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Take my hand. Sherlock soulmate AU

At the beginning of this month, I had posted a poll to see if people would be interested in reading a story I've been working on. 80% of votes were yes, so here you go. This is what I have so far of my Sherlock fix-it fanfiction, enjoy.

Chapter 1: A Study in Pink. Part 1.

After coming home from the army, John was plagued almost every night by nightmares, memories of his military service, and how he had watched his friends get killed. It was haunting, like a ghost that wouldn’t leave him be.

Most days, he barely had the strength to get out of bed. His therapist suggested he write a blog about everything in his life. But the problem with that was nothing ever really happened.

At least, there was nothing he felt was important or interesting enough to write down.

The nightmares often kept him awake at night. Some nights, it felt impossible to sleep soundly. Loud noises made him jump; anything even remotely resembling a gunshot triggered his fight or flight. He felt miserable and empty and utterly alone.

If that weren’t bad enough, his entire world was a mixture of grey, black, and white, and not in metaphorical terms. He was colorblind because he hadn’t met his soulmate yet, which felt impossible, not with his laundry list of issues. What self-respecting omega or beta would want a broken-down soldier? With PTSD, a bum leg, and a tremor in his left hand?

One particularly stormy night triggered a horrifying nightmare that caused John to jolt awake and sit up in bed. He panted heavily for several seconds, then broke down and began to cry, flopping back on his pillow. He let out a few shaky sighs to control his breathing.

Sometime later, unable to sleep, John sat on the edge of his bed and switched on the bedside lamp; it was still dark outside.

He gazed across the room at his desk; the metal cane leaned against it.

He frowned at it and stared into the distance, wrapped in his thoughts. He gave up on trying to get any more sleep that night.

When the sun rose, John put on his dressing gown and hobbled across the room, leaning heavily on his cane. He held a mug and an apple in his other hand, which he placed on his desk. Sitting down, John opens his desk drawer, takes out his laptop, and then puts it on his desk. He opens it, turns it on, and looks at the automatically loaded webpage. It reads (The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson). The rest of the page is blank.

John stares at the blank blog page and sighs heavily in frustration, slamming his laptop closed again. He glances into the bottom of his desk drawer and sees his pistol. He could grab it and end it all. Hold the gun, aim at his head, and... He quickly shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts and slams the desk drawer closed with a heavy sigh.

Later that morning, John finds himself sitting in his therapist’s office in a chair directly opposite her, one leg crossed over the other and his hands folded in his lap.

“So, how’s your blog going?” Ella asked him, her notepad sitting in her lap.

John nodded his head slowly. “Yeah, good,” he cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. “Very good.”

“You haven’t written a word, have you?” she asked, unconvinced by his tone.

John pointed down at the notepad in Ella’s lap. “You just wrote still has trust issues.”

“And you read my writing upside down. D’you see what I mean?”

John gave her a tight-lipped, awkward smile; she sighed softly and slightly leaned closer to him.

“John, you’re a soldier, and adjusting to civilian life will take a while. Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help you.”

John gazed back at her, his face filled with despair, his eyes glossy and dull. “Nothing happens to me,” he said softly, slowly shaking his head.

~*~

Between October and January, a string of suicides have been happening all over London; Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sits at a table at a police press conference next to his colleague Sergeant Sally Donovan. Greg seems a bit uncomfortable while Sally addresses the gathered press reporters.

“The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jefferey Patterson and James Phillimore. In light of this, we would like to treat these incidents as linked. The investigation is ongoing. Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.”

One of the reporters raised their hand. “Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?”

“Well, the victims all took the same poison; they were all found in places they had no reason to be, and none of them had shown any prior indication of...” The reporter cut off Lestrade’s sentence.

“But you can’t have serial suicides.” The reporter argued.

“Well, apparently you can,” Lestrade retorted.

Another reporter raised their hand. “These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”

“We've found no link yet, but we’re looking for it. There has to be one.”

Everyone’s mobile phone vibrated with a text alert simultaneously, and each message read the same thing: Wrong!

Donovan looked down at her phone, her nose slightly wrinkling in frustration as she read the same message. She looked up at the curiously murmuring crowd. “If you’ve all got texts, please just ignore them.”

One of the reporters raised an eyebrow. “It just says wrong.”

“Yeah, well, just ignore that. Okay, if there are no other questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I will bring this session to a close.”

“But if they’re suicides, how can they be linked?” the reporter asked, a bit rudely.

Lestrade felt a bit nervous and rubbed the back of his neck. “As I say, these...these suicides are linked. Um, it’s an unusual situation. We’ve got our best people investigating...”

Once again, everyone’s cell phones vibrated with another text alert, and each text read the same thing: Wrong!

“Says ‘wrong’ again,” the reporter said, holding up his cell phone.

Lestrade looked desperately toward Sally.

Sally turned her attention to the reporters. “One more question.”

“Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?”

“I...I know that you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The, um, the poison was self-administered,” Lestrade answered.

“Yes, but if they are, how do people keep themselves safe?” the reporter asked.

“Well, don’t commit suicide,” Lestrade answered, sounding a tad sarcastic.

The reporter looks at him, and Donovan covers her mouth and murmurs a warning.

“Daily Mail,” Donovan whispers to him.

Lestrade grimaces and looks at the reporters again.

“I know this is frightening, but everyone must exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

Again, everyone’s mobiles vibrate with a text alert, which reads like before: Wrong!

Lestrade’s phone took a minute longer to alert him to a text, and when he looked at it, the message read:

You know where to find me.

Lestrade sighed softly, looking exasperated. He put his phone in his pocket and turned his attention to the reporters as he stood up. “Thank you,” he said.

Shortly afterward, he and Donovan walk through the offices of New Scotland Yard.

“You’ve got to stop him doing that. He’s making us look like idiots.” Sally grumbled a bit.

“Well, if you can tell me how he does it, I’ll stop him”

~*~

John limped briskly through Russel Square Park, leaning heavily on his cane. As he walked past a man sitting on a bench, the man recognized him and stood up, following him with a broad smile across his face.

“John! John Watson!” Mike Stamford called out, waving his hand at John to gain his attention.

John stopped and turned to face Mike, smiling a bit tiredly.

“Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together.” Mike smiled warmly at John.

“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” John took Mike’s hand and shook it. “Hello, hi.”

Mike grinned and gestured to himself. “Yeah, I know. I got fat.”

John quickly shook his head. “No, no,” he tried to sound convincing.

“I heard you were off abroad somewhere getting shot at; what happened?” Mike asked.

John shrugged nonchalantly. “I got shot.”

After that, they both seemed a bit embarrassed. A little later, they bought a few coffees and sat side by side on a bench in the park. Mike looked towards John in concern. Oblivious, John sipped his coffee and looked across to his old colleague.

“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” John asked.

“Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!” Mike smiled as he spoke, and they laughed.

“What about you? Just staying in town ‘till you get yourself sorted?”

John shook his head. “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.” Mike playfully nudged his friend’s shoulder.

John seemed to bristle a bit. “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson...” he sounded uncomfortable. He cut his sentence short, and Mike looked away awkwardly, drinking his coffee. John switched his cup to his right hand and looked down at his left, clenching it into a fist to try and control the tremor that started. Mike glanced at him again.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” he asked.

John laughed dryly. “Yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” he said sarcastically.

“Well, have you met your soulmate yet?”

John shook his head. “Course not; I doubt I even have a soulmate. And even if I did, who’d want someone like me?”

Mike shrugged. “I don’t know—you could get a flat and share it,” he suggested.

“Come on- who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Mike began to softly chuckle thoughtfully, causing John to furrow his brow in confusion.

“What?” he asked, frowning when Mike continued to chuckle before shaking his head.

“Well, you’re the second person who’s said that to me today.”

“Who was the first?” John asked curiously.

The two stood up to throw away their empty coffee cups, and Mike led John to the curb to hail a cab.

“He’s a bit hard to explain, eccentric, but bloody brilliant; I think you’ll like him. I’ve been wanting to show you around Bart’s anyway. It’s changed so much since our day.” Mike explained as they took a cab to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

~*~

Sherlock Holmes was a difficult man to get along with. A lot of that was by choice. Society seemed to have decided that Alphas were the strongest, the bravest, the smartest, and Sherlock had never been one to stand such nonsense. It was absurd and disgusting, in his opinion. He was an Omega, and he only knew of one other person more intelligent than himself, who was also, coincidentally, an Omega.

Sherlock was in the lab above the morgue, working on some project. Standing at the far end of the lab, he was using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid into a petri dish.

Mike knocked on the door and brought John in with him. It didn’t take Sherlock long to deduce why Mike had returned with someone new for him to meet, but he didn’t comment on the obvious setup yet.

He glanced across at them briefly before looking at his work again. John limped into the room and looked around at all the equipment.

“Well, a bit different from my day,” he commented.

Mike chuckled. “You’ve no idea!” he exclaimed.

Sherlock eyed the new Alpha for a moment, ignoring their conversation as he sat down; he turned his attention toward Mike. “Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.” He glanced down at it as he spoke.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked.

Sherlock guessed this was an effort to show the Alpha what kind of flatmate the Omega would be because Mike was perfectly aware of the reason. However, he played along. There was no reason not to immediately bring out the annoying bits of their personalities.

“I prefer to text,” he answered.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat.”

Sherlock knew that was a lie and Mike’s phone was in his pocket, but he didn’t badger him for it. He merely hummed a bit and continued staring down at his service-less and, therefore, useless phone for another minute.

John might’ve been distracted by the tall, handsome young man talking to his friend. His curls perfectly framed his face, and his face…God, his face. Cheekbones that could cut glass and stern eyes that you could get lost in. And that voice, smooth as silk, yet deep and husky. John lost his thoughts until the man asked for Mike’s phone. He cleared his throat, fished his phone from his back pocket, and held it out.

“Err, here. Use mine,” John could detect a faint omega fragrance coming from the dark-haired man. ‘Oh, so he’s an omega. You couldn’t ever tell without getting close enough.’

“Oh. Thank you,” Sherlock stood up to accept the phone.

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike said, pointing to John and nodding slightly at Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted John’s phone, letting their fingers brush very subtly during the exchange; he flipped it open and began typing. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked absentmindedly as he typed.

Mike shot John an amused smirk as the omega continued his text. He mostly tuned them out but allowed part of his brain to focus, waiting for the answer from his potential flatmate. Flatmates needed to be interested in each other’s lives, even if it was mostly shallow and surface-level.

When Sherlock took the phone from his hand, John felt Sherlock’s long, slender fingers brush against his skin, sending shockwaves through his body. Then Sherlock asked him a question; he had to blink a few times to process it.

“Sorry?” he asked, frowning at Mike, who smiled knowingly.

Sherlock looked up at John again. “Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked, a slight smirk on his lips. It was always fun to see an Alpha wrong-footed by a clever Omega.

Mike looked extremely amused by the exchange as Sherlock glanced back at the phone in his elegant hands.

John hesitates, then he looks across to Mike, confused. Mike smiles smugly.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?” He looked down at his hand, gripping the handle of his cane.

Sherlock shut down John’s phone and handed it back to him. “How do you feel about the violin?” he asked.

John blinked in confusion, looking over at Mike again, who was still smiling smugly.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked.

Sherlock walked over to a laptop and began typing on the keyboard at lightning speed, his long fingers flying along the keys as they clicked click clicked with each letter and punctuation. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”

He looks over at John again. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John was astounded; he took his phone from Sherlock and put it back in his pocket. He watched Sherlock walk across the room and begin typing at a computer. He stared blankly at Sherlock for a second before looking over at Mike. “Oh, you...you told him about me?” he asked.

Mike looked up from a test tube he held and shook his head. “Not a word.”

John turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Sherlock looked up at him, walking away from the computer and picking up his greatcoat. “I did. I told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now, here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.” Honestly, some Alphas were so dense sometimes.

John shook his head. “How did you know about Afghanistan?�� he asked, looking between Sherlock and Mike.

Sherlock ignored John’s question and wrapped his scarf around his neck, picking up his mobile to check it. “I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it.” He walked toward John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow at seven o’clock. Sorry- gotta dash. I’ve got a busy day scheduled.” He put his phone in the inner pocket of his coat, walked past John, and headed for the door.

John turned to look at Sherlock in both astonishment and confusion. “Is that it?” he asked.

Sherlock turns back from the door and walks closer to John again. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met, and we’re gonna go look at a flat?” John asked.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked plainly, not understanding why John was so confused by his offer.

John smiled in disbelief. He looked across at Mike for help, but his friend just continued to smile as he looked at Sherlock. John then turned his attention back to the younger man.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock was silent for a second, looking closely at John before speaking.

“I know you’re an Army doctor, and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you disapprove of him- possibly because he has alcohol use disorder, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you’re limp psychosomatic- quite correctly, I’m afraid.”

John was stunned silent; he looked down at his leg and cane and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” Sherlock sounded a bit smug. He turned and walked out the door again, then leaned his head back through the doorway. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.” He winked at John and clicked his tongue. “Afternoon.” Then he vanished out the door.

Mike raises a finger toward him in farewell as Sherlock disappears through the door. As the door slams shut, John turns and looks at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiles and nods at him.

“Yep, he’s always like that.”

John stands there for several seconds in stunned silence, trying to wrap his head around that extremely odd conversation. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he was slightly startled when he felt Mike put a hand on his shoulder.

“You okay there, John?” he asked in concern.

John quickly nodded. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. I just got lost in my head a bit,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

Mike chuckled softly and patted John’s shoulder. “Welp, let’s head off. You want me to call a cab for you or anything?” he asked.

John shook his head. “No, I can call a cab myself. Thanks for the offer, though.” They left the lab and went their separate ways; John took a cab back to his lonely little bedsit.

~*~

When John returned to his little apartment, he sat on the edge of his bed and took out his phone; he scrolled through the menu to find Message Sent. The last message read:

If brother has green ladder

Arrest brother.

Puzzled, John looks at the message for a long moment. Then he looks across to the table where his laptop sits. He pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the table. Once sitting in front of his computer, he pulls up a search engine called Quest and types Sherlock Holmes into the search bar.

~*~

The next day, John limped along the road until he reached the door marked 221B. He went to the door and knocked on it just as a black cab pulled up to the curb behind him, and Sherlock stepped out.

“Hello.” Sherlock greeted, reaching through the cab window to pay the driver.

John turned toward him and began walking over to him.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” he greeted, shaking his hand.

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock corrected as politely as possible.

They each turned to face the flat.

“Well, this is a prime spot. It must be expensive.” John was impressed by the flat, following Sherlock as they walked up to the door.

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal since she owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.” Sherlock explained.

John’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry—you stopped her husband from being executed?” he asked curiously.

“Oh no. I ensured it.” Sherlock answered, smiling at John. Before John could ask any more questions, the door opened, and a motherly woman greeted Sherlock with a warm, loving smile.

“Sherlock!” she greeted, hugging him; Sherlock smiled at her and hugged her in return.

He stepped back a bit and presented John to her. “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.” Sherlock introduced them.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at John and shook his hand. “Hello.” She greeted.

John shook her hand in return. “How do?”

Mrs Hudson gestures toward the door. “Come in.”

Sherlock and John enter the flat, and Mrs. Hudson closes the door behind them.

Sherlock makes his way up the stairs, but John walks a bit slower because he uses a cane.

When Sherlock reached the top of the stairs, he stopped and waited for John to catch up before opening the door and entering the living room.

John followed him inside. Once he reached the top of the stairs, he looked around.

He noticed there were already boxes and other belongings scattered around the room.

“Well, this could be nice. Very nice indeed.” He said as he looked around.

Sherlock nodded in agreement. “Yes, I think so, too—my thoughts precisely.” He looked around the living room happily. “So I went straight ahead and moved in.”

“As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…” John said simultaneously, then paused, not realizing that the boxes belonged to Sherlock. “Oh… So this is all…” John gestures to the boxes vaguely.

Sherlock softly cleared his throat. “Well, obviously, I can straighten things up a bit.”

He walks around the room, making a half-hearted attempt at cleaning up by throwing random files into a box, taking a stack of unopened envelopes and placing them on the mantelpiece, roughly stabbing a pocket knife into the envelopes.

John noticed a skull sitting on the mantelpiece and raised his cane to point at it. “That's a skull.”

Sherlock glanced over at the skull. “Friend of mine. When I say ‘friend’...”

Mrs. Hudson followed them into the room, picking up a teacup and saucer as Sherlock took off his coat and scarf.

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you need two bedrooms.”

John's brow furrowed slightly in confusion at what Mrs. Hudson was insinuating. “Of course, we'll be needing two.”

“Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door has the sweetest alpha and omega couple who just recently got married.” She smiled sweetly, glancing between John and Sherlock.

John looked over at Sherlock, expecting him to explain that they weren't involved that way, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to what Mrs. Hudson was hinting at.

Mrs. Hudson approached the kitchen, stopped, and turned toward Sherlock. “Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made.” She chided, although her tone of voice sounded a bit scolding. She didn't seem to mind; she smiled at Sherlock, addressing him like a son or grandson who came by more often than the others.

“Mm, we've got to get you something to do,” she murmured. “You tend to get messy when you're restless. You need a good distraction. Something to keep that mind of yours busy for a bit.”

She walked into the kitchen and began tidying up.

John walks over to one of the two armchairs, plumps up a cushion, and sits down with a soft grunt. He watches Sherlock as he cleans up the living room a little.

“I looked you up on the internet last night.”

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and turned to face John. “Anything interesting?”

“Found your website. ‘The Science of Deduction’.”

Sherlock smiled proudly. “What did you think?”

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.” John's tone sounded skeptical.

Sherlock seemed a bit hurt by John’s skeptical tone. “Yes, and I can read your military career in your face, your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John asked.

Sherlock smiles and turns away.

Mrs. Hudson walks out of the kitchen, reading a newspaper. “What do you think about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought it'd be right up your street. Three the same.”

Sherlock walked over to the window at the sound of a car pulling up. “Four.”

He watches as someone gets out of the vehicle, which is a police car with the lights flashing.

#fandom #fanfiction #romance #alternate universe #fluff #omegaverse #soulmate au #bbc sherlock #johnlock #fix it #work in progress

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