Archive of Our Own

Sherlock was particularly bored. He had spent the whole day without finding anything interesting, only occupying himself with his stingless bee experiment that he coordinated in the campus gardens.

After a considerable time spraying water on the pollinating plants, as he had to ensure quality pollen for the animals, he spotted his (only) friend running towards him. Molly had her dark hair swaying in the wind, her little smile on her face so obvious that it wasn't even necessary to be good at deductions to know what she was coming to talk about: boys.

The brunette prepared himself with a sigh of frustration. He had learned to live with her, mainly because her intelligence was truly above average, but he still had to live with the delirious love outbursts of a teenager addicted to cliché romances.

To his non-surprise, as soon as she got close to him, Molly said at once, her face red and with a thin layer of sweat from the effort of getting there.

"For Heaven's sake, Sherlock! You need to meet the new guy from medicine." She stopped to catch her breath, placing her hands on her knees. "He's so handsome! He has blue eyes and blond hair, like an angel, but his body is a pure piece of hell. I think I'm in love."

The boy just rolled his eyes, pulling a curl that fell into his eyes. Perhaps, if he ignored her, she would give up talking about it.

"So, is it him? Please, tell me yes." She asked. Of course, she wouldn't leave him alone.

Sherlock then looked at the girl's fingers, more specifically at her little finger. And there it was: a small tangled thread slightly below her nails, with a small extension outside the knot, not actually going anywhere beyond the girl's finger.

He had always seen them. Red threads that connected people's fingers. Over time, he discovered more about them: they connected people destined to be happy together, or at least those who would have a lasting relationship, the cords intertwining only when they met their respective partners.

He didn't know if it was a curse or a gift, but it was certainly useful for making a little money by bringing together people desperate for an "ideal partner" or something. Not that he told many people about his ability: apart from his family, Molly was the only one who knew about his capacity, but that didn't stop him from acting as Cupid when paid to do so, disguising the real gift with his behavioral deductions.

"I'm sorry, Molly, not this time." He replied, simply, his voice showing nothing but boredom.

He really didn't understand the obsession of those people with finding their "soulmates." The idea of being tied to someone just by the whims of fate made his stomach churn. The lack of control and free will over his own decisions and feelings never seemed good to him, and he was mentally grateful for never having found the other end of the thread that hung from his own little finger.

"Damn it." The girl cursed, helping Sherlock coil the hose he had used to water the grass. "But well, just because he's not my soulmate doesn't mean I can't try something, right? I mean, he's so hot."

"You already said that, Molly." Heavens, he hated it when she found a new object of desire, because he knew he would only hear about it for the next few weeks.

"Goodness, Sher. You could at least show a little interest." She made a fake pout, wiping her dirt-filled hands on her jeans. "I heard he's going to attend Basic Pharmacology classes with you, and Parasitology with me." She said as if it were a big revelation, clapping her hands lightly.

"Didn't you say he was a freshman? How will he participate in 4
th
semester classes?" He wrinkled his nose, not at all excited about the idea of sharing a room with another guy from the 'apparently perfect handsome guys with the intelligence of a door' group.

"He's just new here." She hastened to explain as they walked back into the college building, heading for the library. "He was in another city, but recently moved here with his sister, also having to change colleges."

The curly-haired boy truly didn't care about any of that, but he allowed the brunette to keep talking so she wouldn't get upset, after all, they shared many subjects and it was useful to have someone like her to do assignments with. And, to be honest, he didn't retain most of the things that came out of her mouth; he just spent his time observing the people around him. A girl at the library table had her fingers in her mouth, biting her nails in a clear sign of anxiety, and the act of pretending to pay attention to the book even though she picked up her phone every few moments indicated that the reason for her nervousness had a name, and he hadn't responded to her for some time.

He looked a little more. A boy cornered a thin girl against the wall, his chest puffed out and shoulders raised as if he wanted to prove himself a worthy male. The two laughed and flirted, but Sherlock didn't fail to follow the shining thread on the boy's finger who was acting like a pigeon in mating season. The red thread passed through a bookshelf, under a coffee table, until it ended on the little finger of another equally muscular boy. The curly-haired boy laughed internally, remembering that he was the baseball team member who once intimidated him for 'looking like a sissy'.

"They said he got scholarships at both colleges as an athlete. Apparently, he's a Rugby genius." Molly continued her endless monologue, not noticing the other's lack of interest in her topic. "He was even called to a national! But he preferred to continue his studies."

"And I should wonder how you know all this?" He slightly twisted his lips. Girls could be scary sometimes.

"Everyone's talking about him." She said, pursing her lips and looking down, making it clear to Sherlock that it was a lie.

"Molly."

"Okay, okay, I had a little chat with the cheerleading squad girls." She confessed, knowing she would be judged, as Holmes always made it clear how much he hated those teenagers who acted like 'animals competing among themselves for the role of kings and queens of the jungle that was college'.

"Of course, I should have guessed." He sighed, walking through the paper aisles as he looked for something new to distract himself on the terribly empty nights of news.

"Don't judge me!" She said, exasperated. "I was just curious. Come on, we've never seen John before, it's normal for him to be causing a stir."

"So that's his name?" Sherlock recited, unwilling to repeat his mantra about how cheerleaders resembled a herd of hippos, attracting mates by wagging their tails.

"That's right. John Watson. Doesn't it sound adorable?" She finally said, looking at him with blinking eyelashes.

"Hmph," the brunette didn't bother to give a decent answer. The two continued their search. A title caught Sherlock's attention: "Hamlet." He delicately pulled the book from the shelf and, placing it on top of the modern physics books, walked to the library receptionist to finalize his new rentals.

"Any new destined couples today?" The girl asked, getting tired of Sherlock's lack of interest in her previous topic.

The brunette simply shrugged, indicating no. They still had a long life ahead of them, so people who met the other end of their threads of destiny at that age were rare, and even fewer actually stayed with them. It was an age very prone to emotional irresponsibility and excessive concern with others' opinions, so it wasn't uncommon to find pairs hurt by each other or separated by fear of society's judgment. Sherlock didn't truly care what they did with their lives, but he couldn't help but find it ironic how many hurt people who could be eternal in their lives just to prove themselves to those who were fleeting, mere blurs in their stories.

He looked at his own little finger. He would be different. He would not deny his partner out of fear, but would do so for the exact opposite reason - he would have the courage to go against the cunning of Mother Nature. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all, and he would not let himself be swayed by those neurochemical dysfunctions they called feelings.

Sherlock hadn't even seen this John yet, but he already knew he didn't like him. A week at college was enough for the guy to become one of the most talked-about people on campus: suddenly, he was the best rugby player, the most handsome and coveted guy around, and he could even answer professors correctly during classes. Holmes felt nauseous just thinking about living with this kind of people, the perfect little guys from teen romantic movies. What next? Watson making a bet to turn the weirdest girl in college into prom queen, only to fall in love with her in the end and have 3 beautiful children? He could even imagine what he would be like. A dream face for any 14-year-old girl (one of those where you know 10 famous actors who look alike), a ridiculously muscular body for his age, and the maturity of a 15-year-old who just discovered what his own penis is for. In other words, exactly like 90% of the guys who got into college through sports. And, to make matters worse, the class he would share with him would be the last one on Friday. As if the tiredness of the whole week enduring all those irrational, hormone-driven beings and the boredom of all those classes talking about obvious things weren't enough, he would still have to put up with another aspiring Arnold Schwarzenegger. By the nonexistent gods, how much humiliation for a diploma.

His only consolation was that, after that class, he could go home, where he could continue his observations on the applications of honey in the preservation of human tissues. That is, if his annoying brother hadn't messed with his samples again. Last time he spent hours trying to decontaminate his precious petri dish from Mycroft's dizzying traces.

"Excuse me, is this the Pharmacology class? I still haven't adapted to the campus map." He heard a deep voice coming from the door, and turned in his chair to see who had arrived.

John was... surprisingly normal? He did, in fact, have very marked features, with a body consistent with someone who practiced such a heavy sport, but he wasn't as irritatingly-within-beauty-standards as the other guys Sherlock was used to. He was short (probably about 10 centimeters shorter than the curly-haired man himself), his nose ending in a small ball, his spine arched, and a slight limp in his left leg. Holmes couldn't deny that he was indeed handsome, but not enough to justify all that commotion on campus. Was it just because he was a 'novelty,' as Molly had said?

It didn't matter, because now he was walking towards him. It was somehow... cute how he was slightly flushed, as if he were shy with the attention of all the eyes of those present in the room as he walked to the only empty desk, next to Sherlock. The brunette couldn't help but be carried away by his curiosity and began to analyze him: the close-cropped haircut indicated that he had just finished serving in the army, which could be the cause of his limp, and he dressed simply, indicating that he certainly wasn't in good financial condition. Large, bright eyes, a defined but rounded face, probably someone explosive but affectionate, the overprotective type.

On his neck and arms, there were some small scars, probably caused by friction with the grass when he threw himself during sports practice. His contracted muscles were signs of nervousness, even though his face wore a delicate smile. Sherlock lowered his gaze a little more, finally looking at his hand. The red thread made a graceful knot on his little finger, extending from the boy's finger to the floor, from where it continued a path.

'Look at that, it seems our stud is already tied up,' the curly-haired man thought, amused, following the path of the thread. Which was the same as John's: closer and closer to him. He felt his heart pound against his ears. The crimson tangle made a small curve on the floor, rising over his desk until it stopped where his right hand held the pencil. Stopping in an equally delicate loop on his own little finger.

Oh, crap.

Fate was a huge son of a bitch.

Of course, he should have foreseen it. He should have guessed that his "ideal companion" would be one of those guys. It had to be a joke.

He looked from John to his finger, from his finger to John. Heavens, he was really there, wasn't he? His thread, connected to that blond idiot.

But that was good, wasn't it? It would be even easier to refuse it. But heavens, if there was a god above all, he could only be joking with him to think that his soulmate was someone like John. He expected, at the very least, the next Nobel in Chemistry, not a standard American TV series bully.

He scoffed, disgusted with the situation, and noticed that the blond had coincidentally sat next to him—the only empty chair. Damn thread.

John would glance at him sometimes, unsure whether he should strike up a conversation. He had certainly heard about "The grumpy weirdo from Chemistry," but at that moment Sherlock was grateful for his bad reputation, as he honestly wasn't willing to interact with the guy. He was still processing everything, his Mind Palace in a slight state of chaos. The only thing that caught his attention was the slight blush that colored John's cheeks and ears as he looked at him, as well as the slight dilation of his pupils and the restlessness in his hands, which squeezed each other. He... had he found him attractive?

Involuntarily, Holmes also blushed a little at the realization. He knew he was physically within Western beauty stereotypes, but colleagues usually worried too much about calling him weird to notice that. He shook his head slightly. 'Focus, Sherlock, don't let yourself be carried away by the illusions caused by this bundle of hormones.' It was all a consequence of that joke by the Universe, which certainly wouldn't stop there. There was nothing so bad that it couldn't get worse.

Holmes began to focus so much on completely ignoring any signal coming from the man beside him that he didn't pay attention to a single word the professor said, which only changed when he heard:

"And for this assignment, I'm not going to leave the choice of the trio up to you, you rascals. I know you'll run after the nerdiest ones to 'take it easy'." She laughed with some students, her eyes sparkling in Sherlock's direction. "Therefore, it will be as follows: the trios will be formed in the order you are seated. Starting with Ella, who will form a trio with the two on her left, and so on."

The whole room erupted in protests, but the professor only responded with an amused smile. Sherlock was in shock. Seriously, supposed creature that shapes and governs the life of every individual? That was so much of a coincidence that it bordered on the ridiculous. What would be next? His house catching fire and him being forced to live with John for a month? The two bumping into each other at Starbucks and him discovering that the blond was a pop star in disguise? He was so distracted by his internal curses that he was slightly startled when he noticed that both John and Gregory (who was on the other side of the blond) had approached his desk, with the rugby player being the first to speak.

"Well, hi. I'm John Watson, I hope we get along well throughout the semester." He said with a smile, extending his hand to Lestrade, who accepted it with a nod, and then to Holmes, who didn't bother to place his palm on his.

"I know who you are. The whole campus knows, John. And I don't intend to pretend to like you for longer than the assignment requires."

The third boy rolled his eyes, with a sigh.

"I'm Gregory Lestrade, but you can call me Greg. The gracious gentleman here is Sherlock. For whom the information applies that the project will last the entire semester."

Holmes' eyes widened slightly, still careful to maintain an impassive expression.

"Great, then. Why don't you just take a vacation from this subject, then? I'll give you one less worry as a gift, and I'll do everything myself, and the only thing I need in return is to be left alone." He offered, with a friendly smile, as if it were an unmissable offer.

To his surprise, Watson simply laughed, as if he had heard a joke.

"Okay, you're as witty as they told me you'd be." He finished with an amused smile, showing his teeth. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I'll have to decline your lovely offer. Unfortunately, I need this to be a good doctor." He widened his lips even more at the curly-haired man's sulky expression.

"Yeah, man, better chill out with that. We're doing this together, whether you like it or not." Greg said, quieter than the other.

Holmes didn't even know what the said assignment was, but he knew he would do much better than if he had to cooperate with those two. Gregory wasn't much different from John - he was taller and had brown hair, but he also had the unbearable athletic build. He hadn't found his soulmate yet, but it wasn't hard to notice that he was the romantic type. He rolled his eyes at the determination stamped in the two boys' eyes. If they were at Hogwarts, they would certainly be from Gryffindor, and Holmes hated all Gryffindors.

"I'll probably do it with you and alone, and when everything is imperfect, we can submit my version." He warned the other two.

"It's a deal, then." John opened another smile, as if he were enjoying the curly-haired man's reactions. "Whose house are we going to leave the experiment at? I could, but I can't guarantee my younger sister won't mess with our fungi."

Sherlock pinched his nose. He wouldn't want to take the blond home. He knew it wouldn't take more than five minutes near his brother for Mycroft to discover exactly who John was.

"I live in the fraternity house." Greg let out a nasal laugh. "I'm afraid our disease cultivation will catch worse diseases from the air in that place."

The two looked at Sherlock for a few moments, but, as it became clear that he wouldn't offer, John sighed and concluded:

"Well, we'll leave the plates with me, then." He looked into space for a few moments, and Holmes wondered if he was pondering how he would convince his sister not to lick a petri dish with dubious contents. "Shall we start the practice in three weeks? I'd like to do some research on bacteria cultivation first. I've never done anything like this."

"I'm used to things like this. I can do the practical part, and you two can write the report." Sherlock tried again. The less time he had to spend with John, the better.

"Tempting, but no, thank you." Watson shifted his weight, as if sore from standing. "Why are you used to this? Are you some kind of bioterrorist or something?"

"No." Holmes replied, simply, but John didn't stop staring at him, his eyes full of expectation for an explanation. "I'm in the university's bioengineering club, even though I'm studying Chemistry, so we do this kind of thing sometimes. No one here is a guerrilla like you, Mr. Watson."

He observed the ex-soldier's instantaneous change in posture. He straightened his spine, his shoulders tense, as if a compromising secret had just been revealed.

"How do you know?" He let out softer, a slight tone of threat, but Sherlock wasn't scared. He was used to being intimidated by people like him.

"Straight posture, with a military haircut, which had enough time to grow, but you cut it anyway, I imagine for safety, not to leave your comfort zone. Your arms have different muscles than those provided by rugby, they are from weightlifting. Your fingers have a small deformity on the lower pads, so I imagine those weights were weapons, ammunition, and bombs. You liked it at first, you must have enlisted as soon as you turned 16, to have had time for so many physiological adaptations, but things started to get heavy, John. Then you had to kill someone, by the way you look with appreciation and guilt at every dark-haired man you meet, and that finished you. I imagine you used the leg injury as an excuse to leave due to invalidity, and entered medicine to save lives. To compensate for the one you took." Sherlock blurted it all out at once, not giving John or Greg time to react, pointing incisively at the body of his subject of study as he spoke. John confirmed each of his deductions by the way he reacted, increasingly astonished, an expression bordering on indignation.

"Are you a fucking stalker or something?" He blurted out after a few seconds, still incredulous.

"No, I'm a scientist. I even have a blog, if you want to learn about it. The Science of Deduction." He replied, with an arrogant smile. He knew he had said terribly personal things, but he planned to make it clear to John that he had no intention of being his friend. But the blond surprised him for the second time, catching him completely off guard when he exclaimed:

"Then that's amazing!" He blinked, as if still digesting what he had heard about himself. "I mean, that sounds like divination magic or something. Man, that's really cool, seriously. You'd be a wonderful spy."

Holmes paused for a moment. Had he really heard that?

"You really think so?" He asked, his voice not containing all the arrogance and certainty he was used to.

"Of course. That's extraordinary." John slightly arched the corner of his lips, looking at his own fingers, as if he could see that, indeed, the back part had a straight deformity, right where the trigger and barrel of the weapons rested.

"That's... not what people normally say." Sherlock allowed himself a small snorted laugh, without real amusement.

"And what do they usually say?"

"Get lost." He finished, and the two chuckled together.

The curly-haired man stopped abruptly, looking away. John soon engaged in a conversation about something he didn't truly care about with Greg, but he could only think about how what was happening there couldn't be natural. There would never be anyone who would voluntarily find him interesting.

Sherlock was sitting at the table with Molly while she ate, explaining to her how Taylor's polynomial rule worked. He particularly felt his ego flattered by the way she seemed to marvel at his explanation, so he did it without much reluctance. However, he observed when her attention completely left him, looking at a spot behind his back. He didn't even have to bother to look back, because he heard the velvety voice a few seconds later:

"Excuse me, Sherlock, but is this seat taken? I have nowhere else to sit." He looked in John's direction, seeing him point to a spot in front of him, next to Molly. Lips pressed together, eyes averted - but it wasn't even necessary to see these signs to notice that the blond was lying, since, a few steps behind him, the rugby team guys were eating, always noisy, with a space between them that was obviously intended for the newest member.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, a silent question and affirmation. After a second with his questioning expression, John sighed.

"Okay, I'm just a little tired of them, all right?" He confessed, shifting his weight between his feet, uncomfortable. "And since you're the only person here I know minimally."

It still wasn't 100% true, but the brunette didn't have time to say anything else before Molly excitedly called the player to sit in the chair to her left. She soon began to ask him meaningless things (since Sherlock would be able to deduce all that), so the brunette only worried about avoiding as much interaction as possible with the boy in front of him. To his unhappiness, the girl couldn't stop him from interacting with him.

"I researched your blog." John stated, looking directly at him. Sherlock turned his attention to him.

"And then? What did you think?"

"You said you can recognize a programmer by his tie, and a pilot by his left thumb."

"And he can!" Molly said, excited. "You have to see. He can dig up secrets like a mole."

"Rude, Molly." Sherlock said, slightly wrinkling his nose at the comparison.

"They told me you work as a cupid, too." John continued. "Please, don't call me that. It sounds ridiculous." Holmes tossed one of his curls back, the movement followed by the other's gaze. "People pay, I tell them if their relationship has a future or not. Nothing more than that."

John adjusted himself in the chair, taking a forkful of food to his mouth, as if pausing to think. After that, he took a 20-dollar bill from his pocket, placing it on the table, in the brunette's direction.

"Brad, from my team." He pointed to a red-haired boy, who was throwing pieces of bread at his friend next to him. "He's with the cheerleading captain. Is it a good match?"

Holmes promptly accepted the challenge, looking at the said boy. As standard as John, if not even more so: tanned skin, almost 1.90m tall, and a scoundrel aura. He lowered his eyes to his hand, noticing that his red thread did not go towards his girlfriend, but to the other side of the cafeteria, stopping directly in the hands of a brunette girl, who wore glasses too big for her face, with a reclusive appearance, seeming to him the perfect stereotype of a high school nerd. He laughed internally, realizing how the universe was becoming less and less creative in its choices of couples. The bully and the nerd, was there anything more boring than that?

"He has a tense face, and he's clearly avoiding looking at his girlfriend. The two aren't interacting, and when their eyes meet, he blushes. In other words, his little boy isn't working with her." He said, and watched John break into an amused smile. "This must have been happening for a while, and last night they tried to put it to the test, but nothing yet. They want to break up, the girl is terribly bored in this relationship, her self-esteem has been broken by not feeling as desired as she always was - but they can't, no. After all, why would her dear Brad leave the hottest girl in college? And she can't just let the rugby team captain escape from her painted nails."

He adjusted himself in the chair, glancing at Brad, catching him just as the boy was discreetly staring at the girl with glasses.

"And do you want to know why his little boy isn't working?" Sherlock said, getting a positive nod from John, who was completely absorbed in his words, as if hypnotized. "He's a neighbor of our lovely 'nerd whose name I don't know,' sitting right there." He pointed to where the girl was sitting, attracting the attention of the blond and Molly to her. "You can tell that by the fact that I've always seen them arriving almost together, every day. They come all the way together, but she always finds an excuse to arrive later, so he doesn't have to be embarrassed to be seen with her. But these days the girl forgot to close the windows, which probably face his house, and he saw her changing or something. And now he can only function when he touches himself thinking about her, and he can no longer disguise the attraction he feels for her by pretending that the cheerleader is her, because now he knows how different their bodies are. And he much prefers the flat ones."

"That... was great." The boy in front of him let slip, receiving a nod of agreement from the girl beside him. "And how do you know that Brad likes her?"

"That's easy, John, you shouldn't even be asking me that. Look how he tries to look at her every moment, and how his whole body tenses when he realizes she's interacting with her friend. Unfortunately, his door-like intellect can't grasp that the girl is straight, and completely in love with him. Just look at her, it's a complete cliché, just waiting for her bad guy who will turn into her puppy and take her to the prom after fifty arguments that could easily be resolved with a dialogue."

The blond laughed, leaning towards Sherlock.

"Wow. That's... impressive. But you seem particularly unwilling to deal with teenage romances."

"You would be too if you were forced to watch dozens of them just because someone is on their period and, if you don't do what they want, they threaten to destroy all your experiments." He narrowed his eyes at Molly, making it clear that it was a hint.

"That doesn't even count." She retorted, sticking out her tongue at the boy. "You sleep or start doing something random in all of them, you never pay attention to the movies." She finished with a pout.

"I'm protecting my synapses from being corroded by the level of things you like."

John, who was observing their dynamic, spoke after a few moments: "You two are very close." He shifted a little in his chair. "Are you, um, are you dating?"

Molly choked on a laugh, and Sherlock stared at him, indignant.

"Sherlock, dating?" She continued laughing. "No, not that. We've known each other since we were little, and he rejected me in his usual graceful way when I fell in love, years ago."

"I've always made my position on that clear." He explained, shrugging.

"And what would that be?" John couldn't help but ask.

"Love, dating, that kind of thing. They are nothing more than chemical dysfunctions in the brain that only serve to compromise reasoning. My relationship is unique and exclusively with my profession and my cognitive abilities."

The blond smiled, as if he had been expecting something like that.

"It's an interesting position. I wonder if it will stay that way forever, or if you'll realize there's more magic in falling in love than mere physiological reactions when the right person appears."

"That will never happen, Watson."

"You can't guarantee that."

"Not everyone is obligated to spend their lives in a programmed search for a commercialized happiness as if it could only be found in a spouse."

"It's not a search." John adjusted himself in his chair, finishing his pasta. "You don't... look for the ideal person. They just appear."

"Do you believe in soulmates, John?" Molly asked, analyzing the two with her eyes. Sherlock could almost hear the gears in the woman's head, turning to try to understand how John could talk so calmly with the curly-haired man in such a short time.

"I admit I've never stopped to think about it." He drank the contents of his glass, looking at the ceiling, seeming to ponder something. "I don't know. I guess it would be too arrogant to assume that, in such a vast universe, we would be special enough to have someone tailor-made for us, and not just a random union. But I think it would be good if that actually existed."

Sherlock slightly wrinkled his nose, arching his eyebrows.

"Do you think it would be good not to have free will regarding what's best for you? Not being able to choose who your partner for the rest of your life would be." The curly-haired man was truly curious.

"I don't know. I wasn't thinking about it that way." He shrugged. "I just find the idea comforting that, despite everything, there's someone for you, that the universe is pulling strings so you won't be alone, in the end. That, somewhere in the world, there's someone to accept and love you just the way you are."

Sherlock looked at the red thread that tangled on the table, feeling a slight weight on his shoulders. John had a... beautiful view on the matter. He felt a little heavy for being on the other side of the boy's destiny, and not someone who actually met his expectations.

He raised his eyes, meeting Molly's intense gaze. It didn't take much knowledge of deduction to read the silent plea in her eyes, for him to guide John to his partner, but he only responded with a negative nod, which would be interpreted as 'he hasn't found him yet,' and not as 'I can't do that,' as it actually was. She let out an audible sigh.

"I like that idea too." The girl agreed with the blond, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Holmes keeps annoying me by saying I only like predictable romances, but I'd like to discover that there's someone completely outside expectations waiting for me. Just like Brad and Heather, someone who won't be a mirror, but who will complete you."

John smiled at her, in agreement. Holmes shifted. Well, indeed, to say that he had been caught by surprise when he saw his fate intertwined with John was an understatement, but the boy wasn't as bad as he had imagined. He had to admit that he liked how he admired his deductions.

"Here." He slid the bill back to the blond. "Consider this a free trial. When you ask for something for yourself, I should inform you that I charge 50 dollars."

The ex-military man let out a nasal laugh, putting the money back in his pocket. They continued lunch just talking until the time for the next class, when the three of them went to their respective rooms.

The two began to bump into each other and meet much more frequently after the intertwining of their threads of fortune. Sherlock had never seen John before, but suddenly he would run into him during various class changes, find him studying in the library at the same times as his own, and discovered that they walked a small part of the way home on the same street. And he wasn't naive enough to believe that it was mere coincidence. He was increasingly involved in the cunning of the thread, even more so when he couldn't deny it when, after they finished studying (not together, but sitting almost next to each other), John would ask him to make deductions about the people in the place, his blue eyes sparkling with enchantment as the curly-haired man said exactly who the young librarian had slept with in the room.

The act of having lunch together, which Holmes had thought would be a one-time event, also repeated itself, enough times for John to notice that the curly-haired man never ate lunch, which culminated in a sermon of more than an hour about the importance of good nutrition. But what surprised Molly, and Sherlock himself, the most, was that, in fact, that day the boy was walking to his table with a tray containing an orange juice and a pair of sandwiches. It wasn't a decent meal, but it was a greater advance than the girl had achieved in years of friendship.

However, that Friday, John was not alone when he joined them. And he had a huge bruise around his eye.

"What happened to you?" Molly said as soon as she saw the boy's face, agitated. He initially just took his usual seat, next to her, leaving Greg only able to sit next to Sherlock.

"I kept thinking about what Sherlock said about Brad, and, well, I wanted to help with their situation." He shrugged again, embarrassed.

"You hit on the nerd in front of your captain's team?" Holmes said, somewhat surprised.

"Well, it worked. He freaked out, and made it very clear to the whole college that no one should go near her." He gave a small smile, as if expecting approval from the curly-haired man.

"That was, by far, the stupidest and riskiest way to do it." Sherlock couldn't help but give a knowing smile.

"Wait a minute." Greg commented, as if he had seen a ghost. "Am I seeing a genuine smile on Sherlock Holmes? May the gods have mercy on our souls in the approaching apocalypse."

The brunette shrugged. He did tend not to show his emotions much, but it was natural how it happened with John.

"And what are you doing here, George?" Holmes openly changed the subject. "For the last time, it's Greg, Holmes, Greg. It's literally 4 letters, man." The boy ran his hand through his face, in a sign of exasperation. "I was studying with John in the library, preparing them for today's assignment, and he called me to lunch."

"Oh, right, the assignment." Holmes pinched his nose, completely forgetting that he had agreed to do it with the two of them. Even though he already had half of it ready at home.

The activity consisted of cultivating a specific bacterium and then finding the fungus that contained it by amensalism, purifying the toxin it used for this purpose into a rudimentary medicine. Similar to what led Alexander Fleming to discover penicillin.

"I can't believe it, you forgot?" Greg narrowed his eyes at him.

"I told you I'd do it alone. And I can't go to John's house today, I have dance class after college."

"I didn't know you danced." John spoke, not seeming at all bothered by the previous sentences.

"I do ballet." Sherlock shook his head, showing he didn't want to talk about it.

"Well, we can meet after you finish." John suggested. "What time does it end?"

In that period they started talking, Sherlock had already learned to recognize that look on the face of the boy in front of him: he wouldn't give up until Holmes joined them in the said work. He rolled his eyes, resigned.

"7 PM."

"We'll meet at 8 PM at my place, then." John concluded, and it didn't seem like a question to know if they were available. "And bread isn't a real lunch, Holmes. I hope you have dinner tonight."

"Of course, mom." He rolled his eyes, finishing his juice. "Do you want me to do sit-ups too? Maybe a walk."

"I was going to comment on how you should exercise, but now that I've discovered you dance, I'll settle for that." He gave a challenging smile. "That explains one thing."

"What?"

"Why you have such beautiful legs." John said as if commenting on the weather.

Holmes heard Greg choke on the chicken he had shoved into his mouth beside him, and Molly put her hands over her mouth, looking from one to the other with wide eyes, but he couldn't pay attention to any of those things at the moment. Because in his Mind Palace there wasn't a single room that wasn't looping John's phrase.

"Sorry?" He said, as if he hadn't heard. To make sure his ear hadn't transmitted the vibrations incorrectly.

"Oh, well..." John suddenly turned red, looking around, pressing his lips together, as if only at that moment he had realized what he had said. "Look, they really are together." He changed the subject, pointing to a Brad entering embraced by a short girl with glasses, whom Holmes promptly recognized from the other day. The two smiled at John, their eyes shining with gratitude, showing that the ex-military man had already been forgiven for his unorthodox cupid methods.

The other two at the table let themselves be carried away by the other subject, but Sherlock barely opened his mouth until the end of the day. That was becoming dangerous.

He spent all the time after that episode trying to distract his mind, to prove to himself that the constant image of the blond in his mind was only due to the fact that he had caught him by surprise at lunch. And when he left dance class and went home, he was sure he was putting on perfume and tight pants just to prove he was doing an experiment. To test how much that thread had already distorted John's individuality.

He felt strangely nervous. As the taxi headed towards John's residence, he noticed that his heart was beating faster and faster. It was because of guilt, of course. It was rude, and even cruel, to be depriving John of his soulmate. But he couldn't do anything else.

He looked at his finger. His thread was completely stretched, crossing the car wall towards him. He was lucky to only see the threads of destiny of whoever he wished at the moment, otherwise his vision would be, 100% of the time, just a crimson tangle.

The taxi radio played something that didn't please his ears. He wanted to listen to classical music, or something like that, something that would help him relax. He should have brought his nicotine patches, but he was so oblivious that he didn't even think about it. He lightly scraped his nails on his arms, trying to focus his mind on something, even if it was the slight burning sensation of the welts on his skin.

The taxi stopped and, before he could think better, he was already in front of John's door. He raised his hand to knock, but lowered it again. Heavens, he really was strange, as they always told him. It wasn't fair to experiment with his destined one, especially if he had no intention of staying with him. He should go home and change those stupid pants, and undo the more careful than usual arrangement he had given his hair. But before he could do anything else, the door opened, and he came face to face with a light-haired lady. She looked him up and down and, with a little smile, called John's name up the stairs.

"He'll be down in a minute, dear." She greeted him with a smile. "Come in, you can enter."

She held the door open for him. Sherlock was about to refuse, noticing that the lady had her purse in her hands, indicating she was leaving, but well, a cup of tea would be good to relax now. He thanked her, followed the woman inside, and sat in an armchair near a fireplace, watching her disappear for a few moments into the kitchen. He heard someone coming towards the room he was in, and, by the weight of the footsteps, he didn't even need to look to know it was John, but he did, just to see his expression.

As soon as Sherlock entered his field of vision, the blond stopped for a few moments, staring at him. His mouth opened, and then closed, swallowing hard.

"Oh, hi Sherlock." He said after a few moments. "I... She... This is Mrs. Hudson. I'm her tenant." He introduced the woman who returned with a tray containing tea and biscuits.

"Although sometimes he treats me like a maid." She complained, not very seriously. "John, you didn't tell me your boyfriend is so handsome."

John went from his tanned tone to scarlet in a matter of seconds. "Hudson! He's not my boyfriend. This is Sherlock Holmes, my frie..." He paused during the word, seeming to ponder his relationship with the curly-haired man. "My college colleague. We're here to do an assignment."

"I know, I know very well how much anatomy you must study together." The lady laughed, and Sherlock couldn't help but arch the corner of his lips at the other boy's embarrassed expression. "Well, I'm off to the market." And with that, she left, leaving an embarrassed John behind, who, despite his shame, kept his eyes on the visitor's lower region.

"I swear I didn't introduce you to her like that. I just said I had a friend coming. I mean, I don't know if you see me as a friend, more..."

Sherlock couldn't help but find the other's desperation amusing. Was he that difficult to deal with? He broadened his smile, seeing how all the boy's attention shifted to that point.

But they didn't have time to say anything else because a knock on the door announced Greg's arrival, and soon they set about doing the project.

John couldn't be more obvious in his growing desire for Sherlock. The way his heart accelerated to the point of being visible through his trachea when the brunette touched him, his hands sweating with an almost imperceptible tremor, and how his gaze was almost always fixed on Holmes. He always observed the other's slightest movements, always lingering longer on his lips, neck, and hip curves.

I mean, maybe the people around them hadn't noticed, because Sherlock heard constant insinuations from the other's rugby teammates for him to go out with the cheerleaders, but for the curly-haired man, it was as if he was screaming that he liked him every moment.

And Sherlock wasn't sure what to think about it. It was a fact that his ego was inflated like never before; he wanted to go up to all those petty girls who called him weird and worse things, and say: 'Look, if the handsome guy you do everything to get attention from isn't only looking at this misfit and his beautiful legs, instead of those sausages you have under your short skirt.' Something else that didn't help lessen his arrogance was the way the blond treated everything he did as incredible, from his deductions to explaining any course material or his various skills.

Aside from Molly, he had never had anyone who had spoken positively about him. I mean, in the last few days, Greg had also approached them, having discovered that "Sherlock isn't so bad when he keeps his mouth shut," but it wasn't the same.

But it hurt to think that it might not be real. There was no way anyone could be attracted to Holmes. It was all an illusion caused by the thread of destiny, and Sherlock couldn't let himself be carried away by his desires like that. He had to remain faithful to his ideals, not to be swayed by those obstacles called feelings.

He couldn't allow himself to think about how beautiful John looked after rugby practice, with his tanned skin glistening with sweat. Or how surprisingly intelligent he was compared to others at college, even being able to follow some of Sherlock's deductions. Or how sexy he looked when he was angry, his marked features closing into a rigorous expression and a rigid posture that reminded him of his military days. Sherlock buried his face in his arms, arching over the pharmacology class table. He was trapped in the polar bear paradox: the more he wished to expel John Watson from his mind palace, the more rooms the blond built for himself.

"Are you okay?" He heard a soft voice beside him.

Great, just the last person Holmes wanted to hear at that moment. 'No, I want you to stay away from me, and never look at me with those pleading puppy eyes again, to leave me alone and never ask me to deduce anyone again, never praise me and leave me so confused' was what he wanted to shout, but he only replied:

"I am. Just... today I'm going to rehearse my part alone in ballet class, and I hate dancing without someone from outside telling me how I did." He lied shamelessly, but his face was still hidden.

"Oh, I see." John replied, making the other believe they had already finished the subject, but he said again, after a few moments. "I've never seen anyone dance ballet live."

Heavens, the blond always managed to surprise him. He raised his eyes to him, finding the blue irises focused on his.

"Are you asking me to accompany my rehearsal?" He asked, still incredulous, watching the other blush slightly, looking away.

"If I can, I'd be very happy."

Damn John Watson. And the damn fate that loved to play with the brunette's face. And, especially, damn Sherlock Holmes.

"I'll go there as soon as I leave college class." Not a permission, not a denial.

The blond opened one of his wide smiles, nodding that he understood. The two remained silent during the rest of the class, but as soon as the professor bid farewell, John promptly began to follow Sherlock. The brunette did as usual: picked up his training clothes from the locker, called a taxi, and gave the address, but now he noticed that he was more euphoric than usual, and would classify this disturbance as worthy of 5 nicotine patches. In a way, the idea of showing another facet of himself to John animated him.

When they arrived, he quickly introduced the place to him, leaving him sitting on the floor with their bags in the studio, and went to the bathroom to change. When he came out, he started stretching, feeling his skin practically burn under the other's intense gaze. Glancing at the blond, he noticed his eyes fixed on everything the leotard accentuated - his torso, legs, hip curves, and buttocks. The ex-military man's mouth was slightly open, as if he had difficulty breathing, and the way he uncomfortably moved his legs made it clear what the loose pants hid inside.

With a discreet mischievous smile, Sherlock stretched more than necessary, lingering as he extended his back over his legs, touching his feet and keeping his hips raised. He watched John swallow hard, the blue of his eyes more intense than he had ever seen. But he wasn't there to provoke the player.

Without further warning, he put on the music. La Bayadère sounded in their ears, and Sherlock immediately began to move. But he was not the solar warrior - no, he was Nikya, committed to her mission to make the great man fall in love with her. He was the temple dancer who, with grace and dexterity in every step, made any man fall under her spell. The sound of the music, of the covered feet hitting the floor after a pirouette, and the breathless breathing of both present were the only things that could be heard, everything else in an almost devout silence.

When he finished, Holmes bowed, as if thanking an audience, and waited for applause. But it didn't come. Frowning in doubt, he raised his eyes to John. He seemed to be in a trance. His eyes were completely focused, his breathing noisy, his whole body tense. He blinked once, twice. Swallowed hard. It was as if he had just seen something humanly incomprehensible in front of him, he stared at Sherlock as if he saw the Sun god himself.

He swallowed hard once more, relaxing his body, and cleared his throat with a cough.

"I... I mean, you..." He began to speak, but soon got tangled up, shaking his head to start again. "That was amazing, Sherlock. I think it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Thank you."

The curly-haired man couldn't hold back a smile. A real one, open, showing all his teeth to John, as he hadn't done in a long time. He knew that the blond's judgment was compromised by the feelings he had for him, and that he had no parameters to compare his particular presentation, but he knew that the other's compliment was not limited to his performance.

He had shown his most hidden facet to him, the sensitive and art-loving one, and instead of being ridiculed, as he had been in his childhood, John had looked at him and said he was beautiful. He felt his heart pound, the sound clear against his ears. Suddenly, he realized that this was exactly what Molly was referring to when they talked about soulmates that afternoon - his whole being vibrated in ecstasy at being admired by that rough, unrefined man, who, despite not understanding the nuances of his art, could marvel at it. At him.

The words got stuck in his throat, also trapping his breath. Sherlock Holmes was speechless for the first time in his life.

"I mean, I know you know that." John was clearly nervous, encouraged by the other's lack of response. "And that my opinion shouldn't matter much, since I don't even understand these things, but..."

"No." He cut the blond off. "I... I care. Thank you, John. I'm glad you liked it." He was sincere.

The two stared at each other for a few more moments, smiling.

"Will it just be a repeat?" Watson asked.

"Oh, no. I'm sorry, but you'll be forced to watch this until you're sick of it." Sherlock said, stretching his legs again over the metal bar that was attached to the large mirror covering one of the walls of the place. "That's impossible." John guaranteed, sitting more comfortably on the floor. "I'll love watching every second of it."

And he did what he said. With every little dance of the other, he would burst into applause and compliments. When he realized it, Sherlock was trying all the steps he usually wouldn't risk for fear of failing just to amaze the other, knowing that he didn't know that it was nowhere near perfect. After two hours in that cycle, the brunette was too tired to continue.

"You can go home, I'll stop by mine to take a shower and then I'll go to yours, so we can finish the work." He said to the blond, after finishing his water bottle.

They had already completed the planned semester's practical work in the first 2 months, leaving only the reports to conclude, which was a relief for Sherlock, who should no longer have to go to John's house every Friday. Or at least it should have been.

"Why that? You can shower at my place." John suggested, noting that the dance school was very close to where he lived.

"I don't want to bother. And I didn't bring soap with me." He shrugged. "We'll buy one on the way. Come on, a bar of soap is much cheaper than a taxi to your house and back here." He justified, picking up the brunette's bag on his shoulders, along with his own, indicating that he wouldn't accept another answer. With few options, Sherlock followed him to the exit, and both headed to the ex-military man's apartment. They talked little on the way, and Holmes had to admit that his feet hurt a little after spending so much time in his ballet shoes. As he hated sweat, he still wore the leotard with pants over it, but when the fourth person on the street followed him with her head, John took off his own jacket and covered his torso with it. It was short, but it served to hide his exposed forms.

When he arrived at the apartment, he was greeted by a thump on his legs, seeing a small blond tuft clinging to them. With a smile, he bent down and picked Harriet up.

"Hello, little bee." He greeted, lifting her as if making her fly, eliciting small giggles and excited squeals from the child.

He had gotten along surprisingly well with John's sister. Although she was 4 years old, she was very quiet and shy, but she had grown fond of the brunette, especially when he called her to play pirates on his second visit to the Watsons' house, distracting her while her brother and Greg prepared the agar for their second attempt at bacteria cultivation (since Harry broke the plates with the first one). In a way, he saw himself in her, in her problems socializing, and he sympathized with the little girl. Especially because she wasn't an unbearable snot ball, as little people often were.

"Sher, Sherl, I want to hunt for treasure!" She said between delightful giggles. John was leaning against the door, smiling at the sight of the two.

"I'm sorry, but now I really need to take a shower." He apologized, kissing her cheek, then putting her down. She pouted, but before she could protest, John offered to put on a cartoon for her on television. She promptly accepted, and the two went to the living room.

"I can't believe I was so easily forgotten because of a bunch of poorly drawn pigs." He complained when the blond returned, following him to his room, where John was getting a towel for him.

He only got a laugh in response.

"I'm always surprised by the fact that you get along with children." The blond commented, guiding Sherlock to the bathroom.

"I can get along with anyone I want." He defended himself, putting his hands on his chest, as if offended. "I just don't bother. Adults are cruel and irrational creatures. Children are just irrational."

John opened his smile even wider, stopping at the door as Sherlock entered. The brunette took off his jacket and returned it to its owner, but noticed that even so, he didn't leave.

"Um, John? I need to close the door to take a shower. Unless you want to come in with me." He provoked, holding back a laugh at the other's embarrassed expression.

"I'll... I'll text Greg to let him know he can come over." John said goodbye.

Sherlock used the cold water to better organize his thoughts. How he wished that, with the flow, all his confused feelings and daydreams would go down the drain with it. He had to admit that he would miss being in John's personal space, and also Harry's. Even Mrs. Hudson and her constant provocations regarding the two's emotional state. He even wondered if the woman possessed the same gift as his, but in his deductions he never found anything that could prove his suspicions. When he came out, he found John helping his sister with a coloring book. He carefully showed the shapes to the little girl, who repeated the names of the cartoon animals after her brother. He sat in the armchair in front of the fireplace, not wanting to disturb the two, and began to write for his blog on his cell phone. It seemed... strangely peaceful. He wasn't bored doing nothing in the company of the Watsons. He was just serene.

"John, my dear, would you like some tea?" They were drawn to Mrs. Hudson when she entered the room. "Oh, hello Sherlock, my dear. Are you served?"

"I'll accept, please," the brunette greeted her with a nod and a smile. "Okay. John?" She asked, receiving a positive nod of confirmation. However, before she could go to the kitchen, she turned to them again, as if she had noticed something important. Her eyes swept over the blond's flushed face, and then the curly-haired man's slightly wet and fragrant skin, and Sherlock mentally prepared himself for what was to come. "Heavens, boys. I told you not to do anything indecent in front of Harry. If you're going to do something, leave her with me, at least."

John was startled, straightening his spine, turning scarlet. He looked at Sherlock, who had obviously just come out of the shower and was wearing his jacket, as it had gotten cold and he hadn't brought one. He usually got angry at the lady's insinuations, but at that moment he couldn't deny that the situation was, at the very least, suggestive.

"We-we didn't do anything you're thinking." He justified, his voice faltering minimally. "I just offered for him to shower here because his house is in the opposite direction of mine, so it's easier to come straight here."

The lady gave them a mischievous smile, but said nothing more. She went to the kitchen.

"How do you know, Watson?" Sherlock said, observing that the younger Watson had returned to paying exclusive attention to the colorful and eye-catching shapes on the screen.

"Sorry?" The player stood up, stretching his legs.

"Where my house is. How do you know? Did you become a stalker?" He asked, playing with the accusation the other had made against him in their first conversation.

"I saw you leaving these days, with Molly." He justified, but then pulled back. "You two seem so close, going home together."

Ah, how patent John was. Sherlock could almost see the jealousy creeping through his veins, like a venomous animal.

"Yeah, I forgot to tell you. She confessed to me again, and this time I accepted her feelings. Now we're living together, and ready to have our mini-Holmes."

John initially widened his eyes, but soon rolled them when the other finished the sentence.

"We go home together because we're neighbors, idiot." Sherlock explained. "Do you really think anyone would be my friend if it wasn't because they were forced by their parents since early childhood, because we live close?"

"I'm your friend, and it's not because of that." John argued, a tone of reprimand in his sentence for his self-deprecating tone.

'That's because you're forced by the universe, John. By the damn little thread on your finger.' Sherlock thought to himself, the affirmation weighing more on his chest than it should. He looked at his own hand. He wanted it to disappear. He wanted to wake up one day and no longer have that crimson intertwining on his fingers, so that he could finally stop deluding himself, so that John would finally move away and stop confusing his mind palace.

"Hey? Are you okay?" The blond asked, noticing the change in expression. Before he could say anything, he heard a knock on the door, and the other's cell phone vibrating announced Greg's arrival. Always precise in the moments he chose to arrive. The three served themselves Mrs. Hudson's tea, before going to John's room. Holmes tried not to join the other two's conversation while taking photos of the work to put in the report, but with such a small room it was impossible not to hear what they were saying.

"Man, you did too well. I was sure we were going to lose, and then you secured a tie in the last five minutes of the game." Greg said, referring to the last college rugby game.

"Imagine. If I had done well, we would have won, not tied." The blond said humbly.

"You would have won, if Moriarty hadn't been more focused on competing with you for attention than on cooperating with the team." Sherlock couldn't help but speak up. He simply couldn't stand that guy.

"You went to watch the game?" John said, looking genuinely shocked. "You called me, didn't you?" Holmes tilted his head. I mean, he knew the other hadn't seen him, because he stayed away from the crowd, away from the stands, but, after much nagging with several requests accompanied by puppy eyes, John had made him promise to watch him.

"Yes, but I didn't see you there." The boy seemed a mixture of happiness and anguish. Sherlock simply shrugged.

"I heard you went out with Mary after the game." Greg said after a few seconds of silence, also piquing the curly-haired man's interest. Mary was a relatively popular girl, for being beautiful, but she was also kind, one of the only ones who had never treated him differently. She was John's type.

"She felt sick after drinking, and I took her home. That's all." John justified, extending his hand to take Sherlock's petri dish.

"No way, John. Everyone saw the kiss you two shared when you were leaving." Greg laughed.

Crack.

The glass with their work shattered on the floor, sending shards and biological content everywhere.

Sherlock trembled slightly, watching how he had let the glass fall before the other could reach his hand. John... kissed another girl? His soulmate had fallen in love with someone else? Had the blond outsmarted fate better than he himself? His mind palace trembled, as if it had been hit by an earthquake. Had he misinterpreted the blond's signals? John might very well never have liked him, and it was only his mind eager for recognition creating all those confusing illusions.

"Sherlock! Heavens, are you okay? Are you hurt?" John quickly exclaimed, taking the other's hands to see if he had any injuries.

Holmes quickly pulled his palm away from the other's hand, feeling as if the contact burned. He felt betrayed, and there was no reason why. He should be happy about it. It meant he was free, that fate was not absolute over them. So why did it feel so wrong?

"I-I'm sorry." He composed himself, even though his hands were cold, his heart racing. "Sorry. We-I... I mean, I have a copy of the work done at home. We can finish taking pictures of mine and..."

"Wait." Greg asked, a harsh tone. "Did you intentionally screw up our work so we'd use yours? Let me guess, you must have thought ours was terrible, and wanted to find a way to use your perfect one."

"No, I..." Holmes began to justify himself, but was interrupted by John. "Greg! Man, apologize now for the crap you said." He said, in a deadly serious tone. "Sherlock obviously had a drop in blood pressure, don't you see how pale and shaky he is? You know he doesn't eat properly."

Lestrade sighed, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sorry, Holmes. John's right, I keep complaining about you, but I was a shitty friend just now. It was the stress talking." He apologized, sincerely, with a smile of redemption on his face.

"It's okay. I mean, it's natural for you to think something like that about me." Holmes shrugged, as if indifferent. "I'll, um, go back home and finish taking the pictures and making the measurements alone, then, as an apology for screwing up your work."

"Our. Our project, Sherlock." The blond corrected him, with a comforting smile. "Can't we go with you? I'd feel bad leaving you to do it alone."

"You don't have to, I mean, I'm the one who messed up here." He hated admitting he was wrong, but he had just ruined two months' worth of work they had done together.

"It wasn't your fault, man, relax. In fact, we're lucky to have you here, otherwise, by now, we'd be lost." Greg comforted him, making Holmes feel a little happy with his words. "So, if you don't mind, we'll go with you."

He agreed, with a nod. After the blond cleaned up the mess on his floor and took his younger sister to stay with his landlady, they got into a taxi to the Holmes' house. Sherlock sent a message, hoping no one would be at his residence, but, to his misfortune, the only one present would be the one he least wanted to see: Mycroft.

As soon as he entered the house, he came face to face with the man in the living room, as if waiting for them. He looked at everyone, as if evaluating them, his eyes lingering longer on Greg. And, by the gods, Sherlock felt like vomiting. Because there, right before his eyes, he watched his brother's pathetic line of destiny intertwine with his college colleague, forming a confused knot on each of their fingers. Gregory blushed slightly, meeting the older Holmes' intense eyes.

"Well, if Sherlock won't introduce me, allow me." He rose from the armchair where he sat elegantly, extending his fingers to the two young men. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, his older brother. It's a pleasure."

"These are John and Lestrade." Sherlock introduced them, and he knew that the annoyed way he pronounced the latter's name was enough for his brother to perfectly understand who he was. His eyes sparkled with interest, and he held the young man's hand longer than he had held the blond's, making the crimson on his cheeks more intense.

"You can call me Greg." He said, with a sideways smile. "Sherlock never mentioned he had a brother."

"I imagined, he usually hides that fact." The reddish-brown haired man smiled back, placing one hand on his hip. "And to what do I owe the pleasant visit? It's the first time he's brought anyone here." He ruffled his curly hair before he could be stopped. "I imagined Molly was the only one who could stand him." He joked, in a serious tone that could confuse an outsider.

"We came to do an assignment," Greg explained.

"What a scare, I thought you were here of your own free will." He teased the younger one a little more.

"But we are, too. We came with Sherlock because we are his friends." John spoke up, still afraid that the older man's words were actually true to hurt the curly-haired man.

Mycroft looked at him more carefully. After a brief moment, he asked: "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John seemed surprised for a few seconds, but then shook his head, remembering the first conversation with the other Holmes.

"Afghanistan. Three years." He shrugged. "Is it genetic? This... thing you do."

"The deductions?" Mycroft smiled, realizing that neither of the two young men knew about his younger brother's gift. "It's a family gift, if you want to think of it that way."

"Seriously? I'd love to know what you can predict about me." Greg said, excited. Sherlock didn't know if he felt more offended by the fact that his 'friend' was flirting with his brother in front of him or by Greg getting angry when he was the one making deductions about him.

"At the moment, what stands out most is that you intend to become a public servant, probably a police officer." The older Holmes straightened his posture. "Which is quite interesting, as I work in that area. If you want to talk about it. And, who knows, I can tell you more things that emanate from me." He finished, with a smile.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock wanted to die. Nothing seemed as terrifying as seeing his brother flirting.

He just blinked at the younger one. Exasperated, Sherlock dragged his colleagues upstairs, to finish the work quickly, before he had a reflux. He made sure to ignore any questions Greg asked about his brother, and also avoided talking to or touching John. He was sure he was getting sick; his heart had a funny sensation, as if it were being squeezed, and his stomach felt heavy, as if he were trying to digest a piece of aluminum, and everything seemed to worsen when he looked at the blond and remembered the earlier discovery.

Only when Greg went to the bathroom did John finally manage to express the strangeness he felt, obviously bothered by the change in the curly-haired man's attitude, who had been acting like he did in the first few weeks they met.

"Okay, spill it." He said, his jaw clenched in frustration when, passing a paper to the other, Sherlock took it by the very tip of the sheet, avoiding him as much as possible.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The curly-haired man shrugged, leaning over his microscope again, which he had received from Molly for his 16th birthday.

"Come on, Sherlock, I know something's up." John ran his fingers through his hair, annoyed. "Was it what happened in the room? Look, I'm sorry, I should have picked up the plate before it fell. Or was it because Hudson said something? Sorry, I've already told her to stop with those insinuations, but she can be as stubborn as you sometimes."

The other simply shrugged, as if forgiving him for those things, or nothing in particular. But his mind and body were so strange that he couldn't even concentrate his vision on the material he was analyzing on the other side of the microscope, so he just gave up keeping it to himself. "Is it true? What Greg said, in the room." He asked, no more than a whisper.

"The thing about thinking you could do it on purpose? Of course not..." The blond began, but then a light appeared in his eyes. "Wait, are you asking about Mary?"

Sherlock just nodded, not daring to speak. At that moment he felt childish and awkward, and like a jerk for giving John false hope, but he couldn't help himself. Because a part of him cried out for the boy to deny it all.

"We did kiss, in fact." John said, taking a step closer to the curly-haired man, dropping what he was holding onto his desk. "But it's not what you're thinking. She was drunk, and she grabbed me. But I pulled away immediately, and explained to her that there's someone I like."

Sherlock couldn't move. Something in his veins burned, making his whole body blaze under the other's intense gaze. Sitting down and John standing, the other was taller, observing him like prey.

"Is that so?" Was all he could utter. His breathing was more accelerated at that moment than it usually was after hours of rehearsal.

"It is." John replied, simply, placing a hand on each side of the brunette, pinning him against the desk. "Sherlock, I know you know. Of course you know. But I'm sorry, it's killing me to keep this inside."

Holmes continued to say nothing. He couldn't. His entire Mind Palace was blank; the only thing in his mind was how John was staring deeply at him, as if he could see his soul, his lips trembling with anxiety and a few drops of sweat appearing on his forehead. Sherlock knew perfectly well what was coming next, but he had no strength to stop it.

"I'm in love. I'm utterly in love with you." The blond boy finally said. His voice, like his head, was low.

The curly-haired man felt his heart race. He knew it, but hearing it from John's own mouth... His head began to spin. Everything in him was sensitive, and he wondered how the hell it could be so intense. He felt as if he would combust at any moment.

He had never felt so human before.

All because of a damned thread.

He finally regained control of himself, turning his head in the opposite direction to John. The blond immediately moved away from him, crossing his arms in a defensive posture.

"I'm sorry, but I can't return your feelings. You don't even truly love me, it must just be a momentary confusion." He said at last, avoiding looking the boy in the eyes.

"You don't need to apologize. I knew what the answer would be." John relaxed his posture, and gave a wry smile. "I just... I just... I don't know why. I'm sorry."

With that, the blond stood up and, without looking at Sherlock again, left almost running. As if being in the brunette's presence hurt, as if looking at Sherlock would burn him.

Holmes looked at the palm of his own hand, where now rested the remains of his thread of destiny, as short as it was before he met John. The scissors hung from his other fingers, now as heavy as an anvil. He didn't feel his eyes well up or burn, he didn't even realize he was crying until he saw the small drop fall onto his palm, splattering against the crimson.

"Why?" He asked in a low, broken tone.

He should be happy. He had finally gone against fate, taken the reins of his life. He had gotten what he wanted from the beginning.

So why did it hurt so much?

More thick drops followed the first. He held back a choked sob in his throat. That was the first time he had cried for another person.

The second time was the following week. He was going to the library, where he would spend lunch, when he saw John sitting on the grass, leaning against a tree with Mary beside him. Their fingers were intertwined, and they talked looking up, laughing sometimes.

Sherlock felt himself lose his breath. He wanted to be happy for John, since he could move on with someone he truly wanted, of his own free will. Just as the brunette had suspected, the blond must have gone after the kind and beautiful girl as soon as he found himself free from the illusory effects of the thread. His eyes welled up with tears that he refused to shed. So why couldn't he be happy for the other?

In the end, inside him, only a bitter mixture of sadness and jealousy seethed. He moved away from the two 'lovebirds' before it was too much to bear. He didn't even notice the path before he was squatting near the campus exit, hugging his own knees.

He wanted to convince himself that what he felt was longing to have the blond nearby: in those weeks he had spent avoiding him, the most latent desire within him was to have him praising him, talking to him in his usual lively and cute way. That the reason he was so down was that he had become too attached to the blond, and it would be difficult to get used to being without him now.

But he knew he was lying to himself. There was only one truth, and it was as precious as centrifuged blood plasma:

Sherlock Holmes was madly in love with John Watson. But he was a big idiot. He had ruined everything before they had even started anything. Perhaps it was really better this way, he had freed John from the mixture of disappointments and confusion that was being by his side.

"For God's sake, Holmes, I thought John was bad, but you manage to be even worse." He heard Greg's voice, who was approaching him. He seemed about to leave.

The brunette just nodded in response, looking straight ahead again.

"What's up, man, just because you guys fought doesn't mean we have to stop being friends too." Greg squatted beside him, looking at him as if expecting something. "I haven't seen you all week. Molly complained that she only talks to you on the way home, and you've stopped eating again. I know a breakup is hard, but you can't risk your own health, Holmes."

Sherlock finally raised his eyes to the other boy. Greg had put on perfume and combed his hair back, besides wearing the most expensive clothes he had dressed up for a college day. But he didn't even feel like provoking him now.

"We didn't break up, George." He shrugged. "We never even had anything." The other looked at him expectantly, seeming to have come to a resolution. "Oh, heavens, then go after him! Sherlock, I thought you would have noticed, but John is in love with you!" He said, as if the problem there was a misunderstanding between the two. Lestrade was so naive that he wondered how he could live with someone like Mycroft.

"I know, he told me." He replied softly, almost offending the boy with his slowness.

"And then?" Greg lowered his shoulders again, not understanding what was happening.

"And then, here we are."

"I'm not following. Why didn't you accept his feelings?"

"You wouldn't understand, Greg."

"Indeed, I'm not. I'm just seeing two idiots who love each other separated for some silly reason." Greg snorted. "You're running from your own feelings like a child runs from a nonexistent threat in the dark. You've always been an insensitive bastard, a tremendous asshole, Sherlock, but you've never been a coward."

The brunette didn't even have time to respond before a luxury car stopped in front of the two. From it, his own brother emerged, but he wasn't foolish enough to think it was him who had come to pick him up. With a jump, Greg stood up, tidying his wrinkled clothes.

"Hello, Mycroft." Lestrade greeted him with a radiant smile on his lips.

"Greg." He returned with a curve of his lips. "Sherlock." He also greeted his brother, but upon seeing his dejected expression, he did not maintain his usual disdainful look. He seemed genuinely concerned (or as concerned as he could express). "Lestrade, can you wait for me in the car, please? I'll be right there."

"Of course." The boy hastened to fulfill the request, not without first patting the shoulder of the Holmes sitting on the floor.

"Look who it is, the person I'm seeing for the first time in a week, even though we live in the same house?" Mycroft provoked.

"Not today. Just... not today." He buried his head in his hands, sighing.

"You did what I told you, didn't you?" The older man shook his head, in reprimand. "You are so surprisingly brilliant in so many things, Sherlock, but so foolish in others."

"Get out, please." He groaned, not wanting to hear what he already knew.

"But what's keeping you here then? If you cut the thread and your feelings are still here, then go after him."

"You know why."

"No, Sherlock, I don't know. Neither do you." His brother shrugged, heading towards the car. "Without the thread, your destiny is now in your hands. Everything that happens is a direct consequence of your will, little brother."

The younger one watched Mycroft get into the car and drive off, distancing himself. Well, he had nothing left to lose, did he? He picked up his cell phone.

I'm at the South exit.

SH

He sent it, knowing that the other would perfectly understand what the message meant. He remained silent, waiting, his whole body in a state of nervousness he had never been in before. He urgently needed his patches or a heavier drug.

After a while, he watched the best and most addictive of them arrive in hurried steps. Heavens, he had missed seeing those blue eyes up close so much, of being their focus.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? You avoided me all week, I thought I'd never..." John began to say as he approached, his face red indicating he had run there.

"I love you." Sherlock blurted out at once, before he lost his courage. He was sure he would have a convulsion at any moment.

"What?" John stopped talking, even breathing.

"I'm in love with you." He clarified, unable to sustain the other's gaze and averting his own eyes to his lap, where he wrung his hands. "I'm sorry, I know I'm a selfish idiot for saying this only after everything we've been through, and that you're with someone else now, but..."

"Wait, shut up for a moment." John asked, stunned. It seemed like Sherlock had just said he laid an egg. "Are you kidding me? Is this another one of those experiments you do?"

"John!" Sherlock complained, slightly offended, but he knew the other had reasons to think that. "I wish, damn it, how I wish I were kidding. But I really fell in love, and I only stopped denying it to myself now. Sorry, I'm leaving now, I just wanted to get this out."

He said, somewhat confused and awkward, and stood up, preparing to leave. But before he could walk, he was pulled into John's arms, who held him firmly by the waist. John sighed, burying his face in the taller man's neck. Sherlock thought he felt him vibrate against him, but he didn't care about the sensation of John's body against his, of his arms embracing him. Suddenly, all that emptiness and confusion that had tormented him lately were dissipated, like shadows being carried away by the presence of a radiant spring sun.

John took a deep breath, squeezing him so hard the brunette could almost complain of pain. He would have, if his heart wasn't almost stopping from happiness.

"I had lost hope." The blond murmured, his nose tracing the other's jugular, who felt his whole body shiver with the contact. "Damn, I really thought I had lost you. I love you so much, Sherlock."

"Bu-but what about the thread? And Mary?" The boy pulled away to look into the other's eyes, feeling his left cheek captured by the blond's palm.

"Mary became almost a mother to me these last few days, but we never had anything." He smiled, but then frowned. "Thread?"

Sherlock could no longer hold back. His expression, almost always impassive, melted, overflowing with all the feelings within him. Like a flower blooming, he allowed the biggest smile of his life to appear on his lips.

"That doesn't matter. I love you, John Watson." He replied softly, in a confession to the other. He had never dared to think those words, but now that he had uttered them, it seemed so right, so necessary, that he didn't want to stop.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes." John slowly approached, making his intentions clear and giving Sherlock space to push him away, if he wanted.

But Holmes didn't do that. On the contrary. He wrapped his elbows behind the older man's neck and ended the distance between their mouths. And how Sherlock cursed himself for being so foolish at that moment. For he had always deprived himself of love, thinking it would hinder and destroy him, had pushed John away and hurt him to avoid it, but now, there, touching his beloved so intimately, he realized that he had never felt so much peace in his Mind Palace.