Work Text:
So, to catch you up.
John left his cane behind and ran. Then he shot a cabbie. Then he moved in with Sherlock.
Lestrade remained a well-intentioned moron, Anderson and Donovan the more common variety. Mrs Hudson turned out not to be a housekeeper, but an intentionally doddery busybody. Her majesty’s government remained a git. A few criminals were sent to jail.
There. All caught up.
It was a Tuesday. One proclaimed, “dull!” by a genius in a peacock blue dressing gown before John had finished his tea.
Sprawled on the couch, performing his ennui, Sherlock was busy thinking. Not about a case of criminology obscura, but about his flat mate. Soul mate. The man doing the washing.
Once Sherlock rid John of the psychosomatic limp, the man flourished. He was steady, sure of himself. John was so confident in who he was that he has no need for anyone else to validate that for him. He spoke calmly because he knew he was right. Occasionally, Sherlock noticed John hold up his hand and check it - so Sherlock must have cured a tremor along with a limp. John was a wonder in Sherlock’s eyes.
Worth noting, John also had an eye towards women, specifically beautiful ones. Sherlock did not begrudge John the sex he was having with them, but he was quite jealous of the man’s time and attention. These women took so much of it. And yet.
And yet when Sherlock texted, John left them. When Sherlock leaned too far over a den of vipers, John caught him. When he needed to be a showman, John exhibited awe and delight and when he was in need of being a brat, John chided him. John was his.
So, back to the beautiful women. For all he was his perfect match and soul mate, John could be an absolute moron. Sherlock presumed that once John caught on to the real nature of their relationship, the women would no longer be a nuisance, and he was getting impatient for it.
So, a nudge.
“John, what is your soul mark?”
John wasn’t even surprised that Sherlock would ask such an indelicate question. The man had no sense that some things simply weren’t done. Rather, John was caught off guard that Sherlock would care enough to want to know. Enough so that John found himself answering.
“A peacock. He’s gorgeous and needy for attention and can’t sit still.” His voice was fond and when Sherlock rolled his head to stare at the moron in front of him, he found John patting his left pectoral with affection. The German Shepherd on Sherlock’s stomach was panting.
“And yet you date women?”
“Come again?”
“You just said your soul mark is male - must be to have peacock plumage - and yet you only look for your soul mate among women.”
“I’d never thought of that. I suppose there are beautiful men out there. Ones that preen like mine does, too. Something to think on.” What a perfectly made, unobservant moron.
Sherlock takes a moment to be properly offended. Peacocks are not known for their intelligence and if there is one characteristic Sherlock displays above all others it is his brilliance. He knew how women and men sometimes responded to him, though. He knew he was aesthetically pleasing. But a peacock? A preening one, at that? He looked down his body at the bespoke trousers, tailored shirt, and dressing gown thrown artfully across is body and couch. Ok. Peacock. Fair enough.
Sherlock had always imagined his soulmate would bear a crow, a cephalopod, a dolphin. But then, would any of those animals have made John the man he is now? Confident, steady, sure and brave? German Shepard indeed. The man Sherlock needed in a soul mate. These marks are brilliant, tricky business.
His musing on the evolution of one John Watson was cut off by himself, “What of yours?”
Oh, let’s test just how blind John Watson could be. Sherlock looked him straight in the eyes and said, “A German Shepherd. He’s steady, loyal and fierce. Smart enough to know when I’m being dangerous and brave enough to follow me to it.”
Sherlock could watch John picturing it in his mind. He smiled, “That’s lovely, Sherlock. They will suit you perfectly.”
Oh god, the other half of his soul was an astounding idiot.