherlock's taunts, and even though he would love to correct him, Sherlock keeps his mouth from spilling well-kept secrets involving age and history.

Even high, he knows better.

"And yet, for being so old and wise, you act as if you yourself are a rebelling teenager. Honestly, Sherlock, drugs? Surely you had time for that when they were more readily available and thought to have medicinal properties." Mycroft chides. Sherlock curses, not for the first time, that Mycroft had to be the one Holmes that he was going to need a better relationship with than just passing acquaintance. Otherwise, he would have alienated himself from him as he had the rest of the Holmes family for generations.

"Oh yes, I had plenty of fun with them then as well. Though, not for the reason everyone else was using them, mind." Sherlock told him with a roll of his eyes, already longing for the high that had begun fading once Mycroft had appeared.

"Hm. And what would your partner have thought of that?" The sudden turn in conversation makes Sherlock bristle in a sudden mixture of shock and rage.

He racks his brain for an explanation as to how Mycroft could possibly know he'd had a partner in his life, but it is exceedingly hard to do so when his brain is still muzzy from the fading chemicals of the amalgamation of drugs he'd used.

It could be that Charlotte had told others of his lost 'wife' Joan, but for a tale such as that to have been passed down all the way to Mycroft is slim to none after all this time. Still, the Holmes' love to gossip about Sherlock, and Mycroft did just make mention of the stories he'd heard. It's not an entirely unbelievable theory, but when he sees Mycroft's eyes flick to the ring Sherlock still wears on his ring finger after all this time, he knows it wasn't a story Mycroft heard, but a deduction he'd made. A deduction that had been proven by Sherlock's reaction to such a statement.

This conclusion only serves to enrage Sherlock further.

"What right do you have, to bring something such as that up to me? Do you think it's fun? To live eternally with no end in sight? I will have lived for more generations than those that came before me and even then I will continue on while you will be nothing more than dust in the dirt. I didn't perform some ritual to become the way I am. I didn't ask for this." The words come out in a low, rumbling voice that portrays every ounce of anger it is that he feels. Mycroft shifts in his chair, but Sherlock continues before he can be interrupted, his eyes narrowed to mere slits in his fury as he leans forward, gripping the arm of the sofa in a white-knuckled grip.

"So do not dare ask of me what my partner may think of me now. You do not have the right, nor the ability to comprehend what they would have thought. Mention them again, and I will disappear. No matter how high in the government you get, you will never be able to find me." The threat, while one he would rather not follow through with, is entirely genuine.

Because Mycroft knows nothing of John - which is exactly what Sherlock wants. He doesn't want anyone to know John. Be it his name, his gender, even his existence. If dreaded sentiment didn't have such a hold on his heart, he would have gotten rid of the blasted ring ages ago and avoided both Charlotte and Mycroft ever finding out that there had once been someone - even if they believed that someone was long dead.

When he and John had first gotten the rings, Sherlock had worn his around his neck, tucked under his shirt to ensure no one saw it, while John had worn his proudly on his finger. People always assumed John was married to a wife in a different town or perhaps newly widowed, and John had never corrected them for obvious reasons, but then he and Sherlock would share that knowing look and it would be fine.

Because they knew what the ring was for, and that was all that mattered.

But without John at his side, he couldn't bear not seeing the ring, even if it was just hidden beneath his clothing. The visual aspect of it, the reminder, was sometimes the only thing that kept Sherlock going.

And so he'd ripped the leather cord around his neck and slid the ring into place on his ring finger sometime in the early 1500's. Now he was the one thought to have a wife elsewhere or - in the case of the Holmes' - dead and buried.

Twisting the ring unconsciously, Sherlock focused back on Mycroft when he stood from the chair, nodding to Sherlock.

"It was remiss of me to bring up the topic. Apologies." Swallowing, Sherlock nods in acceptance of the apology, but the sound of booming outside draws his attention to the window where there are bright flashes of red and gold and white.

Preoccupied, Sherlock didn't notice as Mycroft began walking to the door to leave.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock." New year already. Sherlock had lost track of time yet again it seems.

Mycroft leaves with a soft click of the door, but Sherlock still doesn't pay him any mind as he stands and walks to the window.

"Happy New Year, John." He says softly, listening to the sounds of fireworks going off and the chiming of Big Ben. He can see the crowds of people, all cheering and waving their arms as they herald in the new year.

The turn of the millennium. January 1, 2000.

0-0-0-0-0

Life after becoming a romantic couple was much the same as life before. The only big difference was that now they kissed and occasionally held hands whenever it was safe to do so. There was an easy affection between them, and most times they could convey the same love and passion through touch as they could by kissing.

It was better than Sherlock could ever imagine, and he was more than grateful that he had taken the leap and confessed his affections to John.

As time passed and they continued on their travels, they found things changing. Language and all of its nuances shifted and transformed as newcomers came, fashion slowly evolved, and technology advanced as well. It was fascinating to watch, yet a tad overwhelming to experience firsthand. Forgotten was the heavily accented words of his native tongue, replaced with this new dialect that was specific to the region. No longer did they wear lighter clothing with merely a robe over their outerwear, but now there were thick voluminous layers. Not to mention the invention of the printing press.

Life only seemed to be getting better and better as time went on, and Sherlock was excited to see what was yet to come.

He and John had long ago mastered the art of reading and writing, and so the dark-haired man took care to read all he could. Anytime they came across a book, or anything written really, Sherlock would take the time to devour it, to commit it to memory so, when he inevitably couldn't take it with him, he could remember it for future reference.

John always told him his mind was extraordinary - more extraordinary than the fact that they were immortal - and Sherlock always flushed under the compliment, pleased by the praise.

With a craving to show John just how smart he was - just how smart he could be - Sherlock didn't care how he gained access to the texts that he would pour over, even if that sometimes resulted in stealing them.

So it was inevitable that Sherlock's thirst for knowledge would get them into trouble.

One day, 126 years after meeting John and 72 years after evolving their relationship, Sherlock finally angered the wrong person.

They had been staying in London, a growing bustling city, that both John and Sherlock had always enjoyed staying at throughout the years. It was one of the places that they always came back to after traveling to places such as Paris or Rome. It was probably the one place that they would call home despite not having actually been born there.

While in London, Sherlock found that he'd run out of books to read, but he'd gotten a clue from one of the beggars on the street that there was a home that may have more books. Books that you wouldn't normally find for sale. Books about witchcraft and conjuring demons and calling on the devil.

Sherlock had been interested but hadn't paid the thought much mind as he'd had enough to read at the time. He hadn't anticipated on finishing so soon though, and now that niggling curiosity was picking away at him, tempting him with the wealth of knowledge to be had.

John was off at the pub, doing what he did best and making fast friends with people they would leave in a years time. Whereas Sherlock was very much not a 'people-person' John was. He craved that connection and camaraderie, and while Sherlock was happy to provide that for him, he was forced to come to terms with the fact that, in this, him alone was simply not enough.

This, however, meant that Sherlock was alone at the moment. Alone with the idea of stealing some valuable books that he wouldn't be finding anywhere else.

Witchcraft was just as feared and outlawed now as it had been when he was tried and convicted, and Sherlock couldn't remember ever hearing about any books regarding the subject before. It would be interesting to see what they may contain, even if they were just the ravings of a mad man. And so, without much more thought than that, Sherlock left in a haste, adrenaline pouring through his system at the thought of getting his hands on something so interesting.

He was nearly at his destination when John, on his way back home, happened to cross paths with him.

"Sherlock? Where are you going?" He asks, changing direction to follow after the taller man. Sherlock sighed, knowing John would disapprove of his plans, and so said nothing. John had followed him on less before, and so he merely shook his head and kept pace.

When they reached a house that was relatively secluded on the outskirts of the city, Sherlock wastes no time in moving for the door and entering without so much as a knock.

"Sherlock! What are you doing?!" John asks in a hiss, glancing around for anyone who may be watching them.

"Going in, John. Honestly, what does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock asks, spotting a stack of books on the nearby table easily and smiling in victory.

"Books? This is what this is about? Come on Sherlock, leave them. This will get you into a heap of trouble one day, I keep telling you!" John continued hissing, pulling on Sherlock's arm as he attempted to drag him from the house, though he was having no such luck.

Sherlock was instead turning through the pages, eyes bright with interest as he looked over the symbols and diagrams depicting rituals and spells. It looked legitimate enough, but surely there couldn't be any truth to the pages.

"What is all of this?" John asked curiously now, his own interest being drawn in by the strange book.

"Witchcraft. Or so it's said." Sherlock tells him absentmindedly as he grabs the next book and finds it to be filled with similar writing as the first.

"Witchcraft? But- Wait, no, Sherlock, come on. We're leaving now." John says, more stern this time than before, his face reflecting his tone. Sensing that this may lead to a bigger fight if he didn't comply, Sherlock sighs and begins stacking a few books together.

"Oh, fine." He huffs, but before John could yell at him to leave the books altogether the door opens, and a woman steps in. She didn't look surprised to see them, but she also didn't look pleased either.

"Hello. Uh, we were just... going..." John says, unsure if there was anything they could say to help them at this point.

"Oh, I don't believe so. I see you're interested in my tomes." She says, indicating the books in Sherlock's arms with a tilt of her head. John and Sherlock exchange a look and Sherlock was annoyed that he was probably going to have to leave them behind at this rate.

"My friend was, yes. I am truly sorry about this." John says sincerely, well-intentioned as always as Sherlock took in his calm-under-pressure mannerisms.

"Hm. And what do you have to say for yourself, then?" She asks Sherlock, to which the man's sharp eyes turn to her in an instant. There was a lot he could read off of her, the least of which being that this woman took witchcraft seriously, as evidenced by the books he still held.

"I was merely interested in what knowledge these books could possibly hold. You're hands tell me that whatever it is, you believe it full-heartedly." He tells her as he took in the scratched and calloused hands.

"However, surely you must know, witchcraft isn't thought to be a respectable profession. Strange that you would stay so nearby the city." Sherlock continues as John elbows him; attempting to shut him up no doubt.

"He must needs go that the devil drives." The woman tells him with a shrug, though her demeanor has changed somehow. No longer did she seem as calm and carefree as before. There was a sudden sharpness to her, a chill that rose in the air and raised the hairs on their arms and necks.

"An exchange is what you wish for then." She states more than she asks, and before John can stop him, Sherlock answers.

"Mm, no. I believe I was taking, not exchanging. Of course, you could always tell the authorities, however, I don't believe they'll take your side over mine, especially when it is found you practice such a craft." Sherlock tells her imperiously.

"Sherlock!" John hisses angrily but is overshadowed by the woman speaking next.

"If it is not an exchange you look for, then I'll give you something more. A parting gift." The last few words seem to vibrate in the air, surprising both John and Sherlock as they immediately tense.

"Spiteful words from a sharp mouth; Two shall heed these words where one is to blame; To never be within a towns distance; Lest the flesh burn from the bone; Unable to speak through voice or written word; Or lose the ability altogether; For acting with the foolishness as a child of five; May the next 500 years force you to understand consequences; By morning's light; So be it." There was an eery stillness as the woman finishes speaking, and without looking back she leaves the house altogether.

"W-what was that?" John asks eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest despite nothing having happened.

"John..." Sherlock starts cautiously, dread pooling in his gut. When his partner turns to look at him he swallows and holds the books in a firmer grip.

"I do believe we have just been cursed."

0-0-0-0-0

He hasn't touched drugs in years. He won't admit it aloud, but Mycroft mentioning John truly had snapped him out of it and he couldn't enjoy the high anymore without the immense guilt at the thought of how mad John would be with him.

Sure, the drugs couldn't hurt him any more than they could kill him, but they did alter him and it was still unknown whether there could be any permanent effects from these alterations.

So he stopped. He didn't inject any needles, didn't snort any powder, didn't swallow any pills, and he felt all the more bored for doing so. The only thing he allowed himself was tobacco, a long-time friend that had seen him through some dark times.

But now that he was no longer preoccupied with drugs, he had to fill his time with something else. And that something else just so happened to be crime.

He had dabbled in crime-solving before, but he hadn't put forth his full effort and so had given up on it before ever truly getting into it. This time, however, there was finally hope on the horizon. This curse would be lifted soon and he would be reunited with John.

He just had to bide his time for five more years. Five more years and he would be with John again.

And so he turned to crime-solving.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was the first detective he happened to stumble upon when following up with a crime he had seen in the news, and before he knew it, Sherlock had an in at New Scotland Yard.

It had been a bumpy start. Lestrade didn't trust fully that Sherlock wasn't committing the crimes himself, and his Sergeant Sally Donovan only further backed his theories with those of her own, but Sherlock was quick to disillusion them both with alibis and evidence to the real criminal shortly thereafter.

He wasn't entirely in the clear - especially in the case of Donovan, she still believed him to be the culprit of every case he helped with - but Lestrade was more willing to listen to him as time passed and Sherlock proved himself.

It was brilliant, actually. Crime-solving, that is. He became enraptured with the puzzles presented to him, like a game of chess where you have to predict your opponent's moves sometimes five whole steps ahead.

Of course, not every case was a winner for him and there were times he would refuse to help. He couldn't allow Lestrade to become dependent on him, after all, or else he would be solving the crime of who took Mr. Whiskers from little Annabelle's room.

No. He had standards. High ones.

He only took the interesting cases. The ones no one else could solve. No one except the world only Immortal Consulting Detective.

He was rather proud of the title and felt that John would get a kick out of it as well once they were together again.

Time had never flown by so fast in all of his years separated from John, and while he still missed the man dearly, Sherlock felt like he was finally able to breathe. It was a freeing, addictive feeling, and so he demanded cases from Lestrade as soon as he was through with one. Whenever the man couldn't provide one, however, there was the depression and the black moods. He was struck all at once with the realization that he was without John, without cases, without anything but the unending life of an immortal.

The similarities between his addiction to crime-solving and his addiction to drugs were not lost on him, either.

Thankfully, today he had a case. Lestrade had managed to provide a semi-interesting case of a not-quite drowning and Sherlock was thrilled to have the distraction as this week had seemed to be never-ending with thoughts of John and memories of his laugh and smell and even taste.

But he pushed those aside and focused on the blueing lips of their victim instead.

Lestrade stood off to the side, watching him as he circled the corpse and examined the fingernails. He was holding one of the hands in the air, twisting it this way and that when the DI finally spoke.

"I didn't know you were married." He exclaims, sounding more than a little surprised by his own discovery. Blinking, Sherlock looked first to the ring on display, and then to Lestrade who stared back with wide eyes.

"And I didn't know you were truly that much of an idiot to only realize that now," Sherlock said blandly. He was sure the DI had known that already. After all, he'd been taking cases with him for near a year now, and not once had he taken the ring off.

"Hold on, married?!" Donovan's voice irked him and Sherlock dropped the hand, scowling at the corpse as if they were at fault for this sudden turn of events.

"Who the hell married you?" She asks from where she and Anderson had been standing nearby. They both stalk over now, though, to peer at Sherlock's ring finger in disbelief. With a scowl, Sherlock stood from his crouch with a flourish, not bothering to answer.

"You should talk to the receptionist. I believe she'll have quite a bit to tell you if you show up to her place of work with the lights flashing." Sherlock says dismissively before sauntering out of the room and heading toward the stairs. For a brief moment, he let himself believe he was going to get out without interruption, but the scurrying of feet behind him told him that that wasn't to be.

"Sherlock! Hey, wait up a second, mate." Lestrade catches up quickly as he jogs over, following Sherlock into the stairwell.

"Look, I'm sorry about that. I was surprised is all." Lestrade apologizes, though Sherlock wasn't in the mood. The whole point of taking cases was to put his thoughts of John on hold for just a little while, and now he was following him even into The Work?

"Clearly," Sherlock says shortly as he descends the stairs, keeping the more bitter and angry words locked tight behind his lips.

John would be proud that he didn't tear into Lestrade.

"Christ, no, that's not what I meant. I just... I've never seen anyone is all. Whenever I come by you've always been alone. You don't even have any pictures up or anything so I never thought that there could be anyone else." Lestrade explains, looking sincerely sorry. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to look at Lestrade who was a step above.

He could understand Lestrades reasoning because if Sherlock were to look at his flat as an outside observer, he would never deduce that there was a partner either.

Because there wasn't. There hadn't been in many, many years.

And there wouldn't be for a few more years yet.

Meeting Lestrade's eyes, Sherlock debated on what to say. He could tell the man the age-old story of a long-lost love. He could tell him to forget about the whole incident. He could tell him they were separated at the moment and let him draw what conclusions he may out of that statement.

Instead, he decided to ignore it altogether.

"The receptionist, Lestrade." He says, before turning and striding off. Hailing a cab, he didn't bother looking back as he slid in and ordered the driver to take him home.

It was only February 2nd, 2005, and Sherlock could already that this year was going to be a long one.

0-0-0-0-0

"Honestly, Sherlock. Cursed! Because you could not think with that big head of yours for just a second that it may be a bad idea to steal a witch's books!" John is yelling and pacing back and forth in an attempt at expelling some of his anger in a healthier outlet than fists to face. Sherlocks face, in this case.

"How was I to know she was truly a witch? You and I know well that many claims are false." Sherlock says, sounding the picture of calm as he flips through his newly acquired books for a solution to their current problem.

However, he was anything but calm. If that woman really had been a witch, then there was a chance that the curse she'd casted on the two of them would keep them apart for 500 years, and that was not something he wanted in the slightest.

"You shouldn't have been taking the books at all! Witch or not, those were not yours to take, no matter how much you wanted to read them!" John continues yelling, turning to glare at Sherlock. When Sherlock didn't bother replying, John growled in frustration and flung his hands in the air, stomping away somewhere and leaving Sherlock to his reading.

They had until the mornings light until the curse took effect, and that was still a good while away yet. It was plenty of time for Sherlock to find a way out of this, and in the end, he would be able to not only show to John how smart he was, but he'd have these new books to learn from as well as the knowledge that magic was real.

All the doors that opened up were unthinkable. Given enough time, he may even be able to link their immortality along with this new power, and he may even find an answer as to how they'd become this way. Maybe a witch had cursed them unbeknownst to them? Or perhaps their family had been cursed? He didn't know anything about what magic could do, and so it was exciting to have a whole new branch of thought open for him to discover.

But for now, he was focused on the curse. The curse that would separate him and John for 500 years should he not find a way to reverse it.

He didn't see much of John that night, but it was probably for the better as Sherlock slowly became more and more desperate when he found that there didn't seem to be any way of breaking their curse. At least, not on their own.

Magic could only be wielded by those who were born with the power already within themselves, and after a quick test of what seemed to be a rudimentary spell, Sherlock either could not perform magic or did not have the proper training to do so, and he had a feeling he would not gain that ability miraculously within one night.

As it slowly became clear to him that there was no getting out of this, he could feel the dread and the fear and even guilt begin to build within him.

500 years. He was going to have to spend 500 miserable years all by himself. The 68 before meeting John had been torture enough; how would he survive more than five times that?

When John finally returned it was with alcohol on his breath and a calmer demeanor. It seemed that the man - fluent in reading Sherlock's body language - was able to read just how doomed they were, and with a sigh, he walked over to Sherlock and pulled his head against his chest.

"It will all be fine Sherlock. What's 500 years alone, hm? We have that and more left ahead of us after that." John tried to soothe, and Sherlock was annoyed to feel the sting in his eyes signaling the tears to come.

"I can't live without you, John." He admitted after a beat of silence.

"You won't even know I'm gone. You will go and find more books and new technology and you will learn it all. By the time 500 years pass, you will not have even felt it." Sherlock tries to shake his head, but it's difficult when it's trapped between John's hand and his chest.

"No. I will not enjoy it if I am not with you. I will feel every second as it passes and lament that you are not at my side." Sherlock tells him, feeling choked with emotion. He swallows hard, but it does nothing to remove the feeling.

The two of them stayed that way for a while. Probably too long with the time limit that they were on, but eventually they decided it would be best to prepare for their separation.

Even though they didn't explicitly say it, it was mutually understood that they would both be leaving this place, and so they both went to pack the things they would need to travel. By the time they'd finished, it was only an hour until sunrise, and the two of them walked together to the edge of the city, not daring to hold hands this close to people, but walking close regardless.

When they were far enough away to feel safe, John pulled Sherlock down, kissing him quickly first, and then slower, and slower yet.

"A towns distance away, she said?" John asks inbetween kisses.

"Mm... Yes..." Sherlock answers when he can. Eventually, they pull their lips away, but they're still resting with their foreheads together with their eyes closed.

"We should go now. The sun will be up soon and we still have a distance to go." John says regretfully, though he doesn't pull away.

"I do not want to," Sherlock admits quietly, still hoping that the witch truly was a madwoman and that they were going to find out they weren't actually cursed once the sun rose.

"Neither do I. I love you, Sherlock Holmes." John tells him, kissing him once more and holding his face in his hands.

"And I you, John Watson. When these 500 years are through, I will find you." Sherlock assures him wholeheartedly, his arms wrapped tightly around John's waist as he holds him close.

After two more kisses, John finally breaks away again and pushes Sherlock gently to the East.

"I will hold you to that promise. Now go. We will be reuniting before you know it." John tells him wistfully, a smile on his face though his eyes were sad. Sherlock finds that he can't speak, and so he merely nods in reply, already missing John's warmth as he regretfully turned away and begins walking.

The first few steps were difficult, extremely so, but he was determined to get far enough away that, should the curse be real, he and John would not experience the dreaded burning of their flesh from their bones.

By the time the sun was rising in the distance, Sherlock had made it quite a distance and was certain John had as well. He stopped to watch as light colored the sky in pinks and oranges and took shuddering breaths as he turned to look back the way he came.

He truly wanted to believe this was he and John believing in fairy tales. That they took the woman's words seriously when they were nothing more than a bluff.

And so he began walking back toward John, determined to know once and for all if this was an elaborate ruse - one that he'd been tricked into believing - or if there was any truth to this so-called curse.

But after only a few minutes brisk walk, a tingling beneath his skin that quickly changed to a burning sensation dashed the last of his hopes and he knew.

January 29, 1510, was the beginning of John and Sherlock's 500-year separation.

0-0-0-0-0

The days dragged, as they tended to do since losing John, at an unbearable pace, now more than ever. Anticipation grew suffocatingly within his chest until it was a struggle to breathe as each new day came and ended.

Those around him had noticed his agitation, but whenever they tried questioning it or helping him in alleviating it, they were all chased off within minutes.

Everything had to be perfect. There was so much that could go wrong, so many things that needed to be accounted for, and this wasn't something that Sherlock was going to allow to go wrong.

He'd moved from his abysmal flat on Montague street to a nicer, cozier flat owned by a woman he'd helped during one of his many travels to America, and he'd taken care to make sure it was impeccable. Not a paper was out of place, nor an experiment to be found. There was fresh, new food in the refrigerator, tea and coffee and biscuits in the cupboards, mugs and cups and plates and bowls and utensils, all new, never used in any experiments or cracked during one of Sherlock's tantrums.

There was a throw on the back of the sofa, hand-knit and warm, and two chairs placed within an optimal distance of each other in front of the fireplace. His skull - one of his only companions during these long 500 years - sat crooked on the mantel, but Sherlock felt that he added to the nice ambiance of the room and as such was allowed to remain where he was.

It was as perfect as perfect could be, and the only thing missing now was the one thing he'd been waiting for for centuries now.

Pulling out his mobile, he checked the date and groaned when it read January 28.

With a huff, he chucked the mobile at the sofa, ignoring it as it clattered to the ground. Spinning on his heels, Sherlock stalked over to the window, resisting the urge to pull at his hair in frustration. Looking out he saw all of the people bustling to and fro and scowled at them.

Sometimes he wished he had died when he was supposed to. Back when he'd caught the Black Death as it was called these days. Back when he didn't know what it could be like to learn and know things. To be smart and prideful and greedy, to the point of consequence.

Because it was his own fault that these past 500 years had been so awful, and he only hoped and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that John hadn't come to that same realization. Surely, if he had, he would realize that it would be better for him to stay away for good. As he'd said the day of their separation, what was 500 years alone? They had eternity, and if John found that these last 500 years had been good for him, better than his time with Sherlock had ever been, what was going to bring him back?

The music stand became victim to Sherlock's sweeping arm, the sheet music on it fluttering in the air as the stand hit the ground with a metallic thunk.

So much for keeping things nice and orderly.

"Sherlock, dear. Surely that can't be good for the floors." Mrs. Hudson's voice, soothing and warm and motherly, seemed to be a balm on Sherlock's temper. It did nothing for his agitation though as he looked to the floor and kicked at the stand.

"It hit the rug, Mrs. Hudson. Your floors are fine, I assure you." He told her as he moved to the sofa and collapsed onto it.

"You'd better hope so young man or it'll be added on to your rent." She says, setting a tray of tea down on the table and pouring a cup. She carries it over to him and places it on the coffee table beside his head.

"Drink, dear. You've been all out of sorts lately. No good murders about?" She asks him with a sympathetic look. Sherlock scoffs but sits up enough to grab and then drink the offered tea.

"No. Nothing at all. The criminals of London have become lazy. It's insufferable." Sherlock says honestly. It may not be the full reason behind his current mood, but it isn't helping that he can't even put his keyed-up energy to good use.

"Something will turn up soon, I'm sure." She assures with a pat on the shoulder before she bustles out of the room and back down to the safety of her own flat.

The rest of the day passes slowly and Sherlock only becomes more and more impatient. He had sawed at his violin for an hour before switching to actual melodies for a few hours more, and then more sawing to finish it all off. When he checked and it was still January 28, he all but screamed in rage before storming into the kitchen and pulling out the fresh, new tomatoes he'd bought and began cutting them up into chunks and slices. Pulling out mugs and cups, he filled them with the various cleaning chemicals he found both beneath the sink and in the loo before adding the chunks and slices to them as well and setting them aside on the table.

From there, he pulled out various other vegetables, and even a cut of meat, and began cutting and slicing and poking. He added acids and then he hung them from the ceiling with fishing hooks he found in his room and string from the sitting room that he usually used for murder boards.

When that wasn't enough he blocked the drain and filled the sink halfway with water and half with a chemical compound of his own creation before adding the tea to it and doing the same to the tub which he dumped the coffee into.

Still hours yet to go, he grabbed the biscuits, dumped them all onto a plate, and went back to the sofa where he pulled the throw off the back and wrapped it around his shoulders. Turning on the telly he flipped for a while, nibbling absentmindedly on the biscuits as he did so, but when he became frustrated at the lack of entertainment he threw the plate at the TV and watched as both the plate, as well as the screen of the telly, exploded into shards of glass. The biscuits that he hadn't eaten were now scattered across the coffee table and floor, but Sherlock didn't bother picking them up as he was once again on his feet and grabbing his coat.

He walked the streets of London for hours, checking his mobile every few minutes and counting down the minutes. The seconds.

And when he saw those numbers finally tick over from 23:59 to the long-awaited 00:00, he couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face and the shaky, giddy inhale that almost came out as a breathless laugh.

Dialing the number he'd ingrained into his memory, Sherlock waited for only a mere second before it was being answered.

"Sherlock? What is it?" Concern. Sherlock doesn't call, he always texts. Of course he would be worried when he called, but Sherlock had been planning on it. It ensured a faster response, and this wasn't something that could wait until morning.

"Send a car. I have a favor to ask of you."

It was finally January 29, 2010. 500 years from 1510.

And that meant Sherlock and John could finally be reunited.


Hello everyone! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I hope you all enjoy it! I'm a long time fan of the show and I've read plenty of fanfics but haven't actually written any of my own until now. After a dream I had with this premise though, I was compelled to write it, and so this story was born! I never thought I would write any fanfic of my own, but here we are!

This story will only be about three chapters long from the looks of things. I already have the next chapter written and the third chapter is mostly written. I don't know when I'll get them out, but the next shouldn't take more than a week to get out.