A/N: Inspired by a Tumblr post started by trevenant - "If the person in possession of my voodoo doll would PLEASE hug it." MizJoely reblogged it and added, "soulmate au." This also fills the March 16th prompt - "small injuries." Rated T. Stand-alone. In case it's not clear, Sherlock and Molly haven't met yet.
Faking his death all on his own was one of the hardest things Sherlock Holmes ever did. (The "support" Mycroft offered being less helpful than his older brother liked to claim.) Dismantling Moriarty's network was far easier and much more satisfying.
It was in one of the consulting criminal's many London hideouts that Sherlock found something unusual. Besides the expected whips and chains (gifts from Irene, no doubt), he found a voodoo doll. It wasn't of himself or anyone he recognized. The cloth doll was of a woman, if the tiny, cherry-embroidered jumper and lock of long, brown, undoubtedly human hair on top were anything to go by.
Sherlock didn't believe in voodoo (or any religion, for that matter), but he couldn't help feeling sorry for the doll and the woman it supposedly represented. The doll was studded with pins – the forehead, both eyes, the throat, the lower abdomen, both hands, and both feet each had a long pin shoved into it.
Despite the long and growing list of things he needed to do, Sherlock sat down on the nearby sofa then held the doll gently in one hand as he slowly removed each pin with the other. When the last pin, the one in its forehead, had been removed, he did something so completely out of character, he wondered if someone had made a doll of him and was now controlling his actions. Sherlock hugged the doll to his chest, hoping despite the absurdity of his actions that the woman, whoever she was, would have some measure of peace.
On the other side of London, Molly Hooper gasped. All the aches she had felt for weeks, ever since she'd dumped that jerk Jim, were suddenly gone. Instead, she felt a sense of rightness like she'd never known.
Gently wrapping the doll in his handkerchief, Sherlock placed it in the pocket of his jacket, some sentimental part of him wanting to keep it safe always, the practical part of him wanting to find out who this woman was. Moriarty must have a file on her somewhere.