An eleven year old Sherlock stood in his bedroom, staring into the mirror. Even at this age, he was already very logical. He knew that there was absolutely no way words could have appeared on his skin overnight. Curving across his collarbone from one side of his chest to another were nine words; This thing doesn't need skin contact to do damage. Nevertheless, they were there.

The writing was clearly not made with a pen, the distribution of ink was too uneven. He recognised it from a few old scripts in the Holmes library. The words had been written with a quill. Who wrote with quills? A history enthusiast maybe?

And then there was the weapon the message was obviously written about. Something that didn't need skin contact, a gun then? But why would they need to state how it worked? Unless they were trying to be threatening (and in Sherlock's opinion failing), but why would they want to threaten an eleven year old? Presuming it was his message, it was on his skin after all. Maybe Mycroft would be able to get more from it? He cringed at the thought.

"Sherlock, dear? Are you coming down?"

"Of course I am, Mummy." Hurriedly he re-buttoned the shirt he wore to cover the new additions and flew down the stairs, curly hair bouncing. The Holmes family was already congregated in the living room, settled on the suite surrounding a roaring fire. His parents sat together on the sofa, sipping large mugs of tea and smiling up at him.

Mycroft, although only just a legal adult, sat straight backed in an armchair with a newspaper open on his knee. Positively middle aged, Sherlock thought. As though he could sense Sherlock was doing something irritating, even in his mind, Mycroft peered condescendingly at him, assessing him critically.

"What is it now little brother?" Sherlock sneered at the much hated title that seemed, to him at least, not an expression of fondness but a reminder that Mycroft was, and always would be, better than him (at least in age). He pulled a face at his brother, which earned him a disapproving stare from his mother, but pulled down the collar of his shirt. His mother gave him a confused look but Mycroft just flicked up his newspaper in dismissal.

"There's nothing there dear." The newspaper shifted down again.

"Honestly, Mummy, I expected more from you. There are several extensive texts in the library." He shifted in his chair until he was sat in the pose Sherlock had internally deemed 'Drama Queen'. Looking down on Sherlock Mycroft prepared for the reveal.

"Have you ever heard of soulmates, Sherlock?"

Since then Sherlock had studied soulmarks and the soulmate bond closely. Well, as closely as he could. Soulmarks were incredibly rare, and considered so sacred that not many people were willing to let studies be conducted. He thought that was an utterly stupid, not to mention very inconvenient superstition.

Sherlock had, of course, conducted his own investigations. It seemed that others could not see his mark, and he couldn't tell them what it said. Every time he tried he would feel a powerful compulsion not to, impossible to ignore, even for him. He'd searched in vain for the source of the influence in his mind palace, but it seemed that just like the mark was perfectly normal skin, the feeling was nothing more than a feeling.

Pointless. That was what the young boy scouring ancient books with dust in his hair had thought. Pointless. What was the point of having a mark if you couldn't tell your supposed soulmate? And what if he didn't like whoever it was?

So Sherlock did what was (to him) the logical thing. He ignored it. He scoffed at his blessing and listened to Mycroft, growing to believe wholeheartedly, that caring is not an advantage.

Later, once he had stopped taking Mycroft's word as law, and grown out of his ambition to become a pirate, he told himself that caring had nothing to do with his career.

"What the hell do you-"

"Shut up."

"Shut up?! She just held me hostage!"

"John, be quiet." The tone of Sherlock's voice was enough to silence John, who gave him a look of concern. "Soo Lin's flatmate, I take it."

"I was." Both men were startled and a little wary, as men so often are, of the tears that welled up in her emerald eyes. She seemed to be overtaken by her thoughts for a moment, before she came back to herself, blinking away the proof of her lapse. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to get a handle on his own feelings. He felt the powerful desire, powerful need to stop whatever was hurting her. To make it go away. It was irrational, but he couldn't help it.

"How much did you know of her past?" She (Sherlock really needed to find out her name) was on her guard immediately, which as far as Sherlock was concerned was enough of an indication. "The organisation that she worked for is still active in London."

"Are you going after them?" Her hope was almost palpable.

"Yes. I'm assuming you want to offer your assistance?" That could be very useful. Her...skills were obviously worth a lot, and a very large part of Sherlock wanted desperately to keep her close, ached at the thought of never seeing her again. A smaller part thought that this was an irrational, foolish, an all around stupid impulse. He ploughed forward.

"Yes. I'm assuming you know what this is?" She held up the slim stick of wood. Her wand. He nodded, ignoring John's obvious confusion. "Can I ask how?"

"My brother is, on occasion, something of a liason between your world and the government. I am a good eavesdropper." She nodded absently, clearly distracted.

"Of course, we will need to know some details. For all we know, you were spying for the Black Lotus." The expression on her face flickered from indignation, to understanding, and finally became resigned. Her eyes scanned over the room, carefully avoiding Soo Lin's body. They settled on an obviously unused desk in the lighter corner of the room. Striding towards it she swung the chair round so it was facing the room, gesturing for them to find their own chairs. After they were all seated she turned back to Sherlock.

"I don't want to stay here long, for obvious reasons. Where do you want to start?"

"Your name will do." One corner of her lips came up, as though she wanted to smile, but was not quite capable.

"My name is Harriet Potter."

The reaction to this story has been incredible, and I'm sorry this took so long to get up, and for the shortness. The next chapter will hopefully be a lot longer. How long this story will be will depend on how popular it stays, but I'm currently thinking about five parts. Thanks and please review!

Thanks,

Em