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Long before becoming a doctor or a soldier, long before manhood dropped his voice, John Watson walked through the world with confidence. Unearned at first. Though his performance at uni and then Afghanistan changed that. He could be up to his wrists in a man’s gut under heavy fire and his hands held steady. This innate certainty, this understanding of his place in the world, meant that he shone brightest when the stakes were highest. John Watson walked through the world with confidence, his preening peacock of a soul mark dashing about his body, devil may care and never a feather out of place.
Only after being invalided home from the war did John question himself for the first time. His peacock settled into his right hip, rarely moving, let along dashing about anymore.
You see, the secret to John Watson’s confidence was his firm belief that he was destined for valor. How else would his soulmate be beautiful enough to have marked John with a peacock? John knew he would accomplish great things, for if he didn’t distinguish himself, how else would as small and plain a man catch her eye? Deserve her?
But something must have gone off. What gorgeous woman would want an unemployed bundle of scars with PTSD, trust issues, and no prospects? What if John met the woman who bore his mark tomorrow and she looked at him with disappointment?
In the past few weeks, John had carried a cane. His therapist presumed his injury was psychosomatic, but he knew the stiff ache in his hip was a result of his soul mark settling into one spot for so long. Never a healthy sign. While in hospital, the poor bird folded up his tail and roosted on John’s hip. He couldn’t be cajoled or roused for anything. In truth, that wasn’t too surprising — John himself found it hard enough to bother getting up these days. He couldn’t blame the mark for sharing his apathy.
When Mike Stamford recognized John, coaxed him into coffee and a catch up, John barely mustered himself to keep up his side of the conversation. With nothing else on his schedule for the day, John followed Mike to see a fellow about a flat share. He hobbled along into his old stomping grounds, Barts, leaning even more heavily into the cane as his hip jolted with a frisson. His peacock nearly flew off his skin (if such a thing were possible) and John grit his teeth as he followed Mike into the laboratory.
xxx
Sherlock looked up from his pipette to see Mike Stamford for the second time in one day, followed by a man with a cane and a psychosomatic limp. Sherlock nearly smiled at the stranger, an act perhaps unprecedented in his life. But why –
Ah, yes, there was Sherlock’s man. He could feel the German Shepherd he bore all his life racing circles around his torso.
Yes, there he was.
The man, his soulmate, looked about himself and mused, “Bit different from my day.”
A doctor, then. And a soldier.
Fierce. Loyal. A partner.
What does one say to their soul mate upon meeting, Sherlock wondered. Especially when he had clearly not yet recognized Sherlock as such? He bought himself time by speaking with Stamford but the man – John Watson – offered him his phone. These, then, would be the first immortal words uttered between them: “Here, use mine,” and “Oh. Thank you.”
Best to remedy the situation with a bit of showing off. A bit of deduction. A presumption that John would accept Sherlock as a flat mate. But of course, he would. This was his soul mate.
Feeling better than he had in a good long while, Sherlock couldn’t resist his slight dramatic flair and wink.
Neither could John.