Having a man's name etched in his arm had never bothered Sherlock.
Of course, when he was in school it had led to a lot of accusations of homosexuality. That had never bothered him either. He knew he wasn't attracted to men... Not that he had much use for women either.
The concept of the Soulmate had been distorted and twisted by romantic twaddle. Your Soulmate wasn't necessarily the person you were meant to marry or spend days staring into their eyes. His mother used to say it was the person who fit you like a puzzle piece.
Sherlock had lamented he was not one of the lucky few who was Unmarked. He didn't need another person in his life. He wanted to be alone. What use did he have for a Soulmate?
And then he actually met John Hamish Watson.
The moment he set eyes on the small army doctor Sherlock understood what everyone had told him about Soulmates meeting. Oh, the poetic dross was still just that, but Sherlock could interpret their immature thoughts.
John was not a puzzle piece. He was a cog that had been missing from the clockwork of Sherlock's brain. He was a lens in a microscope Sherlock hadn't realized wasn't there until he could finally see everything clearly.
It wasn't until three weeks after the Taxi case that they spoke about their shared fate.
"You know..."
Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope, but knew John was standing by his shoulder.
"I'm not gay."
Sherlock adjusted the magnification. "Things might have become awkward if you were."
There was the rustling of fabric. "So we're not going to talk about this?"
Sherlock glanced over, seeing William Sherlock Scott Holmes written in cursive on John's arm. "I was under the impression we were talking about it right now."
"I'm just saying... I'm not gay." John rolled his sleeve back down.
With a sigh, Sherlock pulled back from his microscope. "And if I were propositioning you for sex that would be an issue. In the half month you have known me, is there anything to indicate that I have a desire to fall into the arms of my soulmate like a swooning romance heroine? The spectrum of soulmates is much vaster than most people believe. Sex and romance is only one possible facet. If anything, I'm relieved that my Soulmate is simply a tool for my deductive reasoning. Are we finished now? I'd like to examine this culture." He turned his attention back to his microscope.
The room was silent for a long moment. Finally, John's voice broke the tension. "You know a lot about romance heroines?"
"It was for a case."
Sherlock could feel Molly Hooper's eyes on his arm. He'd rolled up his sleeves while he worked in the lab.
"So..." Molly eyed the name written on his arm. She could've at least made it subtle. "John Watson."
"John Watson," Sherlock repeated.
"Do you feel different?" Molly asked as she leaned against the counter. "Having met your Soulmate? I've read that it's different for everyone and..."
"I'm different from everyone," Sherlock finished for her. He sighed. "I suppose I do. My work has never been better since I met John. But I don't know if that's because of our connection or his interest in the work."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he reminded himself that Molly had always been interested in his work. It was such a quiet thought it was easy to push aside.
He briefly wondered what sort of person would be Molly Hooper's Soulmate. He occasionally took Soulmate Matching cases, although he loathed them. It was something done out of desperation, when there was a lack of good murders to really keep him occupied.
Molly Hooper would have a Soulmate capable of pulling her out of her shell. That's what a Soulmate was supposed to do, improve your life. Molly needed someone who could make her less mousey. He saw glimpses of it, when she didn't flinch when he beat the corpse of someone she'd known.
She'd need someone who appreciated the grim nature of her job. As sunny a disposition as she had, her interests veered towards the macabre. She never would've followed her career path if it didn't. She possessed a morbid sense of humour and was endlessly fascinated by interesting ways to die.
He supposed her Soulmate would be handsome too. Perhaps not classically good looking. Someone who many people found odd looking, but Molly would be happy staring at for the rest of her life.
Someone who would appreciate all of the little things Molly Hooper could do. She was more capable than even she knew.
"Sherlock?"
He blinked, Molly's voice pulling him out of his thoughts.
"Is everything all right?" Molly smiled nervously. "You've been quiet for five minutes. Have you had a breakthrough on the case?"
Sherlock shook his head and turned his attention back to his work. He ignored the sick feeling that had grown in his stomach as he thought about Molly Hooper meeting her Soulmate.
"Well, thanks for that, Sherlock!"
Sherlock waved his hand at the sound of both the door slamming and the beginning of John's tirade. "How is this my fault? All I did was say she would save a lot of money if instead of increasing her bust with implants she focused on the true source of her unhappiness."
John threw his hands out, shrugging. "You're not supposed to tell someone you think their nose is too big!"
"I didn't think her nose was too big." Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and slipped into his chair before picking up his violin. "She did."
John paced back and forth. "Do you know how much trouble this is going to be to sort out?"
"Don't bother." Sherlock leaned back. "You were being used as a source of sexual release until she met her Soulmate."
"Not seeing a problem with that, Sherlock!" John raked his fingers through his hair. "You do understand that I would like to find someone to be with, right? I don't want to be alone."
Sherlock crinkled his nose, shaking his head. "You're not alone. You have me."
"Great." John threw himself into his chair across from Sherlock. "I have a temperamental, asexual, insensitive prat of a soulmate... Who is also a man. Is it any wonder I don't mind if some woman wants to get off with me while she waits for her Soulmate to show up? Unmarked people are really rare."
Sherlock plucked delicately at the strings of his violin. He pointedly ignored the mention of his own sexuality. He didn't care to correct anyone on their misconceptions. "If I were you, I would focus on women whose Soulmates have died. With our line of work you're much more likely to meet those."
"You're a ghoul."
"Doesn't make me less correct." Sherlock brought his violin to rest underneath his chin. "Cheer up, John... Eventually you'll meet someone I think is appropriate."
John rolled his eyes. "That you think is appropriate."
"Well, you are my Soulmate, aren't you? Of course I need to approve of her. I'm not going to let you settle."
John nodded. "Right then. So you said that to Lauren on purpose."
Sherlock raised his bow. "Well, she was a waste of your time. You thought the sex was subpar anyway."
"It was still sex!"
It was now Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh what you people will waste your time on..."
"And what will John Watson think about this?" Irene Adler asked as she stalked through the hotel suite, as naked as she'd been when Sherlock had first met her. Only this time, he was as naked as she was, the Dopamine, Norepinephrine, Oxytocin and Serotonin still flooding his body.
"I assure you, John Watson has been the last thing on my mind for the past..." Sherlock glanced over at the clock. "Three hours." Well, that certainly put his experiments during Uni to shame. He shouldn't have expected less from the Woman.
"But he is your Soulmate." Irene slunk onto the bed. "I know all about the distinction between a good time and one's Soulmate, but..."
"But John Watson would be happy to find out I've gotten shagged. He's been alluding for ages that I really need to do something of the sort." Sherlock grunted as he pulled himself out of bed to grab his trousers.
"Are you sure it wasn't an invitation?" Irene chuckled throatily.
"I have an invitation for you." Sherlock took a file folder from the desk and threw it onto the bed beside Irene. "Well, less of an invitation and more of an insistence. America is the only place for you. There is a plane ticket to New Jersey in there, along with all of the documentation you'll need. I had to go through some new channels. Mycroft wasn't an option."
Taking hold of Irene's wrist, Sherlock turned it over, tracing the name lying there. "Perhaps instead of getting yourself into trouble this time you should seek Godiva Marie Norton."
Irene smiled. "You already know she's in New Jersey, don't you?"
"Her contact information is with your travel documents." Sherlock smiled. "If there's anyone who needed sorting out by a Soulmate, it's you."
Irene turned her arm, placing her hand over Sherlock's wrist. "Well, Mister Holmes... I should thank you for all of this."
Sherlock blinked. "What was the three hours of sex then?"
Irene sat up on her haunches. "That was for saving my life. This is a completely new debt."
Sherlock glanced over Irene. At her cool stare, her lush lips, her elegant frame. Finally, he nodded his head and pressed himself back into her arms.
"All my life I've been searching for distractions." Moriarty pushed up the sleeve of his coat, the layers of fabric making it difficult, but he'd managed.
On his arm was the name Sherlock Holmes.
It wasn't real. It was impossible. A person's name could only be on one arm. It wasn't even his full name. But Sherlock had heard of it before, dealt with it in cases, people faking Soulmarks in order to scam someone else or steal an identity.
"You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."
It was a blur. Sherlock knew what had happened, but it all seemed to happen so quickly. His mind refused to focus, instead screaming at him for what he was planning.
He knew what had to be done. Still, every part of his being screamed out at the idea of doing it. He was going to tear himself away from John for God knew how long. He was going to let his Soulmate believe he was dead.
As he climbed onto the ledge of Barts he tried to push aside the statistics in his head, the suicide rates of people who had lost their Soulmates. What would happen to a man who has lost his Soulmate, who self-medicated his PTSD with adrenaline inducing dangerous situations?
No, John would be okay. It was what a Soulmate was supposed to do. Protect the other. Where he was going, John couldn't follow.
John needed to stay in London. John needed to move on, to meet some nice woman who treated him well.
A Soulmate was supposed to do what was best for his Match.
And what was best for John Watson was to be as far from Sherlock Holmes as possible.
Molly was always just there. Her analysis that she didn't count was erroneous. It was just that Sherlock had never bothered to think about how much she did. He could always depend on her, so he never really thought about the fact that he could rely on her, no matter what he needed.
She was an open book to him. Just one glance into her large brown eyes and he knew what she wanted, what she needed. There was only one question that nagged at him.
Why did she desire him so ardently, knowing that his name was written upon John Watson's arm? Sherlock couldn't fathom why Molly would devote her heart to him when there was another person she was perfectly fit for.
Even with that question hanging between them- the nagging knowledge he was but a placeholder for her true heart's desire- the kiss between them had been electric. Maybe it was the adrenaline following his leap. Maybe it was some sense of misplaced gratitude towards his savior. Maybe it was a need to connect, not knowing when he would see his Soulmate again.
Whatever the reason, he pulled her close to him and ravaged her mouth. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling it from the tight ponytail.
He couldn't remember ever feeling like that. The sparse few drugged experimentations, his passionate night with Irene Adler...
He had always been told nothing would compare to the moment he met his Soulmate. But even shaking hands with John Watson felt dull compared to the way his body lit up when he kissed Molly Hooper.
He didn't know how he was supposed to feel about that. He wasn't even sure what had happened.
He pulled back from Molly, resisting the urge to take her kiss-swollen mouth yet again.
Sherlock needed time to think. He needed to sort out how he felt.
Two years would probably do it.