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There were some things you just knew. The name, if you were lucky enough to get one, was one of those things.
For some people, it was a whisper that may have been there since the day they were born. Others came across theirs at some point in their life. At one time, the theory was that the knowledge came when one’s soulmate was born. But that didn’t always pan out. Some names predated their owner’s birth. Others did not make themselves known until after their owner had already met the one meant for them. It was not a very efficient system.
Sherlock had known the name he was looking for for nearly his entire life. the name of the person who could compliment him, support him, and love him.
Unfortunately, the name he was looking for was a common one: John. Some parents had gifted their children with strange names in an attempt to make their lives easier should they be one of the ones who would be searched for. Others changed theirs later in life. How the system knew of those changes was anyone’s guess.
He hated the name. It was plain, simple, and everyone knew a John, which meant that everyone continuously supplied him with false leads. Those online resources were rendered worthless.
The John that Mike had introduced him to was just another in a long line of men who had had that name.
This John was not much to look at, a broken soldier fresh from war. World-weary. Plain features, not incredibly attractive, but not unattractive. Single, without the indications of a widower. He had potential.
When he introduced himself with a wink, only to rush away, John didn’t follow. Surely if they were soulmates John would have pursued. Everything about the man had broadcasted loneliness, sentimentality, and experience with relationships.
Ah, well.
He hadn’t expected John to stay. Hadn’t expected John to kill for him. Hadn’t expected John to tolerate the long days with him.
John dated. All women, all with different names. Willing to be in a relationship with someone who was not his soulmate, then. Though evidence suggested these brief entanglements were mainly for sexual release, he did seem to care about many of them.
John’s soulmate was male, though. The way he paused meeting men was clear evidence of that. Perhaps he (incorrectly, given his romantic nature) thought it would make things easier if he had girlfriends now. It made his insistence that he was not gay all the more puzzling, though perhaps he was more opposed to labeling than anything.
He started to suspect that there may be more to this than friendship when John risks his life for him to try and spare him from Moriarty. An act of pure loyalty that threw Jim for a loop.
If John was willing to do that for him, the world would be wise to fear a John Watson who had found his match.
It was a normal day, where John left him on the couch exploring his mind palace while puttering around the flat. He didn’t know when it happened, but John had become the sun. The light and center of everything. He knows, with more certainty than any of his deductions, that John is the John.
The first days after The Realization are spent searching the internet. Research. John had not asked for elaboration. That was likely for the best.
One-sided soul mates were rare. Many thought they were errors caused by people believing themselves matched to people with too-common names. Like John. but this was clearly a bond on at least one side.
They just… worked.
He researched other causes for a soulmate to not reciprocate. Repression. Head trauma (possible but unlikely, given unknown medical history). Being involved in a satisfying relationship already.
It didn’t make sense.
He still fell for John Watson.
Years on the run and returning to see him engaged (not to his soulmate, though they did go well together) was nothing, so long as John was safe.
___
Things with Sherlock were nothing if not complicated. Had been since the moment they met.
He couldn’t act on it, he knew that. If he ever took that step beyond friendship with Sherlock, he knew there would be no going back. He wouldn’t be able to go back to just friends, and that wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to Sherlock, not to whoever Sherlock’s soulmate was, and not to the name in his own thoughts.
He had gotten in too deep with Bill Murray, and wasn’t about to repeat the experience. Especially since what he had with Sherlock was still so much more consuming than the misguided thing between him and Bill.
He hoped that one day, he would hear the name in his thoughts change. That, perhaps, this was a fluke and the system needed time to adjust. It never did.
There was a brief moment when he worried that it would only change when he was standing before a cold tombstone, and that it would remain that way for the rest of his life.
He hadn’t expected to forgive the man for leaving him for three years. He hadn’t expected his fiancee to be an ex-assassin, either.
He hadn’t expected her to come to him one day and tell him that she had found who she was meant for when she was looking for him and Sherlock amid a crowd of police.
He had expected it to be harder than it was to say goodbye.
It wasn’t supposed to feel easy to fall back into the routine of following Sherlock Holmes all the time, of being his shadow as he raced through London.
It felt so right. Maybe his name was wrong.
Christmas with the Holmes was… tradition wasn’t the right word for it. But Sherlock’s mother had demanded they come and visit.
It was nice, to be treated like family.
Mycroft and Sherlock were absolutely-not-smoking when Sherlock’s mother handed him a drink.
“Nothing too odd in the punch this year.” She said with a smile.
“I am sorry about that.”
“Nonsense. Mikey and Billy always did do things strangely.”
John cleared his throat. “Sorry?”
“There were some questionable birthday presents, to say the least.”
“Billy?”
Her soft laughter spoke volumes. “I know, he hates it, but I will call my boys by the names I chose to name them.”
“Excuse me.” He left his cup on the table and went out into the yard.
Mycroft gave him a look before nodding and heading inside.
Licking his lips was a nervous habit. “What is your name?”
The look of disbelief was entirely expected. As was the way he glared at Mycroft’s back. “I thought there was an agreement to not tamper with the punch this year?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Sherlock Holmes.”
“Then why did your mum call you Billy?”
He sighed. Rolled his eyes. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”
He pulled Sherlock down by his scarf. It was like kissing an ashtray, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. He didn’t care that Sherlock’s grip on his hair was too rough, or that anyone who looked would see them.
Of course.
Sherlock had known this whole time, he had to have, and he had done nothing. It’s the thought that he may never have known he had already found the person he’d been waiting for as long as he could remember that made him pull away.
Sherlock stared at him. Confused, lips parted, trying hard to deduce what had just happened.
Realization was a familiar look on him. “You were looking for a William.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” And his laugh was cut off by those lips on his.