This story was actually based off of a prompt I created for Omegle and later I began to think how I could create a story from it, this was the end results. I'm not exactly sure if I want to continue on with it, so please follow, review or favorite it if you enjoyed the beginning. It'll definitely help me decide. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything.

P.S I don't have a beta, so please ignore any mistakes.

Chapter One- An Introduction

Amoris Indiciums. A word that Sherlock never, ever wanted to ponder further on in his life.

Amoris indiciums were a special type of marking... almost like a tattoo, really. But at the same time, they couldn't be compared to a tattoo. A tattoo was something that a person chose to have inked into their skin, and when they grew tired of it, it could be removed. An amoris indicium couldn't be removed. It was something permanent, but almost looked like the ink from a tattoo.

Normally, they are found on the left wrist, but it isn't entirely uncommon for a person to receive one on the right. They form intricate, black curves and swirls, all unique and special. But if two people were meant to be together, their markings would be matching. It was highly uncommon to find that a person and their soul mate weren't destined to be together, and even more so uncommon to find someone that actually rejected their soul mate. Or didn't ever receive an amoris indicium all together.

Sherlock Holmes wished he didn't have one of those blasted markings, but unfortunately, it seemed that whatever higher power there was, choosing their soul mates, just wasn't listening to his requests. At least his soul mate was somewhat bearable, to a certain extent.

He could still remember the day that he received it. And he'd been so disappointed, even if his soulmate wasn't half that bad, he supposed. Sherlock didn't have time for romance or soulmates or anything else involved with that. He didn't need it either. All Sherlock desired or needed in his life was the work, cadavers and his experiments. Yet the dusty corner in his brain loved to remind him just how much he quite possibly needed his soul mate.

The day Sherlock Holmes met John Watson was pegged as one of his worst days. And at the same time, it had been one of his greatest.

He had been at the morgue again, just like usual when Molly would find him a body.

"How fresh?" he asked, staring down at the petite pathologist.

"Just in. Sixty-seven, natural causes. Used to work here." She had a fond look on her face, "I knew him, he was nice."

Ignoring her after she stated the necessary facts, he said, "Fine, we'll start with the riding crop then."

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock just finished wildly whipping the corpse with the riding crop, letting out a single deep breath from the exercise of that activity. Molly entered, dropping the expression she had before, when she'd been looking on him through the window.

"So... bad day, was it?" She flashed him a nervous yet joking smile.

Again he just ignored her, as it was a waste of breath to even attempt to respond to her awful attempt of a joke. Sherlock pulled out his notebook and pen, scribbling inside of it, "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes, a man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

There was a moment of silence before Molly started, "Listen, maybe later, when you're finished-"

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before," Sherlock observed, cutting Molly off.

She stumbled over her words as she looked for a quick cover up, "I, er... refreshed it a bit."

He flashed her a small look of disbelief but quickly let it slide back into his empty, usual expression, "Sorry, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee," She finished finally.

"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."

"Okay." Molly tried to ignore how disappointed she was, but she reminded herself that this was Sherlock Holmes she was speaking to. Ignorant to any sort of attempt of someone coming onto him.

As Sherlock worked in the lab, he could hear the bits of a conversation from outside, ruining his train of thought completely. He could detect Mike Stamford's voice, speaking with someone the consulting detective didn't know, as he didn't sound familiar.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine," He asked as the door creaked open, not even glancing up from his work.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Came Mike's retort.

"I prefer to text."

The stranger intervened, retrieving his mobile from his pocket and holding it out towards Sherlock, "Er... here, use mine."

That was the point that Sherlock finally turned his head up and in the short, blonde man's direction. His left arm tingled in a way he'd never felt before as their eyes met, heart thumping painfully against his ribcage in a way that puzzled him so.

And it took him until later that night after hours upon hours of wondering what exactly had happened -especially with his arm- for him to draw back the tight sleeve of his shirt and uncover an amoris indicium.