This is a fill for the following prompt on the Sherlock kink meme:

I'm tired of the Soulmate fics - with either Markings, Names or Timers - where Sherlock doesn't want one, or he gives up on finding them before he's even looked.

I want a Sherlock who really wants his Soulmate.

He wants to find them, he can't wait for it.
That one person that will, if not understand him, accept him. The one who'll look at him without a negative emotion, who'll talk to him without it seeming reluctant.
That one person, and he wants them.

This fic will have seven chapters, if everything goes according to plan. I have up through chapter 4 written and up through chapter 3 beta'd. I figured I may as well start posting this up outside of the meme itself. That being said, though, I will still be updating on the meme before here or AO3; only the beta'd chapters will be updated off-meme.

Many thanks to my wonderful beta Akiame9! This has not been Brit-picked. Please feel free to point out any errors and blatant Americanisms to me. :3 Also, thank you to janebrave for posting this wonderful prompt.

Enjoy!

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"They have to be older than me, because I've had my thread since I was born. My thread is always loose; it never pulls, so they have to be close by, at least somewhere in the country. That means I have a better chance of meeting them. Right, Mycroft?"

"Mhm," the elder Holmes responded disinterestedly, not bothering to look up from his studies. He marked a few notes down in his notebook before turning a page in his textbook.

Eight-year-old Sherlock frowned, his bottom lip protruding until the frown became a full-on pout. "You aren't even listening," he accused his older brother, crossing his arms over his chest with a huff.

"Sherlock, I'm reading."

"But I was making deductions, just like you taught me!"

"You can tell me about your deductions when I'm not studying. I have exams next week," Mycroft said, exasperated, giving his younger brother a pointed look. It was the look Mycroft inherited from their father, the look that could burn holes through brick. Sherlock just glared right back before flopping down on his brother's giant bed.

He held his left hand up in front of his face, pale eyes examining the thin red thread tied around his pinkie finger. His soul mate would probably listen to his deductions. Call them brilliant and fantastic, even, not ignore them like Mycroft or scold him for them like Mummy and Father. No, his soul mate would love his deductions always and never insist that he keep his thoughts to himself, tell him that it was best to keep his mouth shut if he couldn't say nice things. He would give anything to meet his soul mate, to be appreciated and admired. He'd even give up his chemistry set that Mummy had gotten him for his birthday.

Letting out a forlorn sigh, Sherlock let his hand fall until it was splayed across his face. The warmth of his thread caressed his cheek.

"Do you have yours yet, Mycroft? Your thread?" he asked somewhat absently.

There was a long silence, interrupted only by the scratching sound of graphite on paper. Sherlock thought his question had gone unheard by his brother—always busy with his studies and never any fun anymore, the sod—and was about to repeat it when Mycroft finally answered him.

"No."

Something unpleasant and completely unfamiliar tugged at the younger Holmes' heartstrings. Was this what pity felt like? Just that monosyllabic word was enough to elicit an emotion in Sherlock he never thought he'd ever direct at his brother. In that moment, he felt sorry for Mycroft.

He couldn't imagine not having a soul mate, not having that one fated meeting to look forward to. He couldn't fathom going through the motions of life without that one ultimate goal in mind, finally finding the person you were meant to be with forever.

"You are very lucky, Sherlock," Mycroft went on to say, though the tone with which he spoke gave the impression that this discussion was officially over.

Sherlock quietly left Mycroft's room and headed for his own down the hall, his thread dragging on the floor behind him.

.

It was his fault.

It was all his fault.

But he didn't understand.

Mummy and Father were soul mates. Both of them had confirmed it long ago in response to their youngest son's insatiable curiosity that their threads were one and the same. Connected to each other, linked by some force of destiny far beyond their control. A soul mate was that one person in life meant to be loved and cherished until the end of time. A bond that could never be severed, even by the sharpest of blades.

So why did Father throw that all away?

The silence that followed was deafening in its entirety. When Sherlock opened the door to his father's office, when he saw her wrapped in his father's arms and sucking on his lips and tugging at his dark hair, everything went quiet and still. The scene was caught in a freeze frame, none of them daring or willing to wade through the fog of tension that settled about the room. Then the play button was pressed and Sherlock bolted, unable to accept what he'd just discovered. Unable to believe what his ever-observant eyes had just seen.

It was when he told Mummy that everything just went straight to hell.

And no matter how deeply he burrowed into his blankets, or how hard he pressed his pillows to his ears, or how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut, he couldn't block out the sound of Mummy and Father screaming at each other downstairs. He couldn't quell the burning in his chest. He couldn't stop the tears from breaching his eyelids and soaking into his sheets.

He was angry. Angry and upset and unbearably hurt. He hated Father. Hated him.

In his desperation, he'd even sought out Mycroft for comfort, but his brother provided none—only told him that was how things were, and that was the end of it.

Sherlock decided, right then and there, that his soul mate would never do what Father did to Mummy. His soul mate would never betray him like that. His soul mate would never even think about ripping his heart out the way Father ripped out Mummy's heart. His soul mate would love him always, no matter what, and never, ever think of cheating on him. And Sherlock would never do something so horrible to his soul mate.

When the shouting finally quieted, when the house finally fell silent and tense and waiting, Sherlock finally lost his battle against sleep. He dreamt of the day he'd finally meet his soul mate, and all of this pain would just go away.

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"This is the third time this month, Sherlock."

"Shut up."

Mycroft heaved a long-suffering sigh, crossing one long leg over the other as he fixed his younger brother with an expectant stare. Sherlock ignored it completely.

"Mummy will not be happy about this."

Sherlock just sank deeper into the backseat of the car, arms crossed, fingers idly fiddling with his thread. His glare was acidic enough to burn holes through the floor, even from just the one eye. His other eye was swollen almost completely shut, ringed by several shades of black and purple. The sleeves of his school uniform's blazer hid the other cuts and bruises on his arms. It had gotten to the point where he didn't feel the pain anymore. All he felt was burning hatred, unadulterated enmity towards every single student, teacher, person in his godforsaken school.

They were all so bloody stupid, the lot of them.

"My soul mate wouldn't have let this happen," Sherlock muttered, a pathetic attempt at backtalk. Half of him wanted to open the door and shove Mycroft and his dumb umbrella out of the car, and the other half wanted to jump out himself.

"Sherlock, you have got to stop putting so much stock in someone you will most likely never meet," Mycroft said, his voice level and cold, cutting through Sherlock like ice. He visibly flinched, but Mycroft continued nonetheless. "You cannot keep relying on someone you have never even met to get you out of the trouble that you get yourself into. There is no knight in shining armor that is going to come rescue you. You must take responsibility for yourself and let go of these childish fantasies."

At the next red light, Sherlock let himself out of the car and stomped down the sidewalk. He ignored Mycroft calling his name, ignored the honking of the car horn, ignored the swelling pain in his chest and the tears building in his tear ducts because he was Sherlock bloody Holmes and he did not cry. He was going to find his soul mate, he really was. Fuck Mycroft and fuck everyone else. Even if it killed him, he would not give up. Ever.

He just kept going and did not look back.

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I'm sorry to start off with so much angst. It's going to get worse after this.

Until next time,
Chibi