John sat on his bed – if it could even be called that – and stared at the bare wall opposite. Nights had never been so long. Breathing deeply through his nose, he willed the tears not to fall. Discharged from the military, John should have been happy. He was no longer surrounded by the death and injury of his friends. No longer on guard 24/7. No longer bleeding out on the battlefield. But even though he was safe, he wasn't happy.

There was something missing.

His soulmate, of course, was the obvious thing. He was a thirty one year old man who had never knowingly met his soulmate, and things were beginning to look grim. John looked down at the cane resting beside his bed, then the tremor in his left hand. A cripple. Even if by chance he did meet his soulmate, there was no certainty that they would want to pursue a relationship with him.

'I sure wouldn't.' A part of him commented. John sighed.

His therapist had suggested a blog – to write about everything that happened to him. It was a shame, really, because it was a good idea in theory. But nothing happened to John. And a part of him doubted anything ever would.

A few, rare times John had found himself eyeing the sig in the desk drawer of his small room. He never let himself do much else, afraid of the consequences. He knew what it was like to believe that your soulmate was dead. Beside his current conflict, it had been the darkest time of John's life. So he merely looked, wondering what it would be like to hold the gun between his hands and press the cool metal against his temple and –

Stop.

John buried his head into his hands. His breath came in shaky gasps and he struggled not to sob. He needed to get out of this prison – go see a movie or go for a walk. Yes – a walk. A walk sounded good.

John nodded to himself, swallowed his tears, and stood up.

A walk it was.

And that's where he had run into Mike Stamford. A close acquaintance – not quite a friend – of John's during medical school. Sooner or later, quite reluctantly on John's behalf, they had found themselves talking about living circumstances. Mike had suggested a flatmate. John nearly laughed aloud.

"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike looked amused. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John paused for a few moments, and found himself asking, "Who was the first?"

John never really understood why he'd asked. Perhaps it was out of boredom, or perhaps it was a final glint of hope. Nonetheless, within ten minutes he was walking with Mike Stamford (and that dreaded cane) back to Barts, which he hadn't visited since before Afghanistan. The smug grin on Mike's face did little to appease his doubts, and he vaguely wondered who the person was to provoke such an expression.

Soon enough, they were ambling through the corridors of the hospital towards the labs which John frequented in his younger days, and he marvelled at the changes. His left hand clenched and relaxed by his side. His anxiety was building as they reached their destination and John forced himself to relax.

Mike pushed open the door and John followed in tow, oblivious that this very meeting would put things in completely different perspective.

Sherlock suspected immediately. Here was an army doctor from either Afghanistan or Iraq who looked his mid-thirties. He would have been deployed only a few years ago – which would explain the sudden bout of injuries Sherlock had felt consistently until only a few months ago. He studied the man carefully and furrowed his brows. A limp? Sherlock hadn't recalled any leg injuries, but –

'Oh.'

Psychosomatic. Of course. It was obvious.

He briefly wondered if soulmates felt the others' pain if it was psychologically induced, but stored that thought into his mind palace for later study. For now, he wanted to gauge as much of this man as possible before he undoubtedly decided that Sherlock was too odd and 'yes, it's probably best I don't move in, sorry.'

But merely deducing from his posture and attire wasn't enough. Aware of Mike's absent phone and the ever-present signal on his own, Sherlock spoke nonetheless. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

And then the man was giving him his phone, just as he'd predicted, and Sherlock's pulse began to rise subconsciously.

John Watson.

A simple name for a not-so simple man.

Sherlock liked it.

He willed some self-control and sent the message to Lestrade, studying the phone intensely while he worked.

'Caring is not an advantage.' Mycroft's words rang loudly in his head and Sherlock suddenly remembered his grandmother. He thought of everyone he knew and how utterly hopeless they had become upon meeting their soulmate. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but quite often, Mycroft was right. It really wasn't an advantage.

Sherlock tried to quell his hopes and view John as just another, plain individual. It came with much difficulty. Out of genuine curiosity, and perhaps an unconscious effort to impress John, Sherlock spoke against his own will. Like usual, his thoughts were racing faster than his mouth.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. The most brilliant man John had ever met. Certainly, he was an obnoxious asshole – there was no doubt about that. But something about him piqued John's interest. The danger, the excitement, the genius. It was something he had been craving his whole life, and now here it was, wrapped up neatly in the manifestation of one man. His deductions were phenomenal. He solved a crime the police had been brooding over for months in a few hours. And best of all? He cured John's psychosomatic after knowing him for only one day.

"Quite extraordinary." Yes.

John wouldn't admit it, but he felt a pang of something when Sherlock's face shone at his words. The subtle widening of the eyes, the gentle caress of rouge against his cheeks.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

For the first time in weeks, he cracked a genuine smile.

John wasn't quite sure exactly why he had shot the cab driver. It might have just been his soldier sense of justice. Or maybe it was because he felt indebted to Sherlock – he had cured his limp and paid for dinner, after all. But really, perhaps it was because John was greedy. He wanted more of Sherlock. Wanted to witness more of his deductions. Wanted to go racing through the streets of London with the wind in his face and a killer on the loose. And if Sherlock had died in that moment, what then?

With his hands firmly holding the sig, John considered his options. It was either he shoot the cabbie and save Sherlock, or potentially, in the future, turn it against himself. In that moment, the decision was easy.

Of course Sherlock had known it was him. John hadn't expected anything less. And when the two of them walked off to Sherlock's favourite Chinese place half an hour later, John was happy. He cracked another smile and quietly thanked Sherlock. If Sherlock knew why, he never said anything.

He might have been thinking the same.

He had been foolish to believe that John Watson was his soulmate. John Watson, who laughed with him, defended him, and killed for him. Sherlock doubted someone so good could be bound to someone like him.

And he watched John like a hawk. To see if maybe, he'd spill hot tea over his hands, or knock his toe against the coffee table, or trip over his own feet. But John Watson was a very careful man. The only injuries Sherlock ever felt were when John wasn't around.

It was infuriating.

Sherlock should have listened to Mycroft from the beginning. This shred of hope regarding John was a distraction – a hindrance to his intelligence. Not to mention: inevitable disappointment. This came to Sherlock's attention cruelly upon their visit to the bank.

"This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?"

"Colleague." John had been quick to correct.

That had hurt. Sherlock pretended it didn't.

Progressions were made regarding their case of the 'The Blind Banker', as John had so eloquently dubbed it, and soon enough, Sherlock was breaking into Soo Lin Yao's apartment. He was vaguely aware of the yells filtering through the mail slot, but found it difficult to focus on John's exact words. The spilled vase was too fascinating and apparently, despite John's absence, he was not alone.

Carefully, Sherlock treaded around the divider concealing the intruder. He was close, so close, and then suddenly there was a debilitating pressure on his throat and Sherlock's broken yells for John did nothing to appease the pain. He clawed desperately at the cloth constraining him, but his breaths only became shorter and shorter and shorter.

Black spots clouded his gaze.

Unconsciousness sounded more appealing by the minute.

And then the intruder was gone. Sherlock was left a pathetic, convulsing figure in the middle of the floor. He hacked and coughed and brushed down his clothes. It would be no good for John to see him like this. Not only had Sherlock been a selfish, reckless fool, but he'd gotten himself hurt in the process.

Composing himself one last time, Sherlock took a breath and exited the apartment, quite expecting John to hound him for his selfishness. What he wasn't expecting was John, hunched over the doorstep with hands grasping at his neck.

He made a startled noise as Sherlock exited and hurriedly straightened out. But Sherlock had seen it. And he had felt it too. Because in that moment, John's throat wasn't the only sore one. And unless the intruder had strangled John too, Sherlock could only come to one conclusion.

His feet itched to run – to sprint as far as possible away from John. As far as Sherlock could tell, John already hated the aspect of them being together. He was always the one to shut down Mrs Hudson's comments, quite offended that someone would even consider him being anything but heterosexual. But rather than running, Sherlock simply stared. His eyes pierced into John's for a long, silent five seconds.

A discomfort grew between them.

John looked as though he wanted to say something, but then the moment was over, and Sherlock was picking up a letter from the ground. They left the apartment side by side, an uncanny ambience between them.

Revelations had been made on Sherlock's behalf, and they would be difficult to overcome.

John had caught himself too many times. Caught himself staring, imagining and even hoping. But it wasn't right, and it certainly wasn't plausible.

Sherlock was a sociopath – a high functioning one. He had mentioned this multiple times, insisted it, even. He didn't care for people. He didn't have friends. And he certainly didn't have a soulmate. But yet…

"I don't have friends, John. I've just got one."

A shred of hope continued to linger – one that had been there the moment the two had met. John despised it. It left a sickening twist in his stomach, every time he considered: 'what if?'

A distant memory haunted him constantly. Not of war, the cabbie, or Moriarty. But of his father, shaking him back and forth against the wall and spit flying and a ring in the back of his head.

It was during university. He was visiting his parents for Christmas. It was just him this time – no Harry. She hadn't visited for a few years, not that John expected any less. He supposed he'd do the same, if he were gay and if his parents were homophobic.

In a way, John missed her. They had never really got on, but with just him and his parents, it felt strange. Uncomfortable, even.

"We haven't heard much about your soulmate, John. Do you feel things often?"

John nodded. "Yeah, every day. Little jabs and pokes. Things like that."

He wasn't going to tell them about the beatings. He didn't want his parents thinking he had some sort of freak for a soulmate.

"How cute! To think – our little Johnny."

He cracked a smile. "Mum, I'm twenty. I reckon I could meet my soulmate soon, actually. Maybe at uni or something."

"I'm sure she'll be perfect, John. You deserve the best."

And John spoke again, this time, without thinking. "Or he."

The rest had been a blur. His comment had been an innocent one. No one really knew what gender their soulmate was until they met them. But his father hadn't been happy. Had yelled at John until his ears bled and had shook him until they rang.

John knew it was all okay. But it really wasn't.

What he was thinking about Sherlock wasn't okay.

John was attracted to women. It would be foolish to deny that. He enjoyed their company well enough and the dates were fun. Everything was nice.

But that was the problem.

John didn't want nice.

He wanted something unspeakable.

It had been a few months since Dartmoor. A few years since Sherlock had discovered John was his soulmate.

Sherlock had never been a coward. Had always faced things with a strong posture and a popped collar. But the prospect of confronting John scared Sherlock. Scared the life out of him. He'd told himself repeatedly:

'Tomorrow. I'll tell John tomorrow.'

But tomorrow always came, and Sherlock never told. It was excruciating. Perhaps it was the fact that John was already such an important part of Sherlock's life which made it so difficult. They had saved each other's lives multiple times, they bounced ideas off each other, they lived together. Heck, Sherlock was fairly certain they had even cooked together once or twice.

The truth was, Sherlock relied on John. Cared for him more than he'd ever cared for anyone. It was difficult to convey his emotions – to verbalise exactly how he felt – but in simple terms: Sherlock needed John.

And if telling John a secret he'd kept to himself for years would do anything to threaten his presence in Sherlock's life, Sherlock was desperate to keep it to himself.

But keeping secrets was more difficult than anticipated.

Particularly so when John dated a different woman every week, bringing few home for introductions. It was after a particularly straining dinner when Sherlock finally spoke, words biting.

"Don't you have a soulmate you should be thinking about?"

John looked up from his newspaper, confused. "Pardon?"

Sherlock's eyes lifted from the page he had been staring at for the past twenty minutes. "A soulmate? Surely you've heard of them."

"Ha ha." John laughed sarcastically. "No need to be a smart ass. I'm just wondering what soulmates have to do with anything."

Shrugging, Sherlock returned his gaze to his book. "Nothing. Never mind."

John's brows crinkled further. He closed his newspaper and straightened up. "No, this is bothering you. What is it?"

Sherlock mirrored him, closing his book and placing it on the armrest. "I was simply wondering why you feel the need to bring so many different dull women home. Shouldn't you be, I don't know, searching for your soulmate?"

"I am, Sherlock. That doesn't mean I can't date casually on the side. I don't understand why you're so bothered with what I do with my soulmate."

John's voice was rising.

"Sounds rather unfaithful to me."

Really, Sherlock himself didn't understand why he was getting so worked up. John had been dating women for years, but it had never bothered him as much as it did now.

"Unfaithful?" sputtered John, fist clenching by his side. "How is it unfaithful? I haven't even met them."

Sherlock's jaw tightened.

John continued.

"You know, last time I checked, you have to be in a relationship first for it to count as cheating."

Breathing deeply through his nose, Sherlock remained silent.

Apparently, not the right decision.

John stood from his chair, left hand clenching and unclenching erratically by his side. "You know what, never mind. I don't even know why I'm listening to you – of all people."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You! The 'high-functioning sociopath'. The heartless detective. Mr. 'I've got no friends', let alone a soulmate."

Sherlock stood, face blank. "That's low. Even for you."

John sighed, running a hand over his face. "I just don't understand why you're so worked up over this, Sherlock. What I do regarding my soulmate, quite frankly, has nothing to do with you.

Sherlock, in loss of what to do with his hands, strode to the sofa and snatched up his violin. He avoided John's gaze and began to play. The tune was sporadic – random. An accurate representation of the situation at hand. Minutes passed and John waited patiently. Sherlock had always admired him for that quality.

"I think you'll find, John." Sherlock spat, dropping the violin onto the couch. "That it has everything to do with me." His hands flailed, gesturing erratically at nothing in particular.

John shifted on the spot. "What the hell are you on about?"

Sherlock stared at John, eyes flickering in an effort to gauge a reaction, deduce an emotion, anything. But he couldn't. His mind was racing too fast, his heart was banging too firmly against his chest.

Discomfort drowned them. John's eyes were wide and frantic. Like there was something on his mind that he couldn't quite acknowledge. "Sherlock. What the hell do you mean, 'this has everything to do with me.'? I can't bloody read your mind, okay? Just… Tell me what you're on about and then we can finally move on and forget—"

Sherlock lifted a hand, silencing John's tirade.

And John watched, eyes wide and laced with confusion, as Sherlock's hand moved back, as fast as lightning, towards his own face.

Slap.