(Maybe I Won't) Die Alone

I never thought I could love anyone but myself;
Now I know I can't love anyone but you.
You make me think that maybe I won't die alone-
Maybe I won't die alone.

- Ingrid Michaelson, "Die Alone"

Notes: Written for my best friend in the world, who is currently out of state, and pretty miserable about it. And I'm pretty sure the amount of angst I usually read/write and send her isn't helping. So here's something fluffy to make you smile. Can't wait until you come home! I love and miss you!

Also, the concept for this was based on a commercial, some time ago, that stated 74% of people tilt their head to the right when they kiss. I remember, about two years ago, coming across a tumblr post that asked 'what if those who tilt their heads to the left turned out to be soulmates?' I loved the idea, and it stuck with me. I just wish I could remember who suggested the concept!

John Watson was only twelve years old when he had his first kiss.

Earlier in the week, his class had learned about soulmates—at least, more than the myths and fairytales that every child grew up hearing before bed. They were told that there were no red strings or names written on their chests or countdowns on their wrists. There was no music or fireworks in the background, no burning feeling in your heart or veins. It didn't start at birth, it didn't start with a look, it didn't start with a touch of the hand.

Instead, it started with a kiss.

Most of the students, at this point in their young lives, already knew this. Their parents had likely explained it to them, when they were asked how they met and when they knew that they were intended for each other. It was all about the kiss: if you kissed someone who wasn't your soulmate, your head would tilt to the right; if it was your soulmate, your head would tilt to the left. It didn't matter what you tried, you couldn't change the direction; no matter how you may wish it, all efforts were for naught. So to find out if a person was your soulmate, you had to kiss them.

When the teacher explained this, most of the girls blushed and giggled behind their hands, and the boys groaned.

Unlike the other boys his age, however, John was ready to find his soulmate. So a few days later, when Sarah Sawyer approached John at the park after school, underneath a beech tree, suggesting that they try kissing, he was eager to try.

Her lips were cotton-soft and cherry-sweet and the initial brushing against his own was chaste. However, the moment that he gently moved his lips the slightest amount, he felt his head dip to the right, as though a string was suddenly tugged on, guiding his temple in the direction indicating that Sarah wasn't meant to be his.

They drew away from each other and she had giggled and blushed, though she had looked a little sad, as she said she hadn't really expected much. Soulmates rarely found each other so early in life.

That burning desire to find his intended was never extinguished. By the time that he began university, John had attempted to kiss just about every girl that he could. Still, every time his head stubbornly slid right instead of left. By the age of twenty-two, he was involved with less quick flings and more relationships—something he knew that became more common with increasing age. Some people never found their soulmates; others sadly lost theirs, whiles others were paired with mates that were cruel or abusive or neglectful. Sometimes, sadly, fate's intended simply wasn't for the best.

However, John's relationships never lasted too long. Most ended with the girl apologizing profusely, explaining that she'd suddenly come across her mate—at a party, in a new class, at the store—and it simply wasn't meant to be. He couldn't blame them, really, and he never held it against them. He knew he would likely do the same if he were in their situation.

When he joined the army, it was hard to convince his sister—who had just married her own soulmate—that it wasn't because he'd given up on finding his. He really hadn't. No, he had approached the situation logically. It was a solution for getting through med school without being in mountains of debt when he finished. It made sense, to him, and he tried to tell Harry that, but she didn't believe him. But what he really couldn't put into words the unexplainable feeling that swept through him—he needed to do this. He didn't know why, but something was whispering into his ear that he just needed to enlist.

After he was shot in the shoulder and sent home with a limp, hand tremors, and (supposed) post-traumatic stress disorder, he wondered what it had been that made him so adamant about going. He had thought at first that perhaps he'd meet his soulmate while in Afghanistan; however, this was quickly disproved. He'd kissed a few of his mates—something he supposed was common among men who half-thought they were going to die and wanted that last attempt at finding their other half. He even remembered, just after the bullet was removed from his shoulder, glancing at each attending nurse and being disappointed by the sight of a ring on their finger.

He'd tried dating since then, still with the ever-present hope that he'd find his soulmate. But the women that his flatmate didn't drive away, he unintentionally did so himself. Unmatched women his age were generally a bit desperate, he'd found—but, he quickly realized, not desperate enough to put up with what he put them through. He supposed, in all honesty, that that was fair enough.

Still, he hadn't given up hope.

Which left him in his current position, sitting in his chair at 221B Baker Street, gazing over the top of his newspaper at his aforementioned flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. The man was draped over the couch, long limbs stretched out, fingers steepled against his lips.

This man had put him through hell since he'd met him, to a point where he often wondered why it was that he stayed around. He was obstinate and blunt. He cared not for social niceties and was often rude; at times he could be downright cold.

But at the same time, he was brilliant and talented and skilled. He was the most extraordinary person that John had ever met. This man saved his life, and though Sherlock wouldn't admit it, he often reckoned that was a thought they shared. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson occasionally made references to the ways that Sherlock had been 'Before John'. He could hardly imagine those times, what the man must have been like.

"You could at least pretend to be reading."

John raised an eyebrow at the other man, who didn't even open his eyes to look at him when he made this statement. He then chuckled to himself. "Sorry," he said. "Just… thinking, I suppose."

At this, Sherlock cracked one eye open to glance over at John. After a moment, he closed his eyes again and merely hummed as way of response. He stretched his neck a little so that his fingertips brushed against his chin.

Sometimes, John couldn't help but wonder about Sherlock's soulmate, and whether or not the man ever searched for that person.

John could only remember two instances where the topic had been briefly touched—still, even then it was a gentle graze over the surface.

"So you haven't found your soulmate, then?" He'd asked Sherlock the question that first night, over dinner at Angelo's. The taller man had looked at him patronizingly, as though the whole concept was juvenile and beneath him.

Sherlock had, moments later, gone on to explain that he considered himself attached to his work, and John found himself swiftly trying to explain that it wasn't a proposition.

John fondly shook his head and smiled to himself, and Sherlock readjusted himself on the couch. He furrowed his brow slightly, a small line appearing between them as he focused.

The second time the topic had been (vaguely) broached was with Irene Adler. The woman herself claimed not to have a soulmate, though John doubted the truth in that. There had been a strange twisting in his gut when he entertained the idea that the two might be each other's mates. The sensation intensified when the woman died.

"The answer to your question is no," the man had told John one evening, and the shorter man startled. He glanced at the detective, standing in the window with his violin resting on his shoulder, though he had not been playing for some time. "The Woman was not my soulmate."

John didn't respond; he didn't know how to. And he certainly didn't want to question how Sherlock had gone about finding out—he supposed the man could have kissed her, though he didn't think that entirely likely. He supposed she could have kissed him, perhaps as a form of manipulation—that had seemed more her style. He even reckoned they might not have kissed at all; Irene may have been telling the truth about simply not having another half of her soul existing out there, that she did not have a mate. Or, she may have been lying, and she'd had one—who it was and where they were now, dead or alive, was an entirely different matter.

(Or, he thought a little sadly, though only for a fleeting moment, maybe it was Sherlock who was mateless. It was what he'd snapped at his brother, wasn't it? But that by no means meant it was true…)

Still, John couldn't help but feel a swoop of relief flood him when Sherlock admitted this. He didn't know why, but it relaxed him to know that he wasn't meant to be with Irene Adler. She'd caused enough pain and damage, and he didn't like to think about that.

Though, he reasoned, Sherlock was similar on that front. The things he'd done over the years, the grief that he caused… For some time, John had thought it remain unforgiveable.

As time went on, though, he came to the realization that anything he suffered for the sake of Sherlock was well worth it—all of the pain and heartache and anger and frustration—wounds both physical and emotional. He would go wherever he led; he would go to the ends of the earth for him. He was likely to be by his side until the day that he died, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

It was strange, really. Years ago, he'd told himself these were the things he would feel when he finally met his soulmate.

And it was that thought that struck John to his very core.

At that moment, Sherlock huffed out a breath and swung his legs down and planted his feet on the floor. He stepped right on top of the coffee table and then over it.

"Where are you going?" John asked. His heart hammered. It was one of those moments he briefly feared that Sherlock could actually read his mind. Certainly the man didn't actually have the power because—god—that would be mortifying. Surely…

"Your thinking is distracting," the taller man said disdainfully, folding his arms across his chest as he looked down at John.

Good, the doctor thought briefly, wildly, then caught himself—he hadn't actually believed Sherlock had some sort of telepathic power, did he? Those things weren't real except for movies and comic books. Good god, he needed some tea.

John closed the newspaper and placed it on the coffee table. "Sorry," he said quickly, but Sherlock ignored him as he walked into the kitchen. "I just—wait—"

Sherlock turned and fixed with a glare. "What?" he snapped impatiently. "I have experiments I can attend to, John, since your inability to concentrate on the paper is preventing my own focus."

"That's what I'm proposing," John said quickly, licking his lips nervously, and there was no putting a stop to this now. The moment that the thought entered his head, he knew that there wouldn't be any turning back. "An experiment." The other man raised his eyebrow at this. John cleared his throat, his heart thudding painfully against his ribcage. Surely Sherlock could hear that? If not, he could definitely see the flush starting to creep up the back of John's neck, the unpleasantly warm nervousness flooding him—god, what if he was wrong? "If… if you were interested."

"And what does this experiment entail?" Sherlock asked dubiously.

By way of an answer, John took a hesitant step forward. Definitely no turning back, now. And maybe, if he was lucky, if he was wrong, Sherlock could just delete this endeavor. Maybe, if he was wrong, he himself could forget it. Maybe things could still go back to normal.

But what if he was right? That made it worth the risk, didn't it?

He raised his hand to Sherlock's face, thumb tracing over one of his sharp cheekbones. Sherlock's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline, eyes widening comically.

"John—what—" he stammered, but he was quickly silenced as John rocked up on the balls of his feet, drawing himself as tall as he could and pressing his mouth against the other man's.

Sherlock let out a small sound of surprise, his lips frozen for a moment. However, he quickly relaxed as John brought his other hand up to cup the back of his neck, fingers teasing at the curls there. The hand on his cheek lowered to trace the strong line of his jaw and Sherlock eased his mouth open, allowing access.

John felt the familiar pull against his temple, but it was different this time—so wonderfully, rightly different that his already quick heartbeat accelerated. He curled his fingers into Sherlock's hair, tugging slightly, just as the detective's hands came up to rest over John's shoulder blades, drawing him closer into his chest.

The right side of his nose bumped into Sherlock's, and he clung onto the man even more tightly; it was like a tiny reminder of the direction his head had tilted—not to the right like so many times before, but actually to the left.

He probably should have figured this out a long time before.

When John finally pulled away, Sherlock's hands dropped to his sides, as though unsure what to do with them, now that they weren't touching the doctor—as though afraid that he was no longer permitted to touch. His cheeks were flushed, his lips slightly parted as he blinked rapidly, staring down at the other man. John couldn't help but let out a low chuckle at this.

He looked up at Sherlock with a grin. Sherlock. His soulmate. If he felt at all surprised by the sudden realization, it was nothing compared to the look of incredulity on Sherlock's face. The man who convinced himself he had no soulmate and the man who never stopped looking.

After a moment, Sherlock cleared his through, his mind seeming to clear as he looked down at John, brows furrowed once more.

"What now?" he asked, and John couldn't help but laugh a bit at this. The truth was, he had no idea. He spent so long looking for his mate that he never even considered what would happen after. But, he decided, it didn't really matter. Instead of answering, he grabbed the front of Sherlock's shirt and pulled him down to his level, letting their mouths find each other once more, heads instantly dipping to the left, proof that it was meant to be, that it was what fate intended.

And maybe, just maybe, it didn't matter if he knew what was going to happen, or where this was going to take them. All that mattered was that they'd found each other, and everything else that was left, they would figure out together.