Heartlines AU - Set in a world where the lines on your hand determine your fate. Sherlock is born without a heartline.

...

Patterns of the Heart

Sherlock is born without a heartline,

Father is horrified. He can't imagine living a life with no emotions, but that's just because he relies so heavily on his own. The one strong line that curves across his palm runs his life, governing his every movement and decision.

Mummy is secretly pleased. She knows her son will never have to endure the harshness of the world she hates so much.

Mycroft is jealous. He goes to school and endures the mocking of his classmates, dreading the inevitable outcome of his own heartline. 'Yes, that's very bad - running into the lifeline. That means his heart will be his downfall.'

...

Sherlock is trained to believe that the lines on your hand do not decide to your fate. The notion is full of hopeful sentiment - wishful thinking, at best.

Heartlines are a national obsession. Personally, Sherlock doesn't see what all the fuss is about. But then again, he doesn't have one.

...

All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

John's heartline actually curves into a shape of a heart.

All the girls at school are jealous; they say it means he'll find true love. John doesn't believe that. His mother's line curved the same way, but it didn't stop his father from beating her every single day.

If that's 'true love', John isn't interested.

Jim's lines disappear after his twin Richard dies. Heart, head, fate, luck, life - all gone. They don't come back, even after Jim's done grieving and starts playing.

Jim does whatever the hell he wants. The lines don't come back. Nothing. No lines. He's "clean", as the legends say. He has no set fate, no foreseeable future, the rest of his life is in flux. He's a variable in a world of constants, and he feels wonderfully free.

"I'm so changeable!"

He lack of a heartline isn't troubling to him. Hearts are weaknesses - he should know, he sees it all the time. People flounce around, tripping over their lines or running into them like a brick wall.

Jim finds Sherlock's blog online. He brags about being 'The man without a heart', and for a second, Jim thinks he may have found someone like himself. There's a flicker of familiarity, a bit of hope that sparks inside him when he realizes he might not be the only heartless one in the world.

Jim is wrong.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"Well, we both know that's not quite true."

Sherlock may have a minor fascination with John's hands.

Admittedly, how can he not? John's hands are a painting - no, a masterpiece - showcasing every minor detail the man's life. Battle scared, bruise, calloused, rough skin and smooth palm, lightly chapped from excessive hand washing, immaculately -

John's hands are perfect. And that's not even counting his lines.

John's lines are like brush strokes, tying the masterpiece together. His lifeline is long and deep, curving elegantly and ending just at the base of his thumb (a long, healthy life). The head and the life line end at the same place, indicating a life of good decisions. Sherlock thinks the heart line is the most interesting, though. It starts below his pinky, curing up into the shape of a heart. Not an actual, anatomical heart, mind you. One of those clichéd hearts that children love so much.

Sherlock finds it fascinating.

"It's not even anatomically correct," John complains one night. Scowling, he continues, "It looks silly, too. I feel like a teenage girl."

It takes every ounce of control Sherlock posses not to scream at him about how amazing it it. "That doesn't matter. It's interesting."

John's face softens. "Do you really think so?"

"Of course."

John smiles. "Thanks."

"Your welcome," Sherlock mutters, before stalking off to his room, leaving John staring at him hand looking pleased.

The morning before Jim dies, lines on his hand appear. A broken heartline, a jagged headline, and a short lifeline.

Lonely, crazy, dead.

He doesn't know how he could've expected anything else.

It's changed. SH

I warned you this would happen. MH

What the hell am I going to do? SH

There's only one thing you can do, brother dear. MH

And what's that, brother mine? SH

Deal with it. MH

John is slightly bothered by the fact that Sherlock always wears gloves.

Sherlock is a very private person, he tells himself. It doesn't mean he doesn't trust you. John doesn't really believe that, but he tells himself it anyway.

The only time Sherlock doesn't wear gloves is when he's playing violin. John tries to look between the detective's frantic fingers, hoping to get a quick glance at his palm. Sadly, he doesn't.

John can't help wondering what his flatmate's hands look like. Is his lifeline short and shallow? Is his heartline faint but long? Is his headline deep, or jagged, or crooked, or straight? John wants to know - no - John needs to know.

One day, John can't take it anymore. He blurts out, "Can I see your hands?"

Sherlock stops typing abruptly. "No."

"Why?"

"It's nothing personal."

"No, but it is weird."

"I'm weird." That's true. "What do you expect?"

"I don't know anymore." John really doesn't. The definition of 'normal' for Sherlock is the definition of 'insanity' for anyone else. "But I wish you could, or would, show me."

Sherlock frowns, unconsciously fiddling with his hands. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

Sherlock stands up and stomps towards the fireplace, leaning on the mantle and trying not to look furious. "Won't, I suppose." He sighs, almost frowning. "Why do you want to see?"

"Curiosity," John answers honestly.

"You don't want to check if I'm a 'freak'?" Sherlock says flippantly.

"No, of course not. Sherlock..." John pleads, "Just show me."

For a second, a brief second that feels like an eternity, John sees the worry behind Sherlock's eyes. John hasn't seen that kind of emotion since they returned to the flat after the pool incident, when Sherlock thought John was going to leave him. He didn't leave him, of course. He would never leave him.

Silently, Sherlock removes his gloves and turns his palm up for John to see. John walks forward cautiously, taking his friend's palms in his hands and carefully examining them.

Their palms are identical. Long lifelines, strong headlines, tapered fatelines. Everything is the same, right down to the clichéd curve of their heartlines.

John doesn't know what to say.

Sherlock, as always, is never short of words. "I didn't used to have a heart line, um -" he stammers, his eyes locked with John's. "That was before I met you, of course. After that... I don't have a heart. I just have you."

John smiles. Without thinking, he reaches up and kisses his flatmate (boyfriend? colleague? soul mate?)

Sherlock, for once, is rendered speechless.

...

Loved writing this.