Title: The Man Who Can't Be Moved
Summary: Long, long ago, a statue called Sherlock Holmes was created. His artisan was so talented, he gave life to the statue, but Sherlock could not move until he found true love. He withstood the burden of thousands and thousands of years, being taken from museum to museum, and waiting for that one person. Then, John Watson came along. AU.
Rating: T (mild language and romaaaaance)
Parings: Sherlock/John

A/N: What was I thinking when writing this? I don't even know! Hahahaha I was actually inspired by The Script's song "The Man Who Can't Be Moved", where the man waits for the woman he loves, refusing to budge from the place they first met. So romantic!

As always, thank you so much for reading! Please review if you have the time and if you spot any kind of mistakes, anywhere at all, let me know! Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Becoming Human

"Sherlock Holmes, I have spent my entire life creating you, but you are not perfect yet. One day, when I am long gone, you will find someone you love. People will come and go, looking up at you with awe because of your beauty. But there will be that special person, who will come and appreciate you for not only your appearance, but the story behind you. You will come to love this person in return, with all your heart. They are your other half. And then, only when you find them, will your stone arms undo themselves to tenderly wrap around your beloved until death do you apart…"

The artisan stepped forward, laying a hand on the statue, patting its arm, like a father would to his son. He stood back and fondly looked at his masterpiece with pride, grinning in satisfaction.

The statue called Sherlock Holmes was magnificent. He rose six feet tall and was carved from the finest marble in the entire world. Rich curls on his head were chiselled with such care and precision, it looked as if it would flow along with the summer breeze. His expression was pompous, as if he knew of his unparalleled beauty, and his head was tilted upwards, watching the sky with curious, sharp eyes. His body was lean and smooth, a perfect rendition of what Adonis' might have been.

Standing for thousands of years was so boring. Sherlock Holmes wished he could at least tap his foot, his finger, something! Standing for so long didn't cause him any sort of pain and it wasn't as if his muscles fell asleep or anything of the sort, but his mind, the only thing that properly functioned, completely rebelled its stagnation.

Thousands and thousands of years and still he had not found anyone who was worthy to love him. Everyone who came and saw him, just like the artisan said, simply looked up at him, gasped at how aesthetic he was then just walked away forever.

Similarly, Sherlock could not find anyone worthy of his love. All of these people were such morons and all they cared about was what was "pretty", but nothing beyond that. They gawked over him, read the little fairy-tale on the placard describing his (actually very real) destiny, yet understood absolutely nothing. He was waiting for one of them to stop and look at him, really look, but they were too stupid to realise that. Every day and night, though his eyes did not move, he could still observe the many people who came to see him. He remembered every face and every name shouted around him. If only he could roll his eyes at their ignorance, as well.

Another New Year came and went. 2012 was here and it was time for Sherlock Holmes to embark on yet another tedious trip to another museum.

"The artisan who created him died shortly after completing him and telling him his destiny. Nobody had ever heard of his creator before. He grew up in a small town in the middle of nowhere and devoted his entire life to creating one, single masterpiece. This masterpiece was Sherlock Holmes. Finally content in living, he lied down to sleep that night, and never woke again. Ever since his death, this statue has been sent from museum to museum. Its value is priceless and we are honoured to inherit him. Now, next, if you'll follow me this way…"

John Watson did not move. The rest of his university classmates brushed by him. Some of the students even tried shoving him out of the way, telling him to "Get a move on!" but he refused to budge. His legs wouldn't walk. He was completely enchanted by Sherlock Holmes. There was something about his eyes, as hollow and white as they were, that made them seem not so hollow and white, after all.

"Are you alive?" The question just slipped out, whispered like a secret. John sucked in a gulp of air, as if trying to take back what he said, shaking his head at the impossible possibility. He looked down at his feet then up again at the statue, eyebrows knitted together, staring at his face.

Sherlock was intrigued. Nobody had spoken directly to him before.

John blinked, tearing his eyes away, "Okay, right. This is ridiculous." After one last quick glance, he awkwardly waddled away.

If he could, Sherlock would have opened his mouth and let out a great, hefty laugh. He certainly was, in his head, but how refreshing it would have felt if he could physically do it.

Someone had the nerve to talk to him! But the elation eventually faded, because that someone had not stayed for long. Sherlock still couldn't move a muscle.

"Not a big loss…" He thought.

"Um. So. I'm back."

Sherlock was actually shocked.

That student from yesterday had returned.

John nervously shuffled his feet against the linoleum tiles he stood on. The action made an annoying squeaking sound that echoed throughout the hall. People around Sherlock Holmes turned to glare at John, who was oblivious to their leers.

But Sherlock was amused. In his mind he smirked.

No. Not in his mind.

His lips had moved. The right corner had certainly twitched upwards. The eye in his mind looked down and he saw John gazing up at him, mouth agape, dubious as to what he just saw. After a moment, he hastily backed away and nearly ran out of the museum.

"No, no, no!" Sherlock tried to move his lips again, but they were frozen.

"Me again."

Today, Sherlock was excited to see the student. He called the boy "The Student" because he had yet to introduce himself.

"God, what am I doing?" John muttered under his breath.

Whenever he spoke to Sherlock, he never spoke very loudly. Sherlock understood this. He knew people would think The Student was just a little crazy if people heard him talking to a statue and not about it.

"You are a statue, right? I mean, you're not some worker acting like one?" John took a step closer, squinting and boring daggers into Sherlock as he stared at his face, looking for any trace of movement.

Sherlock didn't move. Well, couldn't move.

"Okay, well then, I'm just going to sit here. And draw you. If you don't mind." He took his place on the floor and from his bag, pulled out a sketchbook and a box of pencils. Taking a pencil, he began sketching. He stayed silent for hours, filling page after page with Sherlock Holmes.

About an hour before the museum closed, he stopped drawing and began talking again, seeing that the museum was almost empty, except for a few security guards who occasionally walked by.

"Must be tough, standing there all the time. It's a pretty lousy job, if you ask me."

"You're actually assuming I work here?" Sherlock thought.

"I'm John Watson. I have a sister, Harry. She's older than me and… she's a drinker. I go to university and I read Fine Art, if you haven't noticed," he wiggled his pencil in the air and paused, waiting for something. After a minute, he looked disappointed and sighed, "…Suppose you're not going to tell me anything about yourself. Since you're still on the clock."

He slipped his sketchbook and pencils back into his bag and stood up, slinging it across his shoulder.

"I'll see you tomorrow, I guess." John gave a small smile and then turned away.

John Watson was gone. The museum was closed and all of the lights were turned off. There was one security guard and he sat at the front desk.

Sherlock Holmes had never, in his entire existence, experienced such torturous waiting. He wanted tomorrow to come faster than the seconds allowed.

He wanted to see The Student.

He wanted to see John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson.

John Watson.

"John Watson."

"John Watson."

A voice had spoken.

"John."

His lips had moved.

"Watson."

His lips moved again.

The voice was his.

He felt a warmth grow on the left side of his chest and then pool throughout his body. The warmth was like a stream and it coursed through his veins – he had veins now! A beating started where the heat had begun – a heart! His muscles relaxed as marble became flesh.

He was changing.

The transformation began slowly, then the heat inside him doubled, tripled, until he thought he was going to burst, but instead he fell, right onto the spot where John was sitting and he didn't crack. But the impact against his bones – my goodness he had bones – was painful.

Grunting, Sherlock lifted himself up on his palms.

"I can move." He sat back and marvelled at the bending joints in his hands, touched himself anywhere he could reach, pulled at his own cheeks, did everything he could to make sure this was real.

He stood but staggered back and hit the wall. All those years of standing but when he wasn't marble, it was so hard.

His legs felt like jelly and they wobbled when he tried to stand again. Gripping the wall he tried again and after a while, got the hang of it. With every step he took, he wiggled his toes; it was just so much fun!

He walked around the museum. When he walked by a window, he looked at his reflection.

Sherlock Holmes, the human, had a head of soft, dark curls and a pale complexion. His eyes were a swirl of colours – green, blue, grey – and almost transparent. His bowed lips were soft, pink, and full.

And his body was very naked.

"I need clothes."

He walked to the back of the museum, where they had fashion displays. He took his pick from rows of mannequins and grabbed a deep purple collared shirt made of silk, a black suit, a midnight blue tweed coat (he particularly liked the accented red button hole), a striped navy scarf, and charcoal dress shoes. He had trouble dressing himself, particularly with closing buttons. It seemed his body wasn't quite ready to fully listen to his brain yet.

After nearly half-an-hour, he was completely dressed.

Sherlock headed towards the front of the museum, tip-toeing cautiously. Peering around a wall, he saw the security guard sitting at the front desk, head bobbing up and down as he struggled to stay awake.

He strolled up to the desk and tapped the guard on the shoulder, who jumped and looked around. Seeing Sherlock, he abruptly stood and sputtered, "W-who are you?"

"I'm sorry for startling you…" Sherlock glanced at the nametag, "…Greg Lestrade. The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm the statue that stood in the main exhibition hall."

Lestrade nodded slowly, "R-right..."

"Do you know about my story? Why I've stayed a statue for so long?"

"You… you're looking for your true love or something like that. But nobody's come along, so you're stuck. Well. You were." Lestrade paused and looked Sherlock up and down, "Is this a dream?"

"Please, nobody could dream something this elaborate."

Lestrade was still sceptical – who wouldn't be – but he continued the conversation, "So, what? You've found your true love, then? Since you're moving."

"Yes, yes, exactly! And I'm leaving to be with him. So I need you to do something: don't tell anyone."

"But the statue's gone. You're just planning on walking out of here. What the hell am I supposed to say as an excuse?"

Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulders and flashed an encouraging smile, "You'll think of something. Now, if you could open those doors for me so I can wait outside for John to come."

"Christ, this can't be real. I must be dreaming."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right, you need proof that you're not sleeping, yes?" Before Lestrade could utter another word, Sherlock's fist connected with his jaw and he was sent toppling backwards into his chair.

"For fuck's sake! Right, okay!" Lestrade massaged his jaw, opening and closing his mouth. For never getting much of a chance to practice, Sherlock really knew how to punch; his entire face was throbbing with pain. "Not a dream then…"

"The door, Lestrade." By now, Sherlock's feigned friendly tone was gone. "Quickly."

"No, no, Sherlock, not going to happen. I already got sacked from my job as Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and I'm not going to get sacked here!"

"You were probably going to lose your job here, even without my help. Sleeping on duty? Clearly, you're not meant to work here, Detective Inspector. JUST OPEN THE DOOR!" Sherlock bellowed as he angrily pointed towards the exit. He was beyond desperate now. John was coming in the morning and he had to be outside to greet him.

"Fine, fine! But I'm not going to do it until you tell me what I'm supposed to tell my superiors when they come in tomorrow and see that you've vanished." Lestrade couldn't believe he was actually agreeing to help this raving lunatic of a statue-person-thing.

"What would you believe?" Sherlock asked through his clenched teeth.

"What?"

"Did I stutter?"

"No, but—"

"A rhetorical question. No wonder they got rid of you at Scotland Yard."

That one stung a bit, but Lestrade didn't let it bother him, "What would I believe? You! Since you punched me in the face and you're still standing in front of me. But you can't go around punching every person you see."

He had a point. Sherlock leaned back on his heels and brought his fingertips together in thought. Then it came to him, "Tell them a university borrowed me for an art project."

"You're one of the most famous sculptures in the entire world."

"Then tell them the most famous university in the entire world took it, but within believability. Keep the university bound inside England. It's for educational purposes. They won't question you until they get really suspicious. People like them just want to know they're considered to be someone important and hearing a big-shot university name will have their ego inflated long enough for me to get what I need done."

Lestrade looked impressed, "You sure know a lot, considering you were just a statue a few minutes ago."

Sherlock shrugged, "I've been all around the world. Thousands of years, just standing around? Can't do much else but observe."

Lestrade hummed, "All right. That sounds good, but it's probably best if I don't let you out until the sun's at least up."

"That wasn't the deal."

"No, but it's better for you. It's freezing out there and this John fellow isn't going to come around until morning anyways. Might as well stay inside. I'll open the door at the first ray of sun."

"…Understood." Sherlock conceded and took a seat in the chair next to Lestrade, anxiously tapping his foot and drumming his fingers against the desk.

"Lestrade, morning! Open the door!"

Lestrade groaned. He was having such a nice nap.

"Give me a minute." He rose slowly, vision blurred and body lethargic from sleep. Meanwhile, Sherlock was a bouncing ball of energy, nearly hopping to the exit.

Lestrade turned the key and the once-statue flung himself through the glass doors, dramatically opening his arms and breathing in a lung full of London air. He exhaled, "John!"

"He won't be here for another few hours, Sherlock. Sit down on the stairs or something." Lestrade yawned and headed back inside, rubbing the cold away from his arms.

Sherlock did as he was told. He was originally planning on waiting for John on the stairs, anyways.

Hours passed and the sun was setting. Sherlock stayed vigilant, eyes scanning the view of London before him, waiting for his John to appear while Lestrade watched him with concern. (The lie they had both concocted went well with the superiors. Sherlock was right; they hadn't pressed the matter any further.)

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity and night had fallen, Sherlock saw a familiar figure running towards the museum. He stood to get a better look and beamed at the sight. From inside the museum, Lestrade got up, as well, and pressed his face against the glass to see.

John Watson looked like he was running for his life, lips slightly parted, puffs of white escaping them as he breathed in and out, cheeks pink and arms pumping so he could run even faster.

As he ran up the stairs, he nearly slipped and fell flat on his face, but instead, fell into open arms.

John froze, momentarily confused, then looked up. It was Sherlock, but he didn't know that, "S-sorry."

"John Watson."

John looked at him with surprise, "T-that's me…"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."