A Bond Can be Fulfilling (aka The Case of The Girl)
Sherlock ignores loss until it is, to be quite frank, staring him in the ass. John is gone now, his room empty and his life now tied to another. The genius will never give the lacking doctor the satisfaction of being missed by him, but as Sherlock stares at the wall full of fresh bullet holes, there is a sinking sensation deep in his chest that is foreign to him. Sherlock does not feel alone, annoyed perhaps with other people and their useless chatter and small minded thoughts, but alone? Never. And because of this, he does not know what it is to feel this way; he stews in it, allows it to consume him to give himself something to grasp onto or else he may go mad from the endless boredom in the back of his thoughts. He hasn’t had a case in weeks. He hasn’t faced death and survived, triumphant, gloating at cheating demise yet again. He hasn’t truly thrown himself into his work and it is a bother. He needs something to do; the heroine was just a mere stint to hold him over and its effect wore off sooner than he liked.
Turning over in his couch and pulling his sweats up a bit, Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, attempting to center himself among the crazy thoughts constantly flitting through his mind. If his brother wasn’t such an insufferably uptight man, Sherlock could have phoned him for lunch or just a moment to talk, brother to brother, but Mycroft is snooty and annoying. He’s had Sherlock spied on too many times, follows him about just to make sure he doesn’t make a mess of himself; It’s belittling in every way, even if he does appreciate it when it comes down to it and- Sun. Moon. Stars. Mars. Venus. Earth. Earth revolves around the Sun- for God’s sake he couldn’t forget that useless fact he’d learned from that case years ago and even now, it still rattled his core that John made fun of him for being unaware of such trivial science. His face visibly scrunches up in distaste because the thought of John, a memory of John Watson and their adventures together, brings back that new ache to him and slows things down for just a second.
John Watson is tolerable; his assistant, constant companion, his best friend. And now John spent his days with Mary, married, in love. Sherlock is vain enough to find himself worth more than Mary because Sherlock is a certified genius and maybe-
Just maybe Sherlock feels out of place again; it is hard to go from having a companion like John constantly at his beck and call, always by his side, to now being alone again. As cold as Sherlock likes to portray himself, even he is finding it hard to reset his system to a time before John and their adventures. Now he’s bored out of his mind and there’s no more weed or oxycodone or meth to keep him from going wild. Sherlock reaches between the cushions of the couch for his gun, but pauses instead, a half thought decision to get up and do something, anything, forcing him into action. His stomach gives a small twinge, alerting him to a hunger he’s ignored for how many days now, too busy attempting to find something to keep his attention longer than five minutes. He mutters equations to himself out of habit as he goes about a mundane routine of a shower and getting dressed before shoving aside old case files and his empty violin case to find his wallet. Damn, should’ve had John put it somewhere easily accessible before he left. After five minutes of fruitless searching and his stomach growing increasingly angry, Sherlock found his wallet under his most recent case file with John, pushing it aside quickly and picking up the fresh brown leather.
Sherlock has extremely repressive capabilities even he had no idea he possessed. And that’s how he also repressed past loss; completely eradicating Eurus Holmes and Victor Trevor from his mind. Now that the memory is present, still freshly stamped in his mind, the loss of John feels like a weight on his shoulder, simply sitting on him and refusing to move no matter how much he fights it with his metal ability. He closes the door to his flat and turns to leave, his mental lense dim. If this is what it feels to lose things that are important to him- Sherlock would rather not have to deal with the trivial emotion at all. That was the reason he initially told John that feeling nothing made it easier for him to conduct his work. It was messing with him, coating him in a sensation that keeps him from trying to find a case- and there lies the true problem Sherlock has. In the face of such loneliness and loss, the genius chooses to ignore his life, to shut himself off again but with no productive means to keep him going. It’s been 3 bloody weeks and he feels like this is an oddity he can’t defeat. And defeat is something Sherlock rarely accepts.
The genius walks down the street, passing other patrons and ignoring their whispers. One girl is wearing concealer too dark for her face and he deduces that her date has noticed and is trying his best to cope without laughing at the stark difference in skin tone. A doctor is having an affair with his secretary. And with his Bonded’s best friend. Oh, and with her brother. The lady off to his right has just undergone a foot surgery and only has a subtle hobble to show for it and she’s days, perhaps a week away from getting a divorce from her Bonded (the ring mark is clearly still visible on her finger from extended use and recent removal). He makes observations as he walks along, stepping into the first place he sees that will offer him food that doesn’t taste like revolting slop. It’s a basic sandwich establishment, one he has yet to visit before, and as a creature of habit, he notes that this is the first time he willingly stopped in front of it instead of continuing down the street to somewhere he knew he could find food to his liking.
Strange.
Very strange.
His body carries him forward, as if he himself is the afterthought. And before he can regain absolute control of his limbs, he’s standing in a line to order without having scoped out the place and its inhabitants at all. He likes to deduce, to play a little game of who has done what just to give his mind a small, miniscule workout. But he ignores it all, briefly glancing for a split second at the items on the menu to see anything to order. After the woman in front of him orders, her long, blond tresses smelling of cigarettes, Sherlock takes a step up to the register.
And that’s, truly, when his new case began.
The Case of The Girl.
To Sherlock Holmes, the moment he sees you for the first time, something inside of him irrevocably changes. It felt akin to a hit of heroin but more intense, more sustaining. His brain short circuits when your mouth curls up at the corners, revealing pearly whites and a smile that could quite literally blind a man. And he takes in a breath, prepared to order anything, when his jaw shuts tight. He’s staring at your face with a wild inner fascination but a calm look on his countenance, eyes narrowed and silent for a brief moment.
“What would you like to order?” He watches the way your lips move as you pronounce each word, every phoneme, every syllable, before snapping to attention.
“A tuna sub,” He murmurs, voice low as he blinks twice and looks away from your dazzling gaze. You say something but he can’t hear it, a heat covering his once cold face and spreading across his cheeks. This is a new sensation as well; much better than the feeling of loss but more uncomfortable, unsettling. Sherlock, again, is beyond such emotion, he should be desensitized to it, but there is something about you that he doesn’t know, can’t deduce, and that crawls under his skin. He’s never not be able to figure something out with just one look.
He needs to know who you are. He has to. In the amount of time it took for him to place his order, pay, and retrieve the bag holding his sub, he realized he was fixated. It’s only after leaving the sub shop did he realize three key things:
- All he had to do was look at your name tag. He didn’t. Regrettable, unthinkable, and preposterous. He’s the Sherlock Holmes. He doesn’t make such rookie mistakes; he usually leaves that to Anderson at the Scotland Yard.
- He ordered without thinking; he’s hated tuna since he was seven and had never touched the offending fish since.
- He thought back to every impulse that came across his body, the stifled manner by which he interacted with you, the heat that encased his cheeks when your gaze stroked over his- his body had only ever undergone such… uncontrollable emotion around… no one. But even so, he had studied the human body and social interactions between men and women or those who are attracted to each other to know that his face had reacted to her eyes- blood had rushed to his face- Bloody hell, I was blushing!? What in God’s name is happening to me?
But he didn’t know what it could mean, he didn’t understand. Not yet. It was too new, yet to be studied thoroughly for content and context.
. x .
(y/n)! Do you have any idea who you just made that sub for?” Your coworker, Aslin, excitedly whispered over your shoulder as you headed to the back of the shop for your break. Another coworker instantly took your spot at the register and you slid into the left side of an empty booth, Aslin quickly sliding in on the right. She sits in front of you, leaning over the table, eyes wide. And it doesn’t phase you too much because Aslin is always excitable about this or that. You had only just moved to London a few weeks ago, 3 to be exact, having saved up enough money to finally free yourself of your childhood home. You felt bad for leaving your widowed mother, but there was nothing there in that small village keeping you tethered. You wanted more out of life and you had always dreamed of an adventure in London. You’d meet new faces, experience new beginnings as a musical instructor, and find him. He had to be here, right? In the heart of London, somewhere, like a jewel waiting to be found and held, tucked away safe and sound.
If only you knew.
Pursing your lips, you lowered a hand to lightly rub at a spot just over the center of your chest just above your breasts, the calloused pads of your fingers stroking over the small design that lay underneath. It isn’t a mere name like the typical Bond tattoo, but something rather… odd? You preferred the word special , but your doctor at the Bond clinic found it to be a rarity only seen, once, perhaps twice in the world. He hadn’t been too kind about it either.
An extended Bond is when a normal Bond tattoo holding the name of a soul mate is extended to also include a symbol of some sort, both types showing on the pairs skin. This extension is only brought about when intense emotion is displayed on an elevated level. As special as an extended Bond is, it was unheard of for someone to only hold the symbol itself with no name to tie it back to. And that meant, as bluntly as your doctor at the time made it, that it would be even more impossible to find your Bonded than having a stunted Bond. At least a stunted Bond had half of a name to go by. You were trapped with a small, elegant treble clef on your chest when you turned seventeen. It was the same year your father died, the same year the taxes rose and you poured your blood, sweat, and tears into helping with the harvest while teaching music lessons to earn more revenue to support your mother. It was only now that you found the independence somewhere deep inside of your skin to leave with your mother’s blessing. You still sent money to her weekly to help care for her but there was something pulling you away, a feeling deep in your chest that spoke to you, telling you that London was where you needed to be.
“Holmes! Sherlock Holmes! The world’s only consulting detective! He’s so famous that he makes movies stars look like bloody morons. And he came in here! I’ve seen him pass almost every day I’ve worked here and not once has he ever stepped foot in this shop. Now all of a sudden, our sandwiches are good enough! I have to phone me mum about this. This is extraordinary! You’re so lucky, (y/n)!” Aslin spoke so quickly you could barely understand the poor girl, nodding fervently as she spoke to keep her amused. Sitting back, you began to smile as another co-worker brought the both of you something to eat and drink.
Sherlock Holmes? You’d heard of him, even in your village, but only once about a case he’d solved years ago about rescuing a banker or something of that sort. But since you’d moved to London and began working part-time at the shop and teaching full time as a music teacher who also provided private lessons, you didn’t have much time to keep up with the telly or the newspapers. If you had, you would’ve known that you had come face to face with one of the world’s brightest, if not the most brilliant, men. And you would have had more awareness when you felt it, a little, just a small sliver of sensation in your gut, almost like a single butterfly tapping away at your chest, trying to get your attention but failing miserably.
“I wonder if he’ll come back tomorrow! You must tell me if he comes inside, yeah? I want to take his order next time! Alright? We have a deal, (y/n)?” You nodded, again, a small laugh escaping your pillow soft lips at the sight of Aslin heading down the path to a full blown freak out. And you don’t think much of him, but that he was… tall… attractive, beautiful even. His eyes were cold, but there was something there inside of them, begging to be brought out to the surface. He didn’t speak to you but once, but you thought you’d like to hear him speak about anything, really. Perhaps Sherlock was interesting and he deserved the credit from how hard Aslin kept fawning over seeing him in the flesh. Before you can look too into it, you finish your drink and leave the rest of your sub for Aslin to feast on since you knew she had left her apartment without a speck of breakfast, brushing crumbs from your uniform and walking back to the register to slip behind it.
Perhaps Sherlock would come again, but perhaps not. You brush the color of his eyes out of your mind at that time, simply not knowing that you had stared into the face of someone who would take you on your greatest adventure.
.x.
“I have a case, John.” Sherlock says the next time he and John are in all too familiar positions, his best friend sitting in an armchair with sugar-less coffee and the newest newspaper spread out on his lap, Sherlock pacing back and forth holding his violin and bow, waving them about like a madman. It’s been a few weeks since his encounter with you, the Girl, but now that he’s see you, been in your presence, the need to know who you are and why you are is still very much present. He hasn’t gone back inside the sub shop yet, not ready to strike just yet.
“I have a case!” He exclaimed louder to catch John’s attention, only to go ignored once more. John took a precarious sip of his coffee, unsure of whether it’s spiked with drugs again, but too lazy to prepare another cup if it turns out to be so. He exhaled a sigh and set down his paper to look over at Sherlock, scoping him out. He seemed to have the normal manic antics that occurred when he suffered from extreme boredom but it was rare that he sought out a case or found one worthy of his utmost attention. And the doctor wasn’t sure what to make of the genius’ next words either.
“Yes, so I’ve heard. So you’ve said twice already, and what would this case en-”
“A case. An interesting case. A rare case. One that will need my utmost attention. I need you to interview someone. I need you to take notes. I need to start my research.” Arching a brow, John set down his cup of coffee on a coaster and rolled his newspaper up. Had Sherlock found a new supplier- no, all of them had been paid off. No one would sell to him now and he had hidden the rest just before moving out of 221B Baker Street. Then again, it had been a while since his last visit- the genius probably found the rest of the heroin John had kept hidden.
“And how did you come about this case? This isn’t another plot to make me a test subject, is it? Because I already told you if you do it again, I’ll nev-” Rolling his eyes, John clamped his mouth shut when Sherlock cut him off, yet again, and it’s rather upsetting that he’s so used to being talked down to because it’s just the way Sherlock is and he can’t exactly help but be a huge prat at all times.
“John! You’re not listening. I’ve tested your subpar intellect enough to know that your reaction to stimulus is lacking and rather sad, I must say. But no, this case is important. I need answers and I need them now!” Sherlock set down his violin for fear of throwing it with his excitement, jittery and shaking with adrenaline different from a shot of heroin or meth or crack or ecstasy. He felt high on air, higher than ever, his body controlling everything and his mind warped and in charge of nothing. He had never experienced something quite like this before and he needed to know why. Had he been drugged? No, that little sandwich shop didn’t have the correct cover to have such an operation and he’d tossed the tuna sub the moment he walked out the door. Had it been in his coffee? No, he’d only taken a mere sip, surely it had to be a higher dosage of whatever drug to make him act this way. But no, he should never leave such things to chance-
And the girl. She had to be in on it. He had a feeling that he needed to figure out her motive, her life, or else he may very well have met an adversary greater than James Moriarty.
“Alright, for God’s sake, what’s the damn case Sherlock? How can I help you when you haven’t really said anything?”
“But I did. The case. The girl.”
“What girl?”
“ The girl. The case of The Girl.”
“A girl?” That…. What? John is taken aback, unsure of what to say. A girl? He made a case revolving around a girl? Who was she and why would Sherlock need information about her? John simply chalks it up to her being a part of a bigger case in Sherlock’s mind but he’s not sure. All Sherlock has said is that the case is about her. Is she in danger? That had to be it. She had to be an integral part in a scheme or something. Sherlock wouldn’t have him over to simply talk about a girl, do research on a random girl- or- Good God, yes he would. John studies the curves of Sherlock’s face as he paces back and forth even faster, growing more excitable. Sure, Sherlock is always quite hard to read but John had gotten better with their years spent together.
“Is she in trouble? The girl?” John asks for verification, reaching for his coffee again; it was going to be a long day, he was sure of it. If Sherlock was this amped up about a case, it had to be important in nature. (Later, he’d laugh. He’d laugh for days at the truth, at how Sherlock’s lack of emotional compass let his mind play a trick on him. The girl had been a threat, a threat to his senses, to his work, to his heart, his very way of life.)
“She is the trouble. I’m sure of it.” He’s sure of it. Absolutely sure. John shakes his head and sighs, taking a rather large sip, letting the warmth slowly slip down his throat to heat a trail to his chest. After a moment, he reached for his notepad, pen, and his jacket, a small smile flitting across his lips at the sight of the ring on his finger. Mary. Sweet Mary who understood him. Sweet Mary who gave him love and kindness and accepted Sherlock no matter how many times the male has put John in danger. She is his blessing, their daughter his prize. And John had an inkling that this ‘case’ could help Sherlock cope with being alone again, at least for the time being.
“Alright. Alright. I’ll give it a go. With the girl. Where am I going?” He feels like he’s asking obvious questions and it’s a little concerning that Sherlock hasn’t already told him because that’s what Sherlock does. Sherlock doesn’t call him out on it either, just turns to him, eyes wide with excitement, looking as crazy as that first case and all the ones that follow. He’s a little odd, out of character, and John starts to form a little theory of his own pertaining to the case and the mysterious girl.
“The sandwich shop on xx street. It doesn’t close for a few more hours. Business is always slow around this time of the day but with the rush to get home, people will be crowding it with the hour- Don’t look at me like that, John, you know I’m thorough. The girl, her hair is (h/l) and (h/c). Her lunch break is always at xx:xx, never a minute before or a minute after. She always orders mushrooms and fries on the side of her sub, which is mostly cheese and a little chicken or steak, never grilled, always fried, lettuce, tomatoes, and pickles covered with mayonnaise. She hates olives.” But if you know all of this, why do I have to go give the interview? He wanted to spit out the question but thought better of it. It would save him less of a headache that way. Slipping on his coat, John watched Sherlock reach for the violin and bow once more, turning away in a flurry of motion and reaching up with bow in hand to start playing. Shaking his head at the sight, John turned to leave with his pad and pen safely tucked away in his pocket, unsure of what he was getting himself into but sure that by the end of the interview, everything would soon come together, at least enough for him to understand.
Walking down the street, John located the sub establishment easily enough, and lucky for him that you were the only one in the shop that had the specific hair requirements Sherlock gave him. Odd that it was the only thing he managed to uncover while in your presence. John could tell that there was more missing from the story, but still, he is Sherlock’s assistant and this was him assisting. Upon entering, John decided to go with the interview route instead of flirting; he’d feel too guilty over being married to pull that card anymore. Steeling his nerves, he reached into his coat pocket for his pen and pad, a friendly smile on his face when he approached the counter. The place was empty save for him and it gave him relief because the less people there, the less likely he’d be recognized.
You greeted the new customer with a smile, scoping out his pen and pad before glancing back up into his blue eyes. He looked homely, like he could be someone’s close friend and confidant. You didn’t know how you knew, but he just gave you those vibes that he was dependable.
“Welcome, is there anything you’d like?” You asked as is customary.
“Yes, yes there is. Would you mind letting me interview you for a moment? I work for the local press and we’re running an article about this sub shop but we’d like to get a better… understanding of the workers. Just a bit of your background would be necessary, nothing too invasive.” You blinked as you soaked in his request, brows furrowing as you glanced around. Your coworkers also working the late shift wouldn’t care, and there was no one around. The manager had taken an early leave to spend time with his newborn and that meant you were free to do as you pleased.
“Sure.” You had never been interviewed before and the people back in your village didn’t have much in the way of fancy electronics. You had spent the past two weeks learning how to use the updated touch screen cell phones and your new television set from Aslin was still left untouched because you simply didn’t know how to use it. You round the register and follow the male over to the first available booth, smiling as you slipped into one side, him following suit.
“I’m John. John Watson, and you are?” He paused, question marks in the air, and you clear your throat to answer.
“I’m (y/f/n) (y/l/n). I recently moved to London and started working here. I still hope I’ll be good enough for this interview,” You murmured with a smile, a dimple carved into your left cheek with the motion. John writes down your name at the top of the notepad and underlines it with a bold line, clearing his throat.
“That’s fine, (y/n). Can you tell me a few things about you? Where are you from? Do you have any family?” He probed gently, ready to write down her response. Fingers tapping at the tabletop, you straighten your back out of habit.
“I’m from xxx. And me mom still lives there. Dad passed away years ago but she didn’t have the heart to sell our home.” John feels a twinge in his chest at the news, guilty over the falseness of his actions but still recording what you say. For some reason, it’s bothering him; gathering this information would usually make him feel useful, on the brink of coming up with a theory, and yet, still, nothing.
“And is this shop the only place you work at?” Maybe you have a second job and this one is just a cover, yes, that might be it. He wraps his hand tightly around the string of thought, ready to see it through to the end. Maybe it will lead him to an answer that won’t make him feel so bad.
“Oh, no. I’m also a music teacher at a local school, mostly concert piano, but I specialize in violin and cello lessons. I loved classical music as a child and found a passion for it. It helps to brighten everything,” You laugh softly out of embarrassment as John scribbles away at his notepad, drinking up every world with a suspicion only a best friend can truly have, “I think that’s why my Bond tattoo is just a treble clef.” It’s not a secret you keep or anything to be ashamed of. Your mother was different from the others whose children had a Bond deformity of some kind. She didn’t want you to hide it away like it was a terrible thing. A sad thing, yes, but terrible? You could overcome it, had overcome it. It sat against your flesh like a normal tattoo and you’d never felt a twinge of it except once for a second.
No name, just a treble clef. It could be just a dire coincidence, but after his time with Sherlock, John was fast realizing that there are no coincidences. Although he doesn’t agree with this all of the time, this felt like it could be an exception. But surely, it had to be just by chance? John asked you a few more general questions before taking his leave, his notes jotted down neatly before he began to make theories upon his departure, one meatball sub in hand. He thought as he walked along, putting clues together in his head for when he returned to the flat.
You are kind, with a gentle disposition, and you love children. General observation, but you are also a teacher with a bright smile. You seemed very modest, from humble beginnings, and you love classical music. Of course, plenty of women like classical music- no. No they don’t. Not even John could stand it when Sherlock used to play for hours on end just to have something to soothe his brain waves. You love classical music, play violin and cello, piano as well. Your bond tattoo is of the treble clef although you spoke about mostly playing in bass clef since your cello has been played more often over the last few months. You could be the world’s greatest liar, but John is smart. He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he is perceptive in his own way and studied your mannerisms and the way your eyes looked when you spoke and all of the nonverbal cues many cannot imitate when they tell lies. And, being completely objective, you were beautiful, your xxx skin radiant, eyes big and inviting. You were trusting, perhaps too trusting.
.x.
John felt conflicted when he got back to the flat, Sherlock instantly pushing himself up into a standing position once his best friend made it through the door, manic to uncover more. At the sight of the other so high strung for information, John ultimately decided to hand over the notepad with the information, licking at his chapped lips. He watched Sherlock flip through the notepad pages once, just once, quickly before closing it again.
“Did you find out what her Bond does? Is he in a crime ring? Does that sub shop cover as a drug smuggling business? Missing jewels? Money laundering-
“Sherlock! She doesn’t have one.” Sherlock paused, his face scrunching up as another emotion hits him square in the chest. Is that relief? It’s the same as whenever he saves someone close to him, the same as letting out a breath to calm down after an accident, happy that everyone around him is safe and sound. Relief. It must be relief. But relief at finding out that she is not attached to someone else? What sense did that make. None.
“How do you know?” He asks, voice lowering in an admission that this is something both he and John know he doesn’t know. There’s no file on Bonds in his mind palace because he always found the information useless. Mycroft had the Bonded tattoo of some sort, although he never found the person it belonged to. He was sure the tattoo was of a name only, not just a symbol-
“The symbol makes it harder to find the owner. She can’t find her Bonded because she doesn’t know his name.” It’s the only thing that could make sense, he deduced without letting John slip in a word or two. John notes that Sherlock face betrays him; he looks ecstatic, happy at the news. The only missing piece is that Sherlock doesn’t have a tattoo, John is sure of it or else he would’ve brought it up at some point or another. Not having the tattoo doesn’t mean a person won’t find happiness, the universe is not that cruel, but even with one, Sherlock is a lot to handle. Sherlock doesn’t do romance, or love, or emotions very often. John knows this, and appreciates the fact that he is someone Sherlock can trust, can love the way only a brother can. So even if this Girl is the one… why would it matter now? Sherlock will probably realize the pull and fight it after studying it for research purposes. He’ll rationalize it as being a useless time waster and taking up too much space in his mind. John knows him. He does.
“What does having a Bonded feel like? What are the sensations you get when they are nearby? Is it the same for everyone- no. It can’t be. They’re specific and categorized for every single coupling. Sherlock looks at John expectantly, and John complies within a moment before he can be blamed for wasting time.
“My first Bonded and I, although we weren’t True Bonds, the pull was strong. It’s like being able to sense them in a crowded room with a blindfold on and being spun around so fast that you’re disoriented and yet you can still walk your way over to them. It doesn’t matter what obstacle there is, you can feel them, find them, all you want is to take care of them, to show them that you care. A Bonded isn’t something to take lightly. You have the power to hurt them the most and in turn, they can tear you apart and you would let them as long as it would make them happy.”
“Why would anyone subject themselves to such disaster, John? It sounds like a intellectual fallacy.”
John just smiles and shakes his head.
“ Love, Sherlock, love .”
Sherlock isn’t a moron. He’s far from it, but in that moment, all he truly wanted to ask was, “what is love?” He knows it’s a chemical reaction in the brain that shifts from infatuation to love and lust which all operate on some level with the body and what the body wants in the moment: adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin. Sherlock knows this much from the files in his brain, but not even that is functioning correctly.
.x.
The tattoo doesn’t form until two months later, and by then, it had been almost eight months since his first sighting. Sherlock took on other jobs to try and alleviate the need to continue seeking you out, but alas, he finds himself sitting at a booth again, coffee in hand and a small sandwich, not tuna, on a white plate before him. He’s doing it again, staring at you from his vantage point and quickly looking away when you look his way. He’s…. Nervous. He learned the sensation after the second encounter with you behind the register; he’s nervous and there’s a twinge in his stomach that’s making it impossible to eat but he still wastes his money to come and see you and stare. It’s actually really pathetic, but even though he’s aware of it, he can’t find the brain capacity to stop. He hates not having control over this- this thing inside of him, this growing feeling and need that bombards his once rational brain and it’s an awful feeling, this feeling of wanting. It’s of a different variety, one that hurts more than not knowing who’s behind a murder or the mastermind behind a dire situation. And Sherlock wants. He wants so badly.
The case of the Girl wages on but he has no more clues, no more leads, just this sensation in the back of his head and on his left shoulder. At first he thinks he dislocated it after a fight with a gunman, then he thought he just slept on it funny, but that was wrong too.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Sherlock?” You ask as you sidle up to his booth, a bashful smile on your face. Aslin got to you, she must have; it’s the only explanation for your shy behavior. You had always been reserved but this was just sad to watch; the more Sherlock came around, the easier it became to crave his attention and to preen under his watchful, observant gaze. He liked to sit in the same seat on the same side of the booth and eat the same thing, usually coffee with sugar and a sandwich full of chicken and steak; but sometimes he’d switch it up just to keep you on your toes. Aslin told you all about him, about the cases he solved in the past and currently, about how amazing he was, and somewhere along the line, you began to… fancy him. You couldn’t help but be drawn to his charismatic and intense personality, so much different from your own.
It didn’t help that your mark began to throb gently every time you crossed his path. But perhaps it was simply reacting to your own growing feelings and not meant to be a marker of any kind. You had never come across another person with a Bond tattoo the same as yours and because it was less heard of, not many doctors could give you any details about finding your Bonded the right way or even how to start. And Sherlock didn’t seem like the type to feel any of those types of emotions. He seemed beyond them, and beyond everyone, especially someone as ordinary and underwhelming as you. Still, sometimes you’d catch his eye and smile and he’d just stare at you a moment later before lowering his head to get back to his documents. Sometimes you’d swear that there was a faint pink that covered his cheeks but it could’ve easily been the trick of the light. Aslin told you that he was much too busy and important to bother with smaller minded people or emotions that could potentially get in his way. Despite that, you could tell that there was something there, something just hidden under a veil.
The next morning, the moment Sherlock’s eyes snapped open from a night of binge drinking to quiet the succession of whoishe whoishe iwant on an endless loop in the center of his thoughts, he knows it’s there. His shoulder is achy and feels heavy, like someone had stepped on it slowly before adding pressure all at once. And there’s no scientific explanation that he can use to understand just what it is and why it has happened and why it has happened to him specifically; but he just knows. And in this newfound understanding of who he is as a person, Sherlock slips out of bed and tugs his shirt off quickly in his rush to reach the bathroom, for once feeling greatful that John is no longer there to see him at his most human, his most emotional. It is a first for him, of many since he originally met you and there is no telling how much more you will change him, but he just knows that it’s you, the girl, and this case that surrounds you in his chest.
The treble clef is small and laid flat against the indent in his shoulder, stark against his pale flesh. There are many things that Sherlock finds fascinating but this is by far the most peculiar thing that he’s ever come across and there the case of the girl expands because you had to have a hand in this, in this discovery. But Sherlock doesn’t know what to do, and he won’t admit it to himself or John or anyone for that matter. He has a Bond tattoo now and he thinks back to that day he had John give you the mock interview, back when he thought that you had a hand in some nefarious dealings only to come up short each and every time he tried to calculate a plot of some sort that would involve you and some criminal. He closes his eyes to hide away from his reflection as the concise handwriting of one John Watson flashes through his mind’s eye quickly, every page he wrote that day stocked away in a file of its own one day for something like this.
- No bonded, but tattoo of a treble clef
- She seems nice, but will have more intel at another date
- This better not be a way of setting me up. I’m a married man, you know.
And then there’s the light at the end of the tunnel for Sherlock Holmes, the man of mystery, the man who had never once found his heart ensnared by another, not even by one Irene Adler who had tried to use wit as a flirting trick and succeeded. You are not Irene. Irene had been a firework, flashing, dazzling, but as quickly as she had come, she was soon gone, further than he could reach. He was still unperturbed at what they had established, but he knew that it was different from this, this pull, this need. He didn’t have that with Irene. You are not… as smart as he is, to be blunt, but you are sweet to every person that crosses your path. He tailed you once, of course without you being aware of it at all, for the sake of research of course, and found that although you had not much in the way of money, you still found fulfillment in the things within your reach, you taught private music lessons but for children who could barely afford to have food on the table, you gave it to them free. You loved classical music, perhaps even more than Sherlock himself. He had never heard you play before, but… he wanted to. It was a feeling trapped away in a different file in his brain, one he locked in a vault for safekeeping or else it might run right from his lips.
But two people who shared the same tattoo out of billions… Sherlock didn’t believe in fate or coincidences, but he knew that this was meant to happen. That you moved from the countryside here in search of him and he, in turn, found a case that took him wholly, completely for the first time in ages. Throwing himself into his daily routine, Sherlock even takes a moment to stare at his face in the mirror, unsure of what everyone else saw besides a genius when they looked at him. He didn’t care much for his looks and he knew deep down that he was handsome, used it to his advantage with Molly Hooper a multitude of times, but that was different and this is different. He, perhaps, wants you to look at him and see someone worthwhile (even if Sherlock is vain enough to know he is. He, honestly, truly, is a prat of all prats). He’s in a rush, throwing on dark slacks and a white button down shirt before slipping into the sweater he usually carries and his favorite purple scarf. Running a hand through his hair, he noticed that it was shaking, as were the joints in his knees slightly. Nerves. Damn nerves. Ignoring them, the genius snatches up his wallet and a music score on his way out and descends down the stairs and out the door, in a hurry to do something brash. Very much like himself.
.x.
You raise your eyes away from the register before Sherlock even enters the establishment. There’s this charge in the air, electric and vibrant and Sherlock’s eyes find yours before you have a chance to duck your head down out of fear for what he might see. You’re blushing the closer he gets and it’s strange how much you wish he could talk to you outside of this little place, beyond these people, a place where you aren’t in this atrocious, yellow uniform and into one of the pretty, flowing outfits you prefer to wear while teaching or giving private lessons. Clearing your throat once he stands before you, you smile bashfully as your eyes crinkle in the corners and your dimple carves its way back into your cheek again. You can’t help it, you like it when Sherlock is around; it’s like an ocean in disarray finally coming to a calm at the end of a violent, bitter storm. He brought that whenever he so much as walked into a room or came in close contact with you. You had started to really feel it lately, but today, it’s so intense that your cheeks are flushed.
Sherlock notices. He always notices everything you do, every twitch, every moment you bite your lip and duck away or try not to shift around too much which is an obvious tell for when you’re nervous. He notices every inhale, exhale, rise and decompression of your chest when you breathe, wants to see the way it quakes when you’re unsteady and out of breath. He wants to touch you- no, not in that manner just yet- but to feel if your skin is as delicate as it looks. His mark sears against his shoulder, burns with a warmth that his brain latches onto as he stares at you wordlessly. He doesn’t know what to say, a first for him. A first among many; clearing his throat, he watches your pupils dilate, chest raising and stilling in a caught gasp.
“(y/n).” Sherlock calls you by your name, a first time you hear it and the first time he says it to you in person. He’d been calling you the Girl for months, but you were so much more than any ordinary girl. You were the Girl he’d been waiting for. The kind that could keep him enamored, torn into pieces, so wrapped around your deft fingers and you had no idea of your power either.
You’re cheeks instantly flush and your tattoo begins to beat as quickly as your heart, as if it had become an organ of its own accord. And your heart just gives a twinge and you are taken aback by it all because it must be true. But can it? Could Sherlock really be your Bonded? With someone like you? You came from no money, nothing really to call your own but an old grand piano and an even older cello, and you only had one measly music degree to your name when it came to education. Sherlock is famous now, famous for what he does and how he does it and no matter how you look at it, he’s too good for you. He’ll always be too good for someone like you who looks washed out and just plain unflattering in your uniform.
The pieces are all quickly falling into place now, falling to shape something neither of you have ever seen before in your lives.
“Aslin, get me two of the usual. (y/n) is taking an early break to eat with me.” He states matter-of-factly, in such Sherlock fashion that it almost tears a small chortle from your lips at the absurdity. Aslin sputters and fumbles over herself, face growing heated in mere seconds as she spun around and ran to the back to make your co-workers act quickly. Sherlock, to be fair, is not used to propositioning women for anything, much more used to ordering Molly about than asking for any favor in case she would deny him what he was searching for. Still, all he could do was turn his back and walk to his familiar table, a small, coy smile curling along his lips as he listened to you follow in his steps, sitting and watching you slide into the opposite side of the booth. He lays down his wallet and the music score between them, staring at you expectantly.
It was-
“How did you know Beethoven’s Symphony No. 1 is my favorite,” You stared, leaning in closer to run your eyes over the familiar lines of musical notes. You had learned it as a child, before your father’s health began to decline. He had been such a wonderful teacher in those days, laughing as he took a break from manning the fields to come and play you a song on his cello.
“Call it-” He just knows, “a deduction.”
Because it’s his favorite, too.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re dissolving into a chattering mess about the music itself, about how much you like his robust transitions which were seen as more intense for it’s day and age. And Sherlock drinks up the information, takes in the way your eyes are so vibrant and bright right now than any other moment he’s seen you. And he likes it- Sherlock feels his mark throb harshly against his shoulder as he stares at you and had the sinking suspicion that the case of the Girl was finally, surely, coming to a close.
“Would you perform it with me?” He asks in the middle of her insistent, adorable blubbering, swallowing down that small inkling of fear because Sherlock doesn’t fear anything. He just feels uncomfortable and annoyed at the idea of being told “no.”
“I would love to,” You murmur, head raising up slightly from the score to peer at him through (e/c) orbs, your gut feeling tight. You had a feeling that it meant more than just what lay on the surface. That this was just the beginning of the wildest time of your life with someone you could grow to love.
And surely you would, because who didn’t love the Sherlock Holmes. The only difference was that he would only love you.