Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
A/N: This was for a prompt on the BBC Sherlock kink meme… of course. Actually it was the first Sherlock story I ever wrote! OP wanted Sherlock and John in an AU soul mate type situation where they could hear each other's thoughts. It is basically a rewrite of the series but I have done my best to make it different enough to be interesting. Enjoy!
"It was the mate."
"The mate." Sherlock Holmes did not like repeating himself, but it was a necessary evil when one worked with the common masses. He watched the expression of disbelief spreading across Lestrade's face and sighed wearily. "Truly, what it is like to be so slow? Do you find that the world just passes you by?"
"Sherlock..." Lestrade put a hand to his head and sighed. The silver ring on his finger flickered in the flashing lights of the police car. "We need more to go on than that."
"Are you telling me that you honestly think the man's soul mate did it?" Anderson cut in, crossing his arms. "It may be hard for someone who doesn't have a mate to understand, but generally there's a bond there, you know. One that doesn't lead to death."
Sherlock shot the man a withering look. "Do keep up, Anderson. The victim's mate discovered that the victim was cheating on her. She killed him."
"And you know this how?" Anderson sounded sceptical.
"It's obvious. His cell phone is password protected. Why a password if you don't have a need for secrecy?" It took him seconds to enter the correct password and hold up the screen in front of Lestrade's face. "A list of contacts, all women. He's been in the sun recently. If you had bothered to use your eyes, you would have noticed that the sunburn on his chest has an unusual pattern that looks like a chain with a very specifically sized circle on the end." Sherlock swept around the body. "What is small and circular? Wedding ring. He wears his wedding ring around his chest often enough to have the imprint sunburned into his flesh. But you'll notice that his ring is missing. Who would bother to take something like that? A mate. Even if you don't honour your bond, Anderson, surely even you would know that rings are sacred. Anyone else, including a lover, wouldn't have bothered."
Anderson's mouth hung open. His face had gone slightly pale. "What are you trying to imply?"
"It's not implying if I come right out and say it," Sherlock answered swiftly, rolling his eyes. Honestly. "This case is boring, Lestrade. Text me when you have something more interesting."
He swept away before Lestrade could come up with an answer, striding towards the pavement and hailing a cab with a single raised hand. Donovan sneered at him as he climbed inside but he ignored her. That was the problem with having found a soul mate. It completely blinded people to the possibility that not every bond worked in perfect harmony. There was a small chance that Lestrade might have actually noticed that before he found his own soul mate, but ever since he'd found bliss with Mycroft (Sherlock shuddered at the thought) he'd become increasingly boring.
His cell phone beeped. Sherlock sighed, already knowing who it was, and stared silently out the window. When his phone beeped for a second time, he couldn't resist checking.
Sulking doesn't become you. - MH
It's not too late. - MH
Irritated, he swiftly typed out a response. Even though he was in his early thirties, Sherlock Holmes had not yet met his soul mate. That was rare in a world where most people were mated by their late twenties at the absolute latest. Mycroft had been increasingly insufferable since he and Lestrade had found each other two years ago; he seemed to be convinced that Sherlock's mate was just around the corner.
I'm not interested in finding a mate, Mycroft. I have no desire to be sullied with someone boring. - SH
Your mate is your perfect match. I would so hate to have to tell Mummy that you have stopped searching. - MH
Bloody Mycroft. Sherlock thrust his phone into his pocket and got out of the cab as it pulled up to 221 Baker Street. Soul mates were for those who needed other people, and Sherlock Holmes didn't need anyone.
When John Watson was sent home from Afghanistan, he swiftly found out that it was going to be much harder to return to London than he had expected. Though he'd missed the city's thriving ways, he'd nearly forgotten the kind of looks people would give him when they found out that he was not yet mated. It was nearly unheard of, more than enough to garner sympathy from everyone who heard even without the additional information that he was a wounded soldier, and his therapist seemed to think it was one of the main reasons for his limp.
"You need to talk to someone, John," she said patiently. "Someone you trust. Someone who can hear and feel everything without you having to explain."
"As wonderful as it sounds to have a complete lack of privacy, I don't see that happening anytime soon." His voice was harsh, harsher than he would have liked, but he'd had a bad night and she was pressing on his last nerve.
Ella sighed and made a note in her file. "Unfortunately, that concludes our time for today. I'll see you next week."
He nodded and stood up stiffly, eager to leave. He had nowhere to go, but surely anywhere was better than sitting in a room with someone who was trying to read your every thought. Her voice stopped him when he was nearly to the door.
"Don't give up yet, John. Stranger things have happened."
He just shook his head, dismissing her happy attitude with the cold, cruel knowledge of reality. "I'll believe it when I see it."
When Sherlock first spotted the man that Mike Stamford had brought in to meet with him, he was... intrigued. Though this man, this soldier, appeared to be utterly ordinary in every way, the way he reacted to Sherlock - or the lack thereof - made him unusual. It was enough to warrant further investigation. He was pleased when John Watson showed up at 221B Baker Street, though he was less pleased when he received a text from Mycroft at the same time.
New friend? - MH
I don't have friends. - SH
"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson was practically beaming as she looked from Sherlock to John. "Is this...?"
"My new flatmate," Sherlock said. It didn't take deductive skills of his calibre to know what conclusion her mind had leapt to. He pretended not to notice the way her face fell at the word "flatmate" - ridiculous, he always noticed - and led John upstairs to the flat. John looked around slowly, taking things in, and for once Sherlock couldn't tell what someone else was thinking. It was massively frustrating and yet at the same time, it made him want to know what made John tick. Because Sherlock Holmes always knew.
"It could work," John said cautiously, taking a seat in the chair Sherlock rarely used. He looked at home there, like he belonged. Sherlock frowned and pulled his phone out.
"There's an extra bedroom upstairs if you need it." Mrs Hudson was hanging around in the doorway, searching for anything... more... between them.
John shot her a flustered look. "Yes, of course we will."
Her face fell. "Have you touched, then?"
"Yes," Sherlock said. Technically, not a lie. He and John had shaken hands, though Sherlock had been wearing his gloves at the time. He turned his head slightly to the blue and red flashing lights outdoors. "I think we have visitors, Mrs Hudson. Best go let them in."
"Not your housekeeper, dear." Her voice floated behind her as she went downstairs.
John looked at Sherlock. "So you..."
"So I what?"
"You don't, then. Have a soul mate, I mean."
Sherlock's voice was cool. "Supposedly everyone has one. I have no interest in finding mine."
"Right." John frowned slightly and looked down at his hands. He squeezed them shut into fists. Sherlock eyed him, but before he could speak, Lestrade walked into the room, and then there was nothing more but the case.