Chapter Text
When the scabby writing first appeared, Sherlock found himself excited more than anything.
Oh, sorry; I didn’t—
Such innocuous words: could mean anything, really. Although most words that appeared on a person’s forearm were just that: meaningless until spoken. In that, though, lay a mystery, and Sherlock Holmes had something of an affinity for solving those, even at thirteen. They burned on his wrist, the colour of dried blood, seven years after the initial white, scarred calligraphy appeared. The new marks (that lay six inches or so above the radiant white words that were already encrypted onto his flesh forever, the ones Sherlock found to be decidedly boring, even at the age of six when they had first shown) were interesting.
An archenemy was something of a rarity among the general population: something to be feared more than revered. Nearly everyone had the white words—it was said that if you didn’t, you were a psychopath. Sherlock, however, despised his white words—sentiment was a weakness, after all. His brother, Mycroft, had yet to have any words appear and, being seven years his senior and unlikely to get any ever, was intolerable about Sherlock’s soulmate sentence. Teased him any chance he got, which was frequently.
Not really a sentence even. Neither phrase that claimed his forearm were fully formed clauses, truly. They both read rather innocuously, although the fact that one burned bloody and the other shone like an angel’s halo made one fascinating and the other despicable.
Sherlock Holmes did not want nor need a soulmate, but he could work with an archenemy. An archenemy promised variance; a soulmate promised tedium. If Sherlock never heard the white words spoken aloud, he would be a very happy man.
Well, bit different from my day.
What rubbish.
---
John Watson was a romantic at heart. When he was ten years old and his words appeared in a glowing, serif font, he was ecstatic. Up until that point, most people he knew already had their words and, while not exactly worried that his would never show, was impatient to receive them. He knew from the start, when he had first learned about soulmates as soon as he was old enough to understand, that he would love him or her in whatever way was destined. He hoped that he was one of the few who met his soulmate early in life. He wanted to belong to him or her and the same in reverse for as long as possible.
Mike, can I borrow your phone?
He spent ages looking at them before sleep each night—would trace them with pen and marker while at school, framing them in colour and getting scolded by his teachers when he didn’t pay attention to do so. Some of his fellow classmates who came from more traditional families would wear an armband to cover theirs, but John would never—he wore his proudly, his heart literally on his sleeve.
It was with no small amount of dismay, then, when he hadn’t heard his soulmate’s words by the time he left for university and continually didn’t hear them throughout his years there. He ceased tracing them with marker and started wearing long sleeves more often. Where once the script made him happy when he gazed at it every night, he now felt a heavy sadness invade his chest at the sight of them. Where once they brought joy they now brought hopeless confusion: he should have listened to all those who told him that meeting a soulmate is random—one shouldn’t ever hope to meet them by a certain age.
But John had been so sure that he would meet them young. He, who would surely love his soulmate more than the average human being. For so many years he thought his destiny was to love.
His hopes were briefly lifted by meeting a Mike Stamford at university to whom he became quite close—could this be the man that led him to his soulmate? The addressee of the phrase, after all, is a Mike. But there are hundreds of Mikes in England, John is sure. Has met several, actually, but never any to whom he was particularly close.
But, no, Mike, one year older, graduated and moved away to Stirling. No chance of seeing him again unless John went to visit or vice versa.
In the end, John joined the army.
---
Sherlock laid back on his bed with a sigh of pure bliss and let the needle fall to the ground. This—this—was surely the meaning of life. A carefully-measured seven milliliter injection of seven-percent solution to the veins. A sterile stab through the white words. Red words forgotten. This was all that mattered.
He lay there, still as the dead, for approximately two point four minutes before shooting his eyes open—he could finally think. He knew exactly how much time had passed—didn’t pause for a second to evaluate this claim—he was confident—and then he called the police—he knew who had done the murder he had read about in the paper that morning, and he would prove himself correct.
---
John signed up for a second tour after the first—this time, he was sent to Afghanistan, and he didn’t feel a thing about it. From cosy Deutschland to the caustic Middle East and not a flinch. If anything, John was empowered. Finally there was meaning—after so long. He had hoped joining the military meant making a difference. Instead, he found himself following orders and drinking local beer on his off time. A pleasant fate for most: for him, he felt trapped in inanity. There wasn’t enough alcohol to block out his glowing words for long, and he didn’t want to succumb to the substance like so many of his family members had.
Ultimately, after months of binge drinking with fellow soldiers, the threat of real war sobered him up.
He began wearing an armband.
Never had he felt so alive.
---
Sherlock wasn’t expecting it. He had spent his entire life disregarding the meaning of the words, so when he heard them for the first time, he decided not to acknowledge them. He wasn’t weak. Sentiment was a weakness, and he wouldn’t succumb.
“Well, bit different from my day.”
Sherlock barely spared a glance up from his microscope, although his heart pounded in his chest with adrenaline. A fight or flight response, of course—Sherlock knew the science behind it, but he loathed being reminded he was as animal as the next idiot. As much as he had tried to delete the gleaming words on his arm from his mind in the past, it was impossible. Some animalistic evolutionary trait, no doubt. Now, if the red words were to be spoken then that would be something else entirely.
Sherlock blocked out anything past that and merely said, “Mike, can I borrow your phone?” Still, he only looked at the pair briefly. But, god, the man just had to speak again after Mike excused himself as not having his on his person.
“Here, use mine.” And while the man—the army doctor, his mind corrected him as Sherlock took in his appearance—approached, his arm was steady but his voice was shaking, much like Sherlock’s insides.
To have words written on his wrist since he was a young child—words that he never wanted to hear—spoken aloud shook him to his core. No fight, just flight. Or maybe a bit of both because Sherlock so rapidly spat out his deductions at this man—this John Watson—that his head was spinning on itself. It was all he could do to stand up, abandoning whatever now-forgotten experiment lay within his microscope, and leave—but not before inviting the man—your soulmate, his unhelpful mind supplied—a room to lease in the flat he just acquired.
---
“Mike,” John said once Sherlock Holmes had left the room. That’s when the trembling began, post-encounter. He nearly collapsed into a nearby stool, his legs were shaking so badly. “Mike, look at this.” John began to push up the shirtsleeve on his right arm.
Mike leaned forward, examining his friend’s forearm as it was revealed.
“Well, fuck, mate, aren’t you glad you met me?”
John stared unblinkingly at his much-beloved, then much-ignored words. “Dunno if I’m glad or horrified you moved back to London. Bloody hell.”