It has been quite a while since I posted anything! I've been working on my own stuff lately and so this sort of writing has taken a back seat. However, I was re-watching Sherlock and then this little idea popped into my head and there was no stopping it! I realized how much I have missed this but have enjoyed working on my own stuff too.

This is a Johnlock story so if you don't like, simply don't read it.

It's an One-Shot AU and set before A Study In Pink.

I apologize in advance for any mistakes and I do hope that you all enjoy!

Summary: One-Shot Soul mate AU – Nobody new when it would happen but at midnight you would fall asleep and wake up in the body of your soul mate.

Fated

Nobody knew when it would happen.

It didn't matter what age, sex or race you were. Scientist from around the world for years had been researching the phenomenon but nobody had yet to find a link to when it could happen.

It happened to everybody. At midnight you would fall asleep and would wake up in your soul mates body.

Time lasted differently for everyone. Some lasted twenty-four hours, other lasted only minuets before they were returned to their own body. It didn't matter. Everyone used their time to figure out who their soul mate was, to leave them a message so they could find one another when they returned.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, looking around the crime scene. Scotland Yards finest detectives were staring at him with their usual blank faces.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was hardly worth leaving his flat for. It was so glaringly simple that he questioned how these people had ever passed their exams to be in their profession.

"It was the girl friend," Sherlock said.

"His soul mate did this?" Lestrade said, pointing to the dead body that lay at their feet. The male, twenty-two, had been stabbed ten times. Blood pooled around his body in great puddles. It wouldn't have taken them long to die.

It was rare for a soul mate to attack one another and even rarer for them to kill. It was simply frowned upon in the world and got the highest punishment – the death sentence.

"No, his girlfriend," Sherlock said. "Obviously."

"Wait, what do you mean his girlfriend?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nearly groaned aloud. "Look around,'" he cried. "He's twenty two, clearly living out of home for the first time, look at the mismatched furniture. Obviously lacking a permanent female's touch." He dropped to a crouch and sniffed around the body. "Can't you smell that? A woman's perfume, so he's had female company but not one that lives here."

He jumped back up, stepping over the body. He snatched the bagged phone from Anderson's limp hand and pressed the keys through the packet. Done, he held it up for Lestrade to see. "Texts from a girl, Hannah. Not only do the texts talk about them not needing soul mates when they have each other but look at his laptop."

Sherlock pointed to the makeshift coffee table (made from an old cupboard door that was propped up on a pile of books) where the laptop sat. "History shows research on soul mates and not dating them. Clearly Hannah is the girlfriend."

"And what would you know about soul mates," Donovan sneered from behind him. "Or even a girlfriend?"

It wasn't the first time that she had made a crack about him not having a soul mate and he was sure it wasn't the last time she would bring it up. He didn't care and had given up trying to figure out why she or anyone would care about it either. It was dull and unimportant. What was important was the work.

Still…

"I expect that it your area of expertise, Sally, seeing as you are currently Anderson's while his soul mate is away," Sherlock said and gave her a sarcastic grin. He didn't bother to see her outraged expression or the floundering of Anderson as he protested.

Not everyone believed that they should have to be with whoever their soul mate was. A small part of the world's population had simply boycotted soul mates, choosing never to find their own, never seek them out when they new exactly where they were. Some had even rejected their soul mates and went about finding someone they chose, not destiny. This style of living wasn't popular and frowned upon by nearly everyone else.

"But why kill him?" Lestrade asked.

"Ah," Sherlock said. "Because at midnight he switched body."

Understanding dawned on Lestrade and he looked back down at the body. "Oh God, she killed the soul mate. Hannah wanted him for herself."

Sherlock glanced down at the dead body. "She didn't think that one through."

Lestrade ran a weathered hand down his face. "The press is going to have a field day with this."

"Not my problem," Sherlock said. "You should go arrest the girlfriend now." He turned his coat collar up and walked away from the crime scene.

Lestrade would find him later, demanding him to fill out paper work but that was tedious. The rush of solving the case was already fading as he flagged down a taxi and jumped in.

As the taxi took him back to Baker Street he irritably found his mind on soul mates. Donovan's comments didn't bother him. He was married to his work, after all, and a high functioning sociopath. He didn't want a soul mate but he knew that no matter how much he didn't want it, it would happen.

His mother had assured him that he had no choice when he declared at the age of ten that he was never having a soul mate. She had said that one day he may change his mind and that his soul mate was his other half. One day he would feel complete.

Sherlock did not want this. Love was nothing but a mix of chemicals in the body and Mycroft had always said that caring was a disadvantage. That had been right up until he had woken up in non-other than Lestrade's body. Now he made snide remarks about Sherlock finding his.

The taxi pulled up to Baker street and Sherlock all but threw the money at the cabbie and stormed up to his flat. He ignored Mrs. Hudson's admonishment of him slamming the door and jogged up the stairs.

He needed a distraction. An experiment would do quite nicely.

The heat was suffocating.

It wrapped around Sherlock in places he didn't think heat could get too. It was hot and dry, nothing like London ever got. He could sweat breaking out all over his body, his mouth incredibly dry.

He was also in incredible pain.

His eyes focused and quickly took in everything around him. He was in a tent, the flaps shifting every so often in wind. The tent smelt of disinfectant but with the heavy scent of sweat. It was obvious that it was a medical tent, what with all the medical equipment that was spilled out around him. Outside he could hear the shouts of men and the rapid fire of gunshots in the distance.

Pain flared through his shoulder and his attention snapped back to himself. A small round mirror was propped up against a jar, a reflection staring back at him that wasn't Sherlock.

It took him a moment to push past through the pain to realize that he was staring at his soul mates reflection. He was shirtless, a tan line at his neck and wrists indicating that this man, whoever was he was, wore a uniform.

The tent around him and the rapid gunfire out in the distance told him exactly what he needed to know; Solider.

A solider who was in the process of digging a bullet out of his shoulder when their switch had occurred.

Sherlock rapidly went through his mind palace and looked up every bit of medical knowledge he had. He fingers twitched on the pair of pliers that were currently embedded in his bullet wound and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

He had the bullet. With a shout he pulled it out and slammed the pliers on the metal tables with a bang. He panted, his chest heaving with each breath, and he gritted his teeth.

He grabbed the nearby bandages that were out and clumsily wrapped the wound. Sherlock could tell that the solider hadn't given himself anything to numb the pain. He was in the middle of searching for some when something kept banging on his chest.

He looked down and lifted the silver chain that hung around his neck. Dog tags. He rubbed his thumb over the engraved tags.

John. H. Watson. MD

'Army doctor," Sherlock said, surprised at the voice that came out. He had half forgotten, expecting his usual baritone tone.

His eyes began to swim and before he could finish his thought he was out cold.

The first thing John Watson noticed was that there was no pain in his shoulder. He reached up touched his shoulder. His fingers slipped through the shirt and felt the bare skin. No wound. His fingers brushed against the shirt again and he frowned. He had taken his shirt off to get the bullet out.

He opened his eyes, blinking several times when he saw a ceiling high above him and the sound of traffic from outside.

He wasn't in Afghanistan.

He was warm but not uncomfortably so. He swung his feet off the couch and looked down at himself. He was wearing black pants and a purple button up shirt. This person, whoever he was, wore expensive clothing.

"Where am I?" John said to himself, eyebrows shooting up at the deep voice that echoed around the room.

He looked around the flat and spotted a mirror hanging above the mantle piece. He stood and took two strides over to it.

"Oh, I'm in trouble," John said as he stared at the reflection. "Who are you?" He tried to drink in as much of the man's features as he could. He didn't dare touch the man's face.

Not wanting to tempt himself he spun around clumsily, not used to the long limbs he was in now. He spotted a desk by the window and another two strides and he was there. Books littered the desk, along with loose papers and a single laptop. John sat down on the chair that had a blue dressing gown draped over the back.

John opened the laptop, the screen awakening A website was already up and John leaned forward for a better look.

"The science of deduction," he read out aloud. "What the hell is that?"

He skimmed over the most recent post and raised his eyebrows. His mouth dropped open a little. Written up were the finer points of what looked like a criminal case. But it wasn't what John was expecting. Whoever's body John was in had managed to identify a man just by his tie.

At the top of the page, under the heading was a name. "Sherlock Holmes."

John's eyes began to cloud over, the laptop in front of him swimming. He panicked briefly. He hadn't nearly enough time to leave a message, to find out who this man was. But as the cloud began to darken, his last thought was 'Sherlock Holmes' before he passed out.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open.

His neck was sore and he lifted it slowly, bringing up a hand to massage it. He opened his eyes, taking in his flat once more. There was no more pain, no more suffocating heat or the stench of war.

He shot out of his chair and went for his phone in his pocket. He quickly went through his contacts and selected Mycroft's number.

Three rings.

Mycroft is getting slow, Sherlock thought.

"What is it, little brother?" Mycroft drawled through the phone. There was a hint of tiredness in his voice. Obviously in bed with Lestrade, but nothing sexual. Thank God.

"John H Watson," Sherlock said.

There was beat of silence before, "Ah. And where is he?"

"Afghanistan," Sherlock said. "Wounded. Bring him home."

"Of course," Mycroft said and Sherlock sneered at the smugness in his tone. "Do try and tidy up the place, Sherlock." And with that he hung up.

Sherlock scowled at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. He looked around the apartment and saw his books and things scattered around the apartment.

"MRS HUDSON!"

Pain. That was all that John could register for a few minuets before his eyes began to focus. He blinked a few times, grinding his teeth together. His chest was heaving as he looked around the medical tent.

He was back in Afghanistan.

His eyes found the pliers and the bullet on the steel table and he gasped. Sherlock had finished digging out the bullet. He looked in the mirror and saw that the man had also attempted to bandage him up.

John shook his head and re-did the bandages. He got to his feet, feeling shaky and rummaged through the supplies for some morphine. He found the small glass jar and an unused needle. Measuring the dose he injected himself and it didn't take long before it was flowing through his veins and the pain began to fade.

He gave himself a moment before he shrugged back on his uniform shirt. For the first time since being shot he smiled.

Sherlock Holmes. His soul mate.

"Watson! We need some help," a solider cried from outside the medical tent and a few seconds later three men came barreling in, holding a wounded shoulder between them.

"Lay him on the table," John said.

Sherlock Holmes, John thought as he winced and grabbed his medical bag.

Emotions weren't something that Sherlock was used to and he felt as if his whole body was betraying him. His heart was beating faster, his palms were sweating under his gloves and he kept fidgeting from foot to foot.

He was at the airport. Mycroft had made it so they had a whole terminal to themselves. Sherlock briefly wondered if this is how Mycroft felt when he finally found Lestrade. It had never occurred to him that this is how it would feel. Being in John's body, for that brief moment, had given him valuable insight to the man. As Sherlock had waited for news that Mycroft had managed to bring him home he felt a strange sense of longing.

Sherlock's back went straight when he saw figures moving through the tunnel from the plane and a moment later a man came limping through the door, a stewardess holding the door open for him.

John smiled at the woman before his eyes fell on the only other person in the terminal. He was even more beautiful then he John had imagined. It was so different seeing Sherlock through his own body. Now he had the time to admire his whole form. John had never considered himself gay – but that was the thing about soul mates. They completed one another.

He approached him, limping across the floor. He wondered if Sherlock would mind that he had a limp, that he was damaged.

"Your limp is psychosomatic," Sherlock said when he stopped in front of him. "We can have that fixed in no time."

"What?" John briefly wondered is Sherlock had managed to read his mind.

"You were shot in the shoulder, obviously," Sherlock said, giving him a flash of a grin. "Not the leg so no need for a limp. But your standing here, you haven't asked for a seat so it's like you have forgotten about, hence psychosomatic."

John blinked before shaking his head. "Amazing. So this is what you do? Science of deduction."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world."

"Brilliant."

"That's not what people usually say," Sherlock frowned.

"What do people usually say?" John asked.

"Piss off."

Both grinned at each other.

John cleared his throat. "That man who sent the jet," he said.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "The most dangerous man you will ever meet."

"Who is he?" John asked.

"My brother," Sherlock said. "I'm going to owe him for this." He raked his eyes over John. "Worth it though."

John felt himself blush. "You think so?"

"Absolutely," Sherlock said and flashed him another genuine grin. "Shall we go home?"

"And where is that?" John asked, falling into step with Sherlock as they began to leave.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said. "The landlady, Mrs. Hudson is giving me a good deal. I helped with her husbands execution."

John shook his head with a chuckle. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand in his, feeling the taller man flinch ever so slightly and shoot him a look of confusion. Nobody had ever held his hand before but it felt so right.

"Let's go home," John said and squeezed Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock squeezed back.

Please let me know what you thought and happy reading :)