Work Text:
In this world everyone is born with a name transcribed onto there left wrist. its the name of there soul mates. There is only one rule though, you cannot look at another person wrist. But Sherlock doesn't always follow the rules.
It was the moment the doctor had walked in. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?", Sherlock asked questioningly.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—", the doctor asked confused.
"Ah, Molly! Coffee. Thank you. What happened to the lipstick?", Sherlock states cutting the man speaking off.
"It wasn't working for me."
" Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."
" Okay.", Molly says as she walks away.
" How do you feel about the violin?"
" I'm sorry, what?", John states completely confused.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
"Are you—? You told him about me?"
"Not a word.",Stamford says completely amused.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."
"How did you know about Afghanistan?"
"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
"Is that it?"
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."
"Yeah. He's always like that.", Stamford says with a grin.
This is when Sherlock knew he had found a new flat mate. But the one thing Sherlock didn't know was that there would come a time when Sherlock would trust, rely, and even love this man.
Sherlock was standing in the meeting room with the cabbie. The choice had been given and Sherlock had selected his pill and he was just about to take it. Just then John busts into the room beside the section Sherlock is in. John sees he is about to take it. What if Sherlock did? What if he chose the wrong pill? John couldn't let that happen, so he aimed and fired. The next thing Sherlock knew was the cabbie was dead and his curiosity would never be answered. He runs to the window to see who had shot the man now dead on the floor, but no one was there.
Now it didn't click in Sherlocks head who had shot the man until he was explaining to the DI who he needed. That's when he knew that he could trust the doctor.
A little later is when Sherlock found out that he could rely on John. One day an old friend called Sherlock. Someone had broken into the bank he was employed at and graffitied strange symbols in the bank. The robbery lead the consulting detective and his doctor to go to a mans flat where the man in question was found dead. This and a few other clues lead them to a train station. Once they were there John had found a group of symbols, so he called his flat mate over.
" It's been painted over. I don't understand. It was... here. Ten minutes ago. I saw it. A whole lot of graffiti!", John says surprised.
"Somebody doesn't want me to see it. ", Sherlock says grabbing Johns head.
"Sherlock, what are you—!"
" Shh! John, concentrate! I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."
"What? Why? Why? What are you doing?" John is completely confused.
"I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?",he asks.
"Yeah."
"Can you remember it?"
"Yes. Definitely.", John states.
"Can you remember the pattern?"
" Yes"
"How much can you remember it?", Sherlock questions.
"Well don't worry."
"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62 percent accurate."
" Yeah well don't worry, I remember all of it."
" Really?", Sherlock asks amazed.
"Yeah well at least I would if I can get to my pockets. I took a photograph."
Now Sherlock didn't realize he loved this man he now called his companion until Moriarty had kidnapped him. Ripping the vest off of him was a moment of comfort and joy in that it would not be threatening John anymore. John had even risked his life for him. This moment, standing poolside, with John was the moment everything in his head had connected together. The different urges to touch and hear and see John at all hour day and night. His hatred of the various girls John had been on a date with. He thought it should be him not them. He was smart and energetic, they were whining and dull. And all of this was even harder to come to terms with when the time came to fall.