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“The first words your soulmate will say to you are written on your forearm.”
Sherlock didn’t believe in such silly things, despite the question donning his left forearm in small, black writing. Really? There was a perfect person out there for everyone around the globe? And a random sentence, or even a single word, written on everyone’s arms from birth was the one key to finding them?
‘Hello.’
'It's nice to meet you.’
‘Tickets, please.’
Some people said something unique to every person they met just to try and avoid losing their soulmate to a generic greeting. How many people have confused a stranger for a lofty thing like a soulmate because of pure coincidence? How many relationships have ended because they simply weren’t compatible despite their marks?
Not that Sherlock believed he truly had anyone out there right for him, let alone a soulmate. He was ‘too wrapped up in work’ or ‘too hopped up on drugs’ for a girlfriend or boyfriend, so people have told him.
His only clue to the supposed soulmate of his: ‘What makes you think I’m a mathematician?’
So, what, he was supposed to go looking for every school teacher, dreaming that maybe one of them would tolerate him because the universe said so? Forget it.
The three women pulling him along, daring him to figure out the jobs of people passing, kept him entertained for the night. The food was good; women found him fun to be around; there was a sea-born ballet to be attended later.
Any number of the women and men among The Noatic could say those words, and it could mean nothing in particular for the grand scheme of his life.
The golden-haired man they pointed to next was a bit more of a challenge, admittedly. There were any number of things to observe—his suit was recently pressed, his perfume was distinctly French vanilla, and he had black tea with his breakfast—but it was only when Sherlock caught him staring at the ship’s featured staircase that it became obvious.
“It’s a hell of a spiral staircase, huh?” Sherlock glanced up the staircase along with the man. “I can see why you’d admire it. Right…” He turned and smiled at the man, who looked quite like he’d been slapped for a moment before smoothing his surprise away. “Mr. Mathematician?”
The man returned the amused smile. “What makes you think I’m a mathematician?”
Finally, someone who could play along. Most others congratulated him on guessing correctly and walked away testily when they soon realized they were only part of a party trick to impress women.
“Huh? It’s clear as day.” The mathematician remained, awaiting his explanation with a faint smile. “Whilst gazing at this spiral staircase," he started counting on his fingers. “Your time, your distance, and your angle told me so.”
Confused but interested, his audience stepped closer, trading glances between the detective and his mark.
“See here,” he said. “This is a matter of simple deduction based on observation and knowledge.” He gestured back at the staircase with his thumb. “Despite being absorbed in thought as he was walking along, he stopped when he got to the stairs. Almost as if he had found a sight that caused the thought in his mind to come to a momentary halt. Indeed, the stairway is beautifully adorned, and worth a look.”
Remembering the way the mathematician’s eyes widened as he froze in place spoke a million words, truly.
“But his attention was not focused on the intricate ornamentation; rather, he took a step back and began observing the staircase as a whole. What profession looks not on the cosmetic beauty of the staircase, but is instead interested in its construction? An architect? Or perhaps a physicist?”
Those had been possibilities in his mind for a moment, but quickly he deduced the more likely conclusion.
“No, on the contrary.”
The mathematician looked quite like he wanted to interrupt, but Sherlock could not very well stop here in good spirits. The ladies were watching, and the man was, too. He looked more amused than them, in fact. Even ecstatic if Sherlock squinted.
“His gaze did not fall on the column. This was because his interest was not with how the stairs were supported. So, then, what was he looking at that caused him to take a step back?” The obvious answer would have come clearly, had anyone seen the way he became entranced, then pleased, with what he saw. “He wanted to see something. He wanted to confirm something. Whether the curve traced by these stairs was based on something or not. By which I mean… the golden ratio.”
It took a second, but the mathematician eventually nodded once with his eyes closed. “Indeed. You are quite the keen observer.”
Sherlock felt a tiny bit of relief at the confirmation. More than anyone else he’d deduced, this one man captivated him without having to speak more than a few words. Silky smooth hair, ruby-red eyes, lithe body, pale skin—truly beautiful by London standards.
“Your logical argument was a trifle forced, but I do, in fact, teach mathematics at university.”
The ladies brightened, and one of them spoke up cheerfully. “So you mean?”
For some reason, Sherlock didn’t turn to look at the three of them, instead keeping his eyes on the mathematician. His suit was from a shop in uptown London, but his handkerchief was from one in downtown, going by the small imprinted logo on the folded edge. A high-class man, but unafraid to visit the middle-class or even lower-class parts of London should a shop intrigue him.
Sherlock liked a man who wasn’t so stuck up he couldn’t admit not everything great came solely from high-class.
Another lady giggled. “He was right again!”
The man’s faint, polite smile turned up further, and he stepped closer. Close enough that Sherlock could smell the hints of vanilla on his suit more clearly and, now, the faintness of crème brûlée he had eaten not more than an hour ago.
“I would try the same with you, detective,” he said. “But I feel I should admit something first.”
Wordlessly, he slowly rolled up the sleeve of his suit, exposing his left forearm. Sherlock’s jaw nearly hit the floor. There, in small, black ink: ‘It’s a hell of a spiral staircase, huh?’
“Shit,” he cursed, and the ladies went silent at the quiet interaction while he rolled up his own sleeve.
‘What makes you think I’m a mathematician?’ was there, just like it had been all his life. The man had said the exact words marking his arm, and he had been too busy boasting about in front of the ladies enthralled with his deductions to realize he had unwittingly done the same.
When the mathematician looked down at Sherlock’s words, his smile turned cat-like. “I think we have some things to discuss…”
When he eliminated the possibility of those incredibly specific words being spoken by both of them in the same first interaction coincidentally—something nearly mathematically impossible—there was only one logical conclusion remaining.
“Sherlock,” he choked out, his heart suddenly racing and his voice hoarse. Soulmates were real, and his was right in front of him. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“William James Moriarty,” He returned with a small bow. Then, leaning ever closer, the mathematician whispered huskily, “To you alone, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I am William.”
What the hell was a previous soulmate skeptic to do when his was irrefutably standing in front of him?