Title: Written in the Stars

Author: Rewrittengirl

Fandom: Sherlock (TV series)

Wordcount: 2,994 words.

Rating: T for this chapter, but rating will go up next chapter.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Inspector Lestrade, maybe Anderson later, definitely Jim Moriarty a lot later, a little Mycroft, and an OC.

Pairing(s): Shwatsonlock (duh), maybe some other pairings later on if I rewatch the show for all the other character's little nuances. I was really only paying attention to Watson and Holmes the first run through. :3

Genre: Romance, angst, mystery, drama, family, friendship, etc.

Warning(s): For this chapter, suggestive themes, alcohol, mild cursing, and lots of gay lovin'. For the rest onward, expect sex, violence, LOTS of angst and gay loving, and very soon Mpreg, child abuse/violence (perpetrated by the next warning, not either of our boys). And Jim Moriarty. He's a warning in an of itself.

Contains: In the entire fic, sex, mpreg, angst, adorable awkwardness, kidnapping, child rearing, secrecy, shootings, violence, some drug abuse by our favorite detective, alcohol, etc.

Notes: Heyo! This fic came out of no where for me. It was originally just one of my many little fantasies of like "what ifs?", but I decided it would make a fantastic fic, as I was actually forcing myself to think up conflicts, rather than just giving our boys a quick happy ending. First Sherlock fic! Tell me how I do! I want to know how well I write Sherlock because I'm taking him up soon on an RP forum, and I wanted to get in as much practice as possible. REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, nor any of the characters mentioned in this fic (apart from one introduced later). Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the characters, and the BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss own the modernized version. If I owned the BBC version, Holmes would have kissed Watson in a dark alleyway in thanks for saving his life. Episode one. :3

Summary: What was once a forgotten (and drunken) one night stand turned into much more for Dr. John Watson. He doesn't remember meeting Holmes, nor that his little bundle of joy could also be Sherlock's little bundle of joy. He just thinks he's moving in with an unusal flatmate who he happens to feel deja vu around, and that they somehow met each other somewhere before. But he just can't place where.


Just a little drink, to celebrate the occasion.

At least, that's what it started out as. Then it became something else entirely. John Watson didn't know it yet, but that little celebratory drink would make him the happiest man in the world in just a few years time.

For now, at this point in time, the drink was for his feeling of accomplishment, and nothing more.

He sat at the local pub, and ordered a good strong beer. He had the biggest smile on his face possible, and the bartender stared at him with incredulity, but John didn't mind.

"Thanks," he said, accepting his glass with gaiety. "I'm leaving for Afghanistan next year, you see. I'm a bit excited." He beamed at his own words, taking a long gulp from his drink. The bartender shook his head, going back to wiping the counters.

Just then, as John so gleefully wiped his mouth of the foam residue, a man in a long overcoat and blue patterned scarf stumbled into the bar. His dark curly hair was damp from the rain, and his light eyes scanned the area for a seat. The place was a bit crowded, and the only one available seemed to be next to the good doctor. The soldier blinked at the strange man a few times. He was a peculiar fellow, tall and lanky, like a skeleton, and his long face displayed a look of intellectual snobbery.

He turned back to his beer, just knowing that the man would have to sit next to him. And sit next to him he did, ordering himself a drink and tapping his knuckles on the bar impatiently. John tried to preoccupy himself with sports on the television, but his attention kept drifting to the odd man beside to him. He glanced at him every once in a while, noticing how his mouth never altered from the unamused line of boredom, his eyes completely vacant save for that little glint of observation.

Odd indeed, John told himself. Most people who came into the pub were either drunkards or celebrating, like he, but this man's quiet, reserved nature was unusual. It was almost... no, it was fairly fascinating.

"You're staring," the man suddenly said. John gave a little start, not even realizing the man had noticed. "It's rude to stare."

John paused, then gave a little awkward laugh. "You're right. Sorry, its just..."

The man turned his head, his expression unchanging, but the light in his eyes brightened a bit, as if he was analyzing John.

John rubbed the back of his head, a nervous blush rising to his cheeks. "Its just you're not like the people who normally come into this pub."

The corner of the man's lips quirked into a very small smirk, but it disappeared almost instantly. "Neither are you. You don't come here often at all. In fact you've only been to this bar three times in your life."

John raised his eyebrow. "How could you possibly know that?"

The man shrugged, turning back to face the wall. "Your demeanor, of course. A man first coming to a bar would display apprehension, perhaps a little bit of insecurity, afraid one of his friends or coworkers might walk in seeing him drinking, something he never does. A man coming into the bar for the second time would be a bit nervous, but try to make small talk with the people around him, perhaps telling awkward and unfunny jokes. You, on the other hand, have now started to become accustomed to the bar, courteously avoiding small talk and sipping your drink in contemplative silence. If you had come to the bar to get wasted, as a regular would, you would have already engaged me in lively conversation. Therefore, you have only been here three times."

John stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. "That... That's amazing! How do you know all that?"

The man gave a small scoff-like laugh. "Well it's rather obvious. You just don't seem to take the effort to notice."

The doctor's brow furrowed. "Obvious? I never would have guessed any of that in a million years!"

The stranger rolled his eyes. "It's not guessing. It's the science of deduction." His gaze strayed from the wall to the ceiling, slightly bored but nevertheless insulted. He shook his head in dismay, adding, "You simple minded folk and your guessing. And no man could possibly live a million years, so it is useless to elude to it."

John was a little dejected by his comments. "Simple minded? I assure you, sir, I'm a doctor. Not simple minded at all." He nodded his head and took a strong sip of his beer to further his point.

"Oh yes, I know. You don't hide your identity very well, Dr. John Watson." He laughed, a grin spreading across his face as he nodded to John's coat pocket. "Your name tag is sticking out of your jacket, where you so carelessly placed it in a hurry to get out of the office earlier today. Are you meeting someone here? A lady friend, perhaps?" His eyes finally gleamed with vivacity. He was obviously enjoying making a fool of the doctor.

John flustered a bit, tucking down the mentioned name tag. "Uh, no, no... I'm just celebrating, that's all."

The man looked at him again, no doubt trying to "deduce" what could be the cause of his merriment. "You're in the army," he said with little moment's notice. "And you're being shipped off to either Iraq or Afghanistan next year. You're no doubt joyous because you get to 'fight for our country,' as many so... ahem... eloquently put it." His bemused expression was incredibly aggravating to John, as he smugly took a long sip of his drink.

John threw his hands in the air, signaling defeat. He smiled awkwardly, but laughed. "Okay, I give up. You win. How did you deduce that?"

The stranger nodded to John's chest. "You're wearing a dog tag necklace that looks brand new, just been worn. If you had already been on the battlefield there would be clear signs of damage and scuff marks. I deduced that you are to be deployed next year because you have clearly just received the necklace, and it is in my knowledge- which I assure you is very vast- that soldiers are given tags one year before they are scheduled to be called to arms. Whether they are actually needed, however, is an entirely different story."

John leaned on the counter with his head resting on his knuckles, a large grin of incredulity spread across his face. "That is absolutely brilliant," he remarked. He shook his head in disbelief. The odd man had his full attention now as he delved into his second drink. "Really, though, how do you do that? Are you some sort of private eye?"

The man smirked, rolling his eyes again, something John had deduced he'd done often in his life. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world, actually. I invented the occupation." A small sip.

John looked amused. "And this job has worked for you so far, Mr...?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And it is not a job to me. It is a life choice, as some would say. I consider myself married to my work." Another sip, this one much larger than the last.

John shrugged, chuckling. "Well I sure wish I had that sort of dedication, Mr. Holmes. Or should I say Detective?"

"Just Sherlock will do, thanks."

Watson raised his eyebrow. He stuck out his hand with friendly grin. "Just John then, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely glanced at the hand and nodded. John withdrew it awkwardly, and sipped his beer. It was now his third glass, as all this magnificent deduction had rendered him in need of more drinks. He was still in disbelief, but his mind was opening up to new things with each sip he took.

"You live around here?" he asked in conversation.

He thought he saw Sherlock's eyes flicker to him and a smile flash on his face, but when he looked again he had gone back to staring at the wall, a new glass of his drink sitting in front of him, as if it had appeared out of thin air. "I live on Baker Street." He gave no inclination that he wished to know where John lived.

So John didn't tell him. He didn't particularly care, but he felt conversation in the middle of a pub was the only way to keep one entertained, unless you were hammered.

Though he was getting that way. His eyes started to get a little droopy, and he felt a bit more confident in his actions. "Are you always this obnoxiously silent, Sherlock?"

Sherlock actually laughed, for real this time, and not in a condescending tone. He must have been getting drunk too, as it was unreal the speed he now went through his glasses. The bartender had to keep watch to make sure he could keep up. "One cannot be obnoxiously silent, John. Only blatantly silent, or obtusely loud." He giggled -giggled! - at his own idea. He was now fully turned toward John, as if the other man had finally triggered something in his obnoxious brain to render him curious and interested.

John had to laugh with him, liking the way Sherlock's smile lit up his features, unlike his former frown. He could tell this man didn't go out much, not to socialize, or really to just go out, like a normal human being.

"You're a very interesting character, Sherlock. I dare say I've never met another man like you before."

Holmes rolled his eyes playfully, resting his face on his palm, propped up against the counter. "Don't 'dare say,' because you know damn well you haven't and never will meet another man like me. I can promise you that."

John pursed his lips, but grinned. "You're very confident in yourself."

The detective shook his head. "No, I'm just stating facts. I only ever state facts," he giggled out. The giggling seemed unlike him, even though John had only just met him. He was almost glad that he was able to bring out a bit of fun in the man, if only while he was drunk, which he could tell he was.

Suddenly, a large party of wild animals (read: cackling drunkards), moved past the both of them, and John realized they had left a round type of booth ready and waiting for use. He gestured over to it where the bus boy was almost finished cleaning it up. "What's say we move over there, hmm?" He raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to Holmes suggestively. He was completely drunk off his rocker now (though he would never sacrifice his eloquence for the bottle), and he had no doubt the detective was as well.

Sherlock grinned, giggling again like a little schoolgirl. "I believe you are suggesting something, Dr. Watson... I'm not entirely inclined to accept the suggestion, much less give into your obvious flirtations."

Watson grinned like a cat, ready to pounce.


Holmes did give into his suggestion, and his flirtation. A few hours later they had become the wild animals (read: cackling drunkards), and had easily alienated most of the bar, not caring in the slightest. John was thoroughly enjoying Sherlock's company, the detective relating to him cases of extreme secrecy that the Yard had trusted him in confidence. Not that Holmes cared about any of that political jargon.

"And then! And then and then!" the detective started to conclude his story with a very large gulp of his poison. "And then Lestrade turned around and saw the damned writing on the wall!" They both spurted with laughter. "It was right in front of his face!"

John's head was on the table, his entire body quaking with laughter. He banged his fist on the hard wood, his laughter high pitched and tears streaming down his face from hilarity. He sat up, clutching his stomach in laughter, even going so far as to lean against the equally amused Sherlock. They had started out on opposite ends of the round booth when they had moved there from the bar, and had gotten increasingly closer as the night progressed.

They were practically hanging all over each other now.

Glasses, napkins, and plates of food littered their table like a garbage dump, waiting to be devoured by a hungry goat. The waiter had steadily brought them food and drink, but had told them that they were closing in thirty minutes and that no more beer was coming. They had pouted at that.

That was twenty minutes ago, and now the lights were dimming in the pub, and both of the wasted men realized it was probably time to go.

Once their laughter quieted down into haphazard giggles, the two men had leaned back against their seat, shoulder to shoulder, staring at each other with distilled glee and pleasure. Their heads became droopy, and they both accidentally leaned their foreheads against each other, their throats giving off another fit of small giggles.

Suddenly, John couldn't help but realize how beautiful Sherlock's eyes were, especially when they were so alive like this, not in the analytical sense, but in the human sense. The change had made him catch his breath. He had watched, over the course of a few hours, the staunch and rigid man whose only thoughts were about deducing what flavor gum the lady next to him might have been chewing by the way her mouth was formed around it, turn into a very happy, lively, jovial, whatever you want to call it human being, who clearly displayed an attraction to the good doctor.

John wasn't so sure the attraction was one sided, either. The eyes, the eyes had it, they did they did. Ah hell, even his inner monologue wasn't clear with itself. What was he thinking at that moment? What was he feeling when Sherlock's chin rested on John's shoulder, his hand brushing up against his thigh in drunken teasing. The detective's sheepish grin was wide, and well, Watson couldn't help himself when his hand had a mind of its own.

It reached up and stroked those soft curls resting on the man's head, and he was very pleased with himself when the eyes beneath the curls closed with a sigh. He really couldn't help it when his whole body convulsed as Sherlock's hand roamed even further, getting closer to his already hardened erection. And he really couldn't help it when his lips leaned forward and kissed the man tenderly, if not drunken and sloppily.

Sherlock complied eagerly with his lips and let John lead, though it was poignantly clear that the taller man was far more experienced at kissing than Watson. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back, pulling him closer. His breathing became ragged when the man he was kissing squeezed his thigh, his other hand wrapping around John's waist. The detective's lips parted, inviting the doctor to do the same, and he moaned faintly as the man's tongue left his mouth, tracing the contours of John's lips with sensuality.

Another squeeze of his thigh, this time harder, more urgent, and farther up.

It became positively clear that he would not be alone in his bedroom that night.

"Ahem," they both heard from in front of their table.

The waiter was getting impatient, as he probably was the one to lock up that night, and couldn't until the "lovebirds" left.

The detective's eyes opened in a flash, and he moved from John's lips, leaving the man pleading for more. But being the ever rational one, Sherlock removed his hand and fumbled through his coat for his wallet. The bill lay in front of them on the table, and John sought out his own wallet as well, ready to split the bill.

He felt Sherlock's hand touch his searching ones. "Allow me," he said. "I just got paid for a recent case, though what the devil I would have done with the money in the first place, I have no idea." He threw the right amount of currency down on the table, and John was amazed that the man still had so much clarity and ability to think. He wondered if perhaps alcohol only affected his mood and his views on life, and not his thinking skills, like most all other people in the world.

They stumbled out of the booth together, and Sherlock almost slipped and fell on some spilled beer, but luckily, John caught his arm in time. Holmes looked up at him, his eyes displaying such utter trust that it was unbelievable that they had met only a few hours before. Any person passing by them might think they'd known each other for years.

The two giddy men left the pub together, staying incredibly close to one another, even going so far as to catching each other's hands every once in a while, fingers laced if only for a moment, laughter echoed across the uninhabited streets of London, and John found himself constantly forsaking looking where he was going for gazing into Sherlock's eyes, still amazed at their beauty.

It was an astounding sight, John must have thought, to other people. These two lively and drunk men, nearly arm and arm, walking along the street at night under the brightly lit stars toward God knows where. Well, Sherlock knew, as he was the one leading them. When they arrived at a certain apartment on Baker Street, clearly labeled 221B, John was astonished to realize that the same trust Sherlock had displayed not a few minutes before was shining in his own eyes, as Holmes looked down at him with such kindness, such strange longing, such absolute need for him, and dare he say it? Such love?

That was a silly idea. You can't fall in love when you're drunk.


What'd ya think? As always, review my lovelies, review like the wind! I love you all! And don't forget to tell me how I did writing Sherly! I'm very self concious about it as it is, so some extra support in writing him would be much appreciated as I plan out how I'm going to play him on the roleplay site.

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