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"Moon, tell me if I could
Send up my heart to you?"
A melody kept haunting him. This was absurd. Sherlock stared at his tea in silence as John paced the flat, oblivious to what was going on in his best friend's head. He was sure he did not know that song. No… he must have picked that up somewhere. Humans don't just make up melodies, lyrics — meaningful lyrics — on the spot without even trying. But then again, was Sherlock considered human? He was above most, at least. It still seemed highly unlikly, though. The closest he had come to a situation like this was when he was composing on his violin. However, there were too many differences for it to feel familiar: he wasn’t using his violin, he wasn't actively composing, it was not planned, and Sherlock was quite sure that if he wrote lyrics at all, they wouldn't be as meaningful.
"Are you even listening to me?" John asked.
"Of course I am" Sherlock replied.
"Then why no snarky remarks?"
"No time."
With that, Sherlock stood up, grabbed his signature coat and scarf, and left the building. Confused, yet already well acquainted with situations like these, John followed his detective friend on their way to uncover the culprit of their current case and save another life. This would put Sherlock into another state of high; he would reach a flow-state and hopefully forget the song that found its way into his head.
/////
"So when I die, which I must do
Could it shine down here with you?"
You hummed as you put on a comfortable pair of shoes. It was just going to be a small trip to the flower shop down the street. Finally, after some time of living alone, you decided that it was time to bring at least a little bit of colour into your lovely space — apart from the occasional butterfly that landed on your neighbour's flower boxes. The sky was grey. Typical London weather... it almost seemed like a colourless life was predestined. Today, though, you decided to change that. Could fate even be changed? You hoped so. If not, then you had to live with the crushing thought that everything — every failure, every pain, every loss you ever experienced was meant to be. Was that truly something you wanted to live with?
With your jacket on, you left your home and walked to the flower shop. What were you going to get? A bouquet? Or were you ready for something more permanent? And in what colours? You never expected to have to make so many decisions regarding flowers and plants.
Walking into the small flower shop, the bell at the door rang softly, and to your surprise, you found two men at the counter. They were arguing with the lovely lady who ran this shop.
"It has to be here! Just let us check!" The taller man with dark brown locks exclaimed. He was speaking faster than some rappers in those songs your friends always played. You were quite impressed. The man next to him, a bit smaller with straight hair, said nothing, letting the other one do the explaining. It seemed like some information was new to him as well. They barely acknowledged your presence. You let them explain and argue. At least you didn't feel pressured to make a quick decision on what flowers to buy now. Carefully, you looked at the delicate flowers, considering each and every one, imagining them in the different rooms of your flat.
Without even noticing, you began humming again. You could consider it a habit at this point. Suddenly, the taller man stopped talking and swiftly turned around.
"Do that again." He demanded.
"Do what again?" You asked, completely and utterly confused.
"The song!"
You were still a little dumbfounded but obliged and began humming.
"That's it… interesting." He turned around again. The gears in his head began turning, but he did not speak to you again until after he revealed the culprit of a cunning murder. You studied him for a moment and finally realised who the two men were: those were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Consulting Detective and Doctor; a wonderful duo that solved crimes the police couldn't. Was this your lucky day?
Once all the trouble was over, Sherlock quietly approached you, careful not to alert Doctor Watson.
"That song…"
"Yes?"
"It's been stuck in my head."
"Okay… and?"
"I have never heard it before."
That was, indeed, strange. He asked you who you were in an almost accusing tone of voice. Did he think you were some kind of criminal who planted that song in his head to drive him up the wall or lead him to a puzzle for him to solve? That seemed likely. From what you heard, that guy had many enemies. You simply introduced yourself but decided not to play into his accusing tone.
"This does not make sense."
"Maybe it was fate" you joked.
"There is no such thing as fate…"
Suddenly, he looked at you — really looked at you. He studied your features, your body language, everything. Something was going on behind his eyes, something you couldn't quite identify.
"We will see each other again" he said and turned.
"Like fate?"
"Like fate" he joked with a chuckle and left.
/////
"'Cause my love is mine, all mine."
"Fate does not exist" Sherlock argued.
"Why not?" John retorted.
Sherlock had finally told John about this strange situation, and now, he wished he had kept it to himself.
"You're soulmates… just like in those novels."
"Good morning, we are in the real world."
"Just admit it. It was meant to be. You had that song stuck in your head, then you met a person whose favourite song is exactly that, and you think they're cute."
"Where did that last deduction come from?"
"You don't like coincidences, so just accept that this isn't one. It's fate."
"I don't like coincidences, but there's one thing I like even less: fate."
"You are scared you will actually develop feelings for someone when that's something you ran away from for most of your life."
"Fate is just a concept—"
Their banter was interrupted when you stormed through the door.
"I need help!" You pleaded.
Sherlock secretly grinned, almost happy to see you again. He would never admit that, though. The circumstances weren't the best, either.
"John, we've got a new case."
As Sherlock gestured for you to sit on the signature chair, you swear you could see a faint blush on his face. The same blush that had been on yours ever since you first met him.