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While researching a case the police had dumped on him, Mr Sherlock Holmes found himself sighing. Not necessarily because of another reminder that the police force are all idiots, even though that’s a part of it. No, the main reason is one of the reddit threads he found. The people in it are discussing whether you can be reborn after you die. If you thought you knew Holmes, you would probably scoff at this and make some kind of snarky remark about the improbability of it all. Possibly to get in his good graces, or maybe to make fun of him. But he knows something most people don’t. He knows that it is very possible to be reborn, as he himself has been waiting a long time to meet the person he loved in that life.
Deciding that was enough of reddit, and emotions, for the night, Sherlock closed the laptop perched on the arm of the sofa and sat up. There’s barely enough room to lay on it, but without a bed in the small apartment, he has to make do. If Lestrade would only pay him enough or give him more cases, he could maybe get an apartment. But instead every other paper on the small table is an ad for flatsharing that he hasn’t put out yet. The other papers are bills. Hopefully they will mostly disappear by this weekend, when he hopefully will be sharing a flat with someone. The digital clock on the shelf says it’s 03:25 and usually that wouldn’t matter too much and he would keep going until he found a big enough clue, but Sherlock has to prepare for that new experiment in the morning before the potential flatmate comes over.
He’s running on his treadmill, checking the display and glancing at the door. Sherlock knows it’s probably not going to be him, but he can’t help but hope. This was how they met before.
Ever since he became capable of complex thought, Sherlock has thought about his past life. He’s thought about the era in which he lived, the family he had and what he worked as. As a Victorian with a small family, he often worked many jobs at the same time. As a child it was easiest to work as a postboy, he took after his brother after he quit to get a better job in one of the workhouses. But Mycroft always had a way about him that got him into higher standing jobs more easily. That stands true even now. Sherlock never had that charm, most people found him too off-beat, so to speak. A job that didn’t require him to be around people, like a postboy, was better. He also did odd-jobs for his neighbors if they asked, like finding peoples beloved dogs. He got a kind of reputation with specifically his detective work. As he got older, he tried to build on it more. If Mycroft could leave their home and prosper, so could Sherlock. In a very different way of course, since Mycroft had his own office in inner London, and Sherlock worked about of his homes loft for a long time.
Then it all changed when he finally got his own office. Because with his office and his detective agency came John Watson. And John Watson became his life. Not immediately, of course, but slowly he threaded his life into Sherlocks. With tea put down in front of Sherlock at any time of day, and a look his way whenever someone was being just a tad too annoying. Sherlock always smirked when he caught Johns eye, and they both knew what they were thinking. After a while, John switched from calling him Holmes or My Dear Holmes, which already had him fluttering, to calling him Sherls. Love wasn’t part of Sherlock before this. Sure, he loved his brother in a way, but romantic love hadn’t crossed his mind. But with every new case and every adrenalin-filled chase, he could feel it growing in him. He hoped John would feel the same, but he couldn’t force it, so he didn’t bring it up for years. John Watson changed his life. With just a step into his office he-
Oh, my god. He almost falls, stumbling off the treadmill. Oh. My. God.
“Whoa, are you okay?”, the man in the doorway asks. John asks. He’s looking at him, at Sherlock. He could feel the air freeze around him. That voice. That voice has been in his dream for as long as he can remember. He runs forward and clasps his hands on Johns shoulders. They feel so incredibly real.
“John..”, Sherlock sighs. “I finally found you”.
“What do you mean found me?” John asks, confused. A worried expression reading on the mans face with maybe a hint of distain as he cocked his head jerkily to the side. What. He could feel his hands tightening on John’s- was it really John?- shoulders.
“Uh-..don’t worry. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat awkwardly brushing the fake dust off John’s jacket. Taking a step back, Sherlock took a hard look at this John’s face. It looked like his John, that little wrinkle on his brow as he also took in how Sherlock looked. Probably insane, from the treadmill and the blood on his arm from his experiment. He seemed to notice it at the same time since he looked down and looked worried for a second.
“Oh wow, how did that happen?”
“There’s no worry, I’m fine. It’s just an.. experiment i was doing, I can stitch it myself.” Sherlock used the distraction to focus on something else that the most important person in the world, and turned around to find his med kit. John moved faster.
“No, I should do it, I’m a doctor. Let me do it.” This is the worst case of deja vú Sherlock has ever experienced. John’s insistence to help, especially with medical things, reminds him of the war doctor who walked into his office and immediately decided to be his carer with no questions. Maybe this was the same man, just not the one who remembers Sherlock. And that was unbearable. He has finally found him, and it was all for naught. John didn’t know Sherlock. His hands against his arm as he sewed him up felt so familiar, and it broke Sherlocks heart. He truly thought he wouldn’t have to go back to his unfeeling past. But if this is the John that exists in this world, this is the John that Sherlock wants to be around. John looks up at him as he asks:
“How does that feel?”
Sherlock represses the tears and the feelings and answers with a tight:
“Fine.”
It’s truly uncanny how similar his two existences can be. Sherlock and John now live together, which is like the past, but it’s the small things that tug on Sherlocks heart. The tea still comes at all hours of the day, and John even starts eyeing him when someone is being idiotic, although Sherlock can’t quite bring himself to smirk back. This John still closes the door after both of them when they leave Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn’t turn around to take his hand. Sherlock is waiting with baited breath every time he gets addressed, he’s waiting for the day where John stops calling him Sherlock and starts with Sherls. It never comes. Day after day they go through similar routines, John takes over food and finances after a while, and Sherlock can’t see John cooking for too long until he is overcome with memories and retreats to play a melancholy piece on his violin. Mariana joins the crew, as John has been calling it, and she becomes the person who makes sure they don’t go bankrupt. Sherlock’s happy he can focus on only his work.
Work that he gets distracted away from so easily. Why does it matter if they reconnected now in this life? You’d think for a man built on logic he’d have an answer for this scenario but he doesn’t. It’s been months now since the three of them finally found the familiar roles for everyone in the flat, but he still isn’t used to the way John made his heart flutter. He can’t say anything yet, he doesn’t think it’s time. But even so.
“Hey John,” he says still at his desk trying to act busy to hide his anxiety. “Do you believe in past lives?” He finally managed out of him before he looked up to the man sipping tea and looking at his laptop, in the same old chair he always resides in.
“How do you mean?” John responds without looking up, “Like, reincarnation and things like that?”
“Yes.” Damn it Sherlock, too curt. Keep it together. “It’s for a case.”
“Ah okay, hm..” He looks up from whatever he’s doing, leans back in his chair and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I mean, there’s no proof for it that I’ve seen or heard of. And even if it were possible, most people would only think of any memories as dreams, and ignore them. Well, I think I would.” John gets a strange look on his face when he says that last part. Like he’s trying to convince himself of something. Sherlock brushes it off, he has to seem normal about this topic.
“Oh, yes, I guess I would assume the same.” He wouldn’t.
Archie walks into the room and plops down beside John. He reaches a hand down to pet him and continues. “But if it was real, and someone knew for sure that they had a past life, I would feel really bad for them. Like, imagine how hard that must be, knowing you had a life before, but also knowing you can’t go back there. All the people you knew, gone. And how far back can a past life go? Can you be reborn multiple times? I couldn’t imagine going through that.” Sherlock has completely lost focus on what he was doing. Hearing John talk about something so close to Sherlocks heart, and sympathizing with him, even thought he doesn't know it. He’s shamelessly staring now, he knows it. The image of John sitting in the chair he always sits in, with tea and his laptop on the table, petting Archie. And it really doesn’t help that the light is hitting his face in such a flattering way. He looks so contemplative, and so, so beautiful.
“If I was reborn again, I think I’d probably try and have a life similar to the one I already lived. I’d try and be a doctor again, if that still exists in the same form in the future. Maybe skip the military, but that could mean I never moved in with you. Butterfly effect and all that. And I would never want a world where I didn’t meet you, Sherlock.” John looks up at him and smiles. Sherlock can’t take it anymore and stands up. He stands still for a second, looking back at John. Stuck between fight and flight, his traitorous brain has chosen freeze. Should he escape up to him room? Say a closing phrase and leave? Or should he finally confess? To at last tell him everything? John’s face is just so open and handsome and he has just been so kind to Sherlock without knowing it. John seems to notice something has changed and stands up to walk towards him.
“Sherlock? What’s going on? Did you figure something out?” The way his eyes change slightly when he gets excited is so familiar, and it scares him. Because this is not his John. So he shouldn’t look exactly like his John, it feels wrong, and it makes Sherlock so sad. He takes a step back when John approaches. John also stops, and looks more worried than excited.
“Sherlock..?” Those damn eyes. Sherlock can’t stop looking at them, at his whole face. It’s Johns face, it is, he knows it is, it has to be his John but it isn’t. He doesn’t remember and he never will, only Sherlock does, and it hurts him so much that he will have to live with this John who isn’t his John but is so incredibly similar. Because what else can he do? He found him after all these years, and he is living with him and doing detective work, just like back then. He will not leave willingly. He takes more steps back to try and get his head back into gear. Stop panicking, stop it. He looks down at the ground to wrench his eyes and thoughts away from John.
“Sherlock, are you okay, what’s going on?” John says whole walking closer and holding his hands out grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders. “Look at me Sherlock, how can i help?”
Now John’s touching him, and that makes it so much worse. That warmth spreading from familiar fingers into his cold shoulders. Sherlock takes a breath, and another. He looks up.
“It just kills me that you look at me like you don’t know who I am.” Sherlock says as calmly as he can muster. Which sounds more like his voice breaking in sadness. John freezes, confused. He looks like he’s trying to figure what that means, and what to say back. Sherlock looks into his eyes, the eyes that don’t recognize him in this life. He feels his energy leave him all at once, and he gives up. He was not ready for this confrontation right now and he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. John slides his hands off of Sherlocks shoulders, eyes blank. Sherlock takes it as an out, and leaves for his room. John doesn’t make a move to follow, still frozen in what Sherlock can only guess is confusion. As he steps over the threshold to the hallway he hears John mumble something. Sherlock turns around to look at him. John is still looking at where Sherlock used to be, his eyes still blank and arms slack by his sides. He mumbles again. Sherlock is worried now, should he not have said anything? He moves back towards John slowly.
“John?.. Did you say something?” He says while trying to meet John eyes. He finally moves and looks at Sherlock. He suddenly looks less confused and more like he’s had a realization. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Well, if you’re okay, I’ll go to my room.” Sherlock says and goes to leave again. But this time he hears what John is saying. And as he can hear Mariana turn on the coffee downstairs and Archie rolls over on the floor and sighs, Sherlock hears John say:
“…Sherls?”