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The problem could be summarized in only one word: soulmates. The legend is as old as time: according to Plato, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search for their other halves. Of course, in the twenty-first century, nobody thought this story true anymore, but they all had to face the truth: nobody knows why, neither how, but soulmates were a thing.
Only a century ago, finding and marrying one’s soulmate was almost every young people’s greatest dream, to the great displeasure of their parents, especially if a well-born young lady’s soulmate turned out to be a servant, a sailor, or, worst of all, some kind of comedian. But times are changing; try now to tell someone that God, fate or fluke decided whom they would fit with, whom their soul would recognize to be its other half. No, in the twenty-first century, you don’t tell to people who they ought to love, or they rise against you, may you be God, fate or fluke. May they utterly cannot control their feelings and suffer all their life for this bit of fake freedom. Anyway, finding one’s soulmate is very unlikely, seven billion people on Earth, how in Hell would it be otherwise? And the few people who had found their soulmates, despite their oaths to let no one decide their path, simply couldn’t fight the attraction, the utter feeling of fulfilment being with their other half elicited. They were only human.
That’s what all the tales told: there is nothing stronger than love. Usually. Sat up in a governmental plane towards Napoli, Italy, surrounded by a commando from the MI6 and a deeply pissed off Mycroft Holmes, Y/N was seriously thinking about sending a mail to Walt Disney Studios to ask them to add “usually” somewhere in their stories. Because Y/N had had the luck to find her soulmate, as in all the romantic tales in the world, but her soulmate was Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes, even under the threat of death - literally - would never ever admit a thing such as soulmates could exist. Even less that he had one, not to speak about finding said soulmate and embracing his feelings. Seven billion of people on this planet and Y/N’s soulmate has to be a high functioning sociopath. Great.
Well, the context of their story could have been somewhat romantic. Maybe. In an alternative universe. Sherlock would have struggled about his irrepressible feelings for Y/N but would have finally caved, unable to resist anymore, maybe after saving her or after a terrible fight; she would have sought affection in the arms of another and he wouldn’t have been able to stand it, or something equally sappy. None of it. Y/N had met Sherlock Holmes while she was getting out of a cab. He had shoved her out of the car manu militari. The skin of his hand had touched the skin of her bare arm. It had been enough. The dreams had begun that very night.
When one finds one’s soulmate, when skin has touched skin, they start to share dreams. Well, they should have shared dreams, if Sherlock Holmes was one to indulge into sleep more than once or twice a week and at odd hours. It seemed Y/N could see snippets of what was happening, had happened or would happen to him while she was sleeping and he was awake, so, almost every night. What a delight to see corpses, parts of a human body in a fridge or mad chase on a daily basis! Y/N was so very lucky, indeed, to have found her soulmate! That much she had said to Sherlock.
People usually struggle to find their soulmate; it is rather difficult to determine, out of all the people one might come across and potentially touch, who’s the person dreaming they’re lost in an underground parking seemingly with no exit or who’s being struck by insomnia and watching replays of Top Chef. It is, however, far less troublesome to find your soulmate when a) you’re dreaming about mad taxi drivers, indecipherable signs painted in yellow and magical, luminescent rabbits named Bluebell; b) when all your dreams are recalled on a blog and their hero is in close-up shot on BBC One. The rude man who had shoved Y/N out of her cab was no one else but Sherlock Holmes, no need to be a genius to put all the pieces together.
What would be far more complicated to come with would be a way to approach the man. At the beginning, Y/N had hoped for him to make the first move; fairy tales, Disney movies… Then, seeing no sign of her soulmate, she had made some research, read: she had read John’s blog. Extensively. From the first letter to the last period. No, unless Y/N manages to be robbed, killed, or abducted by a psychopath interesting enough to arouse the Detective’s curiosity, Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be the one to make the first move. Very well. Gathering her resolve, she had come to 221B Baker Street herself and asked for Sherlock Holmes to the sweet woman who had opened the door. “Do you bring a case?” She had said. “He’s been in a foul mood lately. A nice murder would be very good for him, you know?” Ahem. Sure.
No, coming to Baker Street without even the beginning of a plan wasn’t a good idea. But Y/N would never had thought it would be this bad. The kind landlady introduced her to Sherlock Holmes and to his friend, the one who had grumbled a half apology when the Detective had hustled Y/N out of the cabbie.
“What can we do for you?”, he said.
“Come on, John, it’s obvious.”, Y/N had had hope, then. Surely, the great Sherlock Holmes would have deduced she was his soulmate and she wouldn’t have to explain it to him? “But why didn’t he come to you, then?” Had said a little voice deep within her. “This young woman is here to convince me she’s my soulmate and that we should probably get to know each other, to begin with. She thinks she knows who I am, ah! She read your stupid blog! So she thinks I’m a kind of hero, a modern knight who avenges the widow and the orphan. Listen carefully, Miss, heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”. Y/N had felt her throat constricting, words wouldn’t come out. She hadn’t even said a word, and he… How could he be so unkind? He had to have felt the change! Pushing trough her shame, Y/N got to stammer a few words. “Mister Holmes, I… You- You probably don’t remember it, but you pushed me out of a taxi two weeks ago and…”
“And so what? Since I touched you, you dream about me and therefore, think we’re sharing dreams?”
“No, I-”
“You will know, Miss, that I sleep little, so sharing dreams with me, especially at night, when normal, dull, people usually sleep, is very unlikely. Goodbye!”
Y/N had then felt a wave of anger, not even hers, washing trough her. Who did he think he was, the little snob?
“You will know, Sir, what I saw before making any hypothesis. You shouldn’t even make any; it’s a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.” Where these words had come from, she had no idea, but the Detective in front of her had his eyes and mouth wide open, it was her chance. “I saw a taxi driver talking to people, pushing them to commit suicide. I saw yourself coaxing a name out of his dying body. I saw signs I couldn’t recognize turning into numbers, turning into words. They made little sense for me, but it was water clear for you. I saw, and I believe it was, indeed, a dream, you screaming at a rabbit to tell you its name and the rabbit screams “Bluebell” in return. I do hope it was a dream, for I don’t believe rabbits can scream their given names.” The shock had passed from Holmes’ face and another wave of anger, as unfamiliar as the first, crashed once more inside Y/N. When the Detective spoke, his words were icy, acidic. Spit.
“You’re wasting your time, you’re wasting my time. I don’t believe in soulmates, I don’t believe in God, in fate or in fluke and stars don’t care what you wish, and magic don’t make things better, and no-one doesn’t get burned who sticks their hand in a fire! I don’t do love and never ever would I love someone because it was written in my soul or something equally ridiculous! Go away!”
But the proof was there, just spoken in bile. And despite the pain she could feel in her heart, Y/N was in awe. “You…”
“What? I what? Why are you still here!”
“You just quoted Granny Waxweather.”
A moue of disgust crossed Holmes’ features. “I don’t know who this is.”
“No, but I do.”
Then, the Detective had thrown things in every direction, that none of them managed to touch Y/N had been a miracle. John - Watson, no need to be a genius to deduce it either - had started to scream at Holmes and Y/N has simply left the flat. Upon her descending the stairs, she had crossed the landlady, ascending them, worried. “What’s happening, dear?”
“A mismatch, Madam. That, or Sherlock Holmes is almost crueller than the thugs he puts behind bars.”
Mismatches happen. They’re rare, but they happen and when one’s unlucky enough to be Sherlock Holmes’ f*cking soulmate, is it so surprising for the link to be a mismatch? Is it so surprising for one’s soul to be tied up to another who not only doesn’t share the link, but moreover doesn’t care - is disgusted by the mere concept of soulmates? No, in Y/N opinion, it is not so surprising. But the more she was thinking about it, the less it appeared to be likely. Mismatches were supposed to be painful, unbearably so, to the point that some simply couldn’t live with it. Craving a person who doesn’t care for them, deprived of any chance of true love. Y/N was deeply hurt, but her pain wasn’t born from despair. She was still feeling this anger, this rage deeply within her. She felt misunderstood and lonely, so, so lonely. Sat up in a taxi on her way home, Y/N had tried to calm herself. Once her breathing was even, once her heart had stopped racing in her chest, she had understood. It wasn’t only her rage; it was their rage. Her anger to be bitterly rejected, and his anger to… Well, to learn he has a soulmate. It wasn’t a mismatch, it was a bond. A link so strong between their souls they share feelings and memories. The weird declaration about hypothesis Y/N had spat to Holmes was his own opinion about it, and when he had quoted Granny Waxweather, it had been out of her memories. A single tear had rolled upon Y/N’s cheek and she had soothed the rising panic in herself the best she could for it wasn’t her fear but Holmes’, who certainly was distressed to want to cry so suddenly. No one can fight a bond, Y/N simply couldn’t let Sherlock down.
No one can fight a bond, but Holmes did his best to anyway. He never slept at night, he was either working on a case, experimenting or even watching series - he seemed to like Criminal Minds enough - to ensure Y/N wouldn’t share his dreams. That’s what she was thinking since they hadn’t met each other, let alone spoke since their violent encounter. Y/N, on her side, didn’t really fight. She had downloaded all the violin’s music pieces her heart was craving, she was smoking like a factory and she tried to fill all the boredom she could watching and reading thrillers. A few weeks after the incident, she had even had the proof that the Great Sherlock Holmes himself couldn’t entirely fight the bond since he had barged in the Starbucks she was having a coffee at and asked for the exact same drink as her. Watson had been baffled by his order and the Detective had answered he needed something with hazelnuts in it or he would become mad. Y/N had smiled to her hazelnut latte and sent waves of gratefulness through the bond. It had been stronger than her; he may be an ass, but she wanted Sherlock Holmes happy. And then, the world had turned upside down.
Sherlock had been under the spotlight for having found the Turner painting of Reichenbach Falls and Y/N had felt his pride and also his embarrassment, she had fed his pride as much as she could without being caught. He truly was a genius and absolutely not used to be praised, and it was a shame. Y/n had almost had a heart attack when she had seen archives footages only a week old of the Detective adjusting his deerstalker, the journalist wasn’t praising his skills, he was taxing Holmes to be a psychopath, a serial killer, to have staged up all his cases. Y/N’s voice had roared through her flat: “He’s not a psychopath! He’s a high functioning sociopath! Do your research!”. In a matter of seconds, she was out, fuming, on her way to Scotland Yard.
The Detective Inspector Lestrade Y/N had in front of her was vaguely familiar, he was exhausted and deeply embarrassed and Y/N felt Sherlock liked him, but he was also talking nonsense and she was feeling the urge to pickpocket him. According to the police officer, Holmes had been arrested - what a jolly good idea - but has escaped taking his best friend as a hostage. He was now on the run and no one knew where he was. Drained herself and feeling fury and despair growing in Sherlock, Y/N had tried to explain to the Inspector that Holmes was innocent, that she was his soulmate, that she would testify everything Lestrade wanted. The Inspector had sadly smiled to her, he knew Sherlock was innocent, he knew it deeply in his guts, but he couldn’t do anything, nor she, for being one’s soulmate didn’t have any influence in front of the Courts. Everything had come to a halt when a wave of horror crashed upon Y/N. Sherlock’s horror. Then the imperative urge to go to St Bart’s. “I know where he is.”
Y/N hadn’t had an adventuresome life, but she knew what being scared felt like. Or so she thought. When she had seen Sherlock Holmes jumping from St Bart’s roof and tumble towards the ground, Y/N had felt like dying. Really dying, a bond as strong as theirs, even unacknowledged, even denied, wouldn’t allow her to walk on this planet without Sherlock. Her soul would simply rejoin its mate and she was going to die, here, on the sidewalk, without even having kissed her soulmate. Sherlock’s body crashed on the ground, Y/N shouted, but the bond held up. Reassurance was flowing trough the bond. And Y/N was still alive, frozen on the curb while Lestrade and bystanders throw themselves at Holmes’ corpse. No, not Holmes’ corpse; he was still alive. Shaking herself out of her stupor, Y/N rushed inside the hospital, down, towards the underground parking. He was still alive, if Y/N was still breathing and running madly, blind terror banging against fumbling reassurance and a feeling of urgency. He was still alive, and if Y/N managed to catch him, she swore to keep him safe at all cost.
Here he was. Breathing, moving, alive, crossing the parking lot toward the back exit. Y/N wanted to cry, to shout after him, but no sound could pass her throat, Sherlock turned around anyway. Their eyes met, and she felt it. Relief. Amazement. Incredulity. Fear. But also hope and tenderness. Regrets. So much feelings at once. Overwhelmed, Y/N saw the Detective coming towards her in alarm before the first signs of faltering even came, but he never joined her. Upon hearing footsteps, he stopped in his tracks, opened his mouth and then shut it, before turning around and leaving. If one has witnessed the scene, one would believe Sherlock had just left with no remorse, without a word. But Y/N had felt it, Sherlock Holmes wasn’t fleeing, he was going on a crusade with every intention to come back. And maybe even to come back to her.
“Are you sure he is there?”
Y/N was pulled out of her memories by Mycroft Holmes. Less than twenty-four hours prior, she had barged into Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office screaming about Sherlock being in danger. He first hadn’t wanted to believe her, Sherlock Holmes was dead, he had jumped off of a building, period. That’s what he had wanted her to believe. But Y/N, or rather Sherlock trough Y/N, had known better. If there was a chance, a single one, however thin and weak, that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, Greg Lestrade would follow the trail. The first step had been to call the number scribbled in Sherlock’s fly’s foot when he had started to help Scotland Yard years ago “In Apocalyptic emergency only”. The whole story had been told to the elder Holmes and here they were. Without Lestrade, left at the airport.
“I am.”
It had been a year since Sherlock’s “disappearance” and Y/N had felt everything. Fear. Tiredness. Ire. Despair. Hurt. And this continuous longing for home. She had soothed all of them as best as she could, sending tendrils of hope, belief and love trough the bond. Yes, love. After nights and nights of insomnia, worried to madness by all these feelings, after almost fainting from relief every time she had felt a sentiment of triumph or hope, after having begged whatever greater power above for Sherlock to be safe, Y/N had had no choice but to admit it to herself. She was in love with Sherlock Holmes. What she had felt, so very early in the morning, has not been just Sherlock’s feelings. It has been a SOS. “Come and get me”, she was coming.
Finding Sherlock would have been near impossible without Y/N’s memories of the dream, and besides, they had been more frightening flashes than a dream. A basement, the whistle of a train, the noise of a jackhammer, the odor of iodine, words spoken in Napolitan dialect. And blood. So much blood. It would have still been impossible for Y/N to find Sherlock with these data only, not for Mycroft. A few entries in his smartphone had been enough. Two more calls, one for the private jet, the other for the commando. Three hours later, six agents from the MI6 were smashing the door of a abandoned station and destroying their way toward the basement, killing or putting away everyone on their path, followed by the elder Holmes and Y/N. Here he was. Bloodied, pale, half starved, half dead. But only half.
“Sherlock!”
The medical man of the commando surely wanted to do his job. He tried to say so, but it was no use. As soon as Y/N had set her eyes on Sherlock, everything else disappeared. She guessed a small smile on the Detective’s split lips.
“You came.”
That was ridiculous, Y/N knew it. Holmes had rejected and ignored her, pretended to commit suicide, left her traumatized in a parking lot, tormented her by proxy for a year, but at the very first call of distress, she hadn’t hesitated to cause a diplomatic incident to come and save his ass. Y/N wanted to scream at Sherlock, but she could only smile in amazement through her tears.
“I hate you.” It was a blatant lie, she could feel the pure, unaltered adoration she was flooding the bond with.
“Seal the bond.” The disbelief on Y/N’s face coaxed Sherlock to elaborate. “I’m not worthy of you, but I would be the biggest fool ever to let you go. Actually, I am, I sent you away once, I can’t do it twice. Seal the bond, bind you to me thoroughly. I wouldn’t be alive if not for your comfort, for your love… You didn’t believe I would come back, you were sure of it.”
“You should start to believe in soulmates tales, Mister Holmes, you’re living one!”
Y/N is sure Sherlock would have preferred the way to seal the bond to not be a kiss. If only on principle. It was probably far too cliché for the One and Only Consulting Detective. But clichés, as tales and legends, must be born somewhere. And what a beautiful, dramatic kiss it has been; in true Disney fashion.
There was no prince charming, nor damsel in distress; there was no dragon, no wicked witch, or evil stepmother, not even a little pumpkin. But maybe Sherlock and Y/N’s story was somewhat romantic, after all.
The End.