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It has been well documented for centuries that while most soul mates enter romantic, sexual relationships, that need not always be the case. Sherlock presumed theirs would be one of the anomalies, platonic. John’s cock was like a divining rod and Sherlock never cared much one way or the other about sex.
But then Moriarty. Then a pool and a moment of seeming betrayal. And then Semtex and little red lights. And oh, Sherlock was wrong, this would be love. Was love.
The moment Moriarty slipped from view, he put down the gun and started ripping the goddamned explosives off John’s chest. “All right? Are you all right?” He was fine. John was fine. So he shoved the vest and parka as far away as they would slide across the floor.
John was lightheaded, taking deep breaths, his legs weren’t hold him and he was seeing spots. But more importantly, Sherlock. He had to make sure - “Are you ok?”
“Me, yeah, fine. I’m fine.” Sherlock was pacing, rubbing his head with the gun. Across his ribs, John’s peacock paced exactly in time. Sherlock continued, “That thing that you did – that you offered to do – that was – good.”
That thing? When he tried to buy Sherlock the time to run and he would have died at peace knowing Sherlock would be safe.
That thing.
Sherlock could barely keep his breathing controlled and get the words out. This, John realized, this was Sherlock Holmes panicking.
Oh.
He needed a moment.
Banter, “people might talk,” a shared smile.
And then a little red bead of light and Moriarty was back. So many beads of light. A wordless look passed between them. Yes, shoot Moriarty. Or the Semtex, that works, too. We’ll die together it will be all right. Everything went quiet, time itself stilled as, in his last moments, John reoriented everything he thought he knew about his life.
Sherlock. Of course.
xxx
John has always enjoyed the sensations that came from his soul mark. The ticklish brush as he dashed about his skin, devil-may-care and joyful. The irritation that could radiate from him as the needy bastard settled into a good brood. The bone deep comfort of knowing John wasn’t alone.
And now, the warmth as his bird settled onto his chest for a night of tea and domestics with Sherlock. The way his peacock tried to reach out from his skin and peck at Sherlock’s mark when they decided to antagonize each other. His bird would make a show of bristling but secretly loved when the dog got a good lick in on his crown.
The contentment when they lay skin to skin and their marks enjoyed a good snuggle as surely as the men did.
And the men – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson – continued as before. Bickering and showing off, dashing into danger and defending one another ferociously, bantering through crime scenes. After all, they had been soul mates all along. Long before they even met.
As to what they got up to at home – alone, thank you very much Mrs Hudson – was simply nobodies’ business but their own.