Before Holmes Met Watson (FEATURED)

Day Twenty-Six: Before They Met

Destiny and coincidence. Were they mutually exclusive or opposite sides of the same coin, existing together, united and forever connected but seeming to manifest separately? Sherlock Holmes rarely considered such philosophical matters; John Watson thought of them often. What if on that fateful day in Maiwand John had stooped to tighten the laces on his boots or been standing three feet to the left? Would he never have been shot? Might he have eventually gone back to Kabul to be with Salman? Or would he have been blown to smithereens at a later date? Did he happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time: coincidence? Or had he been in the right place, the place it had been written for him to be: destiny?

Part of him had accepted the possibility, even the likelihood of his death. He'd had to – it was the only way to function in a war zone. Holding on too tightly was crippling. But that was a chalk line, wasn't it? It took only a nudge for accepting that you might die to turn into expecting you might die to turn into longing to die. You replaced the fear with resignation then with a strange sort of pining for it all to be over. That yearning became so great that you began to believe the very force behind the universe willed it to be so.

Destiny.

Coincidence.

The people who become important in our lives, do we really stumble upon them merely by chance? Sherlock pondered this as he tested the effects of various corrosive chemicals on a series of Mycroft's silk neckties. It was all so disorderly and chaotic, Sherlock thought. Mark had seen him across the field and been confident enough to come over and strike up a conversation. What if Sherlock had chosen to stay at the cottage and work on his experiments? What if Mark's wife hadn't been away? Was there some parallel universe in which Mark had never been married and all his love and sexual vitality was focussed solely on Sherlock? In this universe, was Sherlock fat and happy, constantly being plied with baked goods and astonishing sex? But he and Mark didn't quite fit, weren't really compatible in the most important ways. Sherlock was selfish, single-minded and obsessive. He suspected that was the way his love would manifest itself were it ever unleashed. He also suspected it was the way he wanted to be loved in return. He had a jealous spirit and couldn't have borne not being held in the same regard.

Mark had seen him across a field.

Fortuitously crossing someone's path couldn't be the way it was meant to go, could it? There was something grotesquely unfair about that sort of capriciousness determining a person's happiness.

When John was fifteen, his school took a trip into London to the Natural History Museum. He'd spent most of his time trying to sneak off with Ronald Peterson so they could snog. There'd been a boy there who looked to be about ten years-old with wild, dark, curly hair and eyes like chips of ice. He was excitedly dragging along a plump, fair-haired boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen but had the demeanour of a middle-aged accountant. "I want to see the dinosaur skeletons!" the dark-haired boy had cried. The older boy smiled at him indulgently and said, "Very well, Sherlock." John had smiled at them when they'd passed. He'd liked dinosaurs too when he was that age. Didn't every little boy?

Neither John nor Sherlock recalled the encounter.

Four years later, Sherlock had run away from home and taken the train to Scotland. His destination hadn't been a conscious decision; the train to Edinburgh had been the next one departing. He knew it would take his family no time at all to find him. He wasn't covering his tracks very well, but he wanted to be as far away from them as he could for at least a while. A few seats ahead of him sat a university student. He was staring out the window. He seemed shell-shocked. John was returning from his parents' funeral and had spent most of the day fighting the urge to laugh hysterically. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a giggle. The whites of his eyes showed around his irises. Sherlock had stared at him for a bit, wondering if he were having some sort of episode and might slip into a fit. He didn't. He shut his eyes and rested his head against the glass. A tear slid from his eye, and Sherlock was struck by his quiet grief and how petulant and shabby it made his own rebellious behaviour seem in comparison. Sherlock switched seats so he wouldn't have to look at the sad young man anymore.

John never noticed Sherlock, and Sherlock erased the brief encounter.

Sherlock liked fighting. That surprised everyone. Most soldiers liked fighting. That surprised no one. Before Sherlock found The Ludus he would sometimes fight in hastily arranged bouts at clubs or pubs. He was young and thin and posh. Easy pickings. He liked surprising them. Five years after his jaunt to Edinburgh (which had ended with the police meeting him at the station and putting him directly on the next train back to London), he was in a warehouse in Peckham surrounded by squaddies. Most of the would be shipping out soon and were making the most of one of their last nights on home soil. While Sherlock was taking on a barrel-chested Private in the makeshift ring, John was in a dark corner with his hand up the skirt of a young woman named Hartley. He'd never forgotten her name and always liked the ring of it. She was a wonderful kisser, John had thought. And she'd made sweet little gasping noises when he began to rub her over her knickers.

Sherlock paid no attention to the couple petting in the corner, and John was too caught up in Hartley to pay Sherlock any mind.

The unkindness of ravens.

John had watched them fall from the sky up close, and Sherlock had seen them from a distance. Sherlock had used his powers of deduction to make his way to the site of their landing. It had been like something out of a Gothic horror film – blood and bone and guts and black feathers everywhere – a lurid display of the fragility of life. As he'd arrived, the last of the onlookers were dispersing. Down the street, he saw a soldier turn the corner.

Time was an illusion. There was no past, no future. Everything that had happened was the same as everything that would happen. It all already existed; we just couldn't perceive it. It was revealed to us bit by bit – a cruel act of cosmic teasing, keeping the stupid humans in suspense, making them think they had free will. John often wondered if this was true, that everything was pre-ordained, that all the choices he thought he was making were not his own. He wasn't moving towards or away from anything or anyone; he was always exactly where he should be at each moment. In a way, his position was fixed. It couldn't be true, could it? Otherwise it all wouldn't be so goddamned hard.

The death of his parents had left John a traveller, a nomad, moving from place to place, never putting down roots, never certain where he'd end up next. The Romani have a phrase: atchen tan. It means "stopping place" – where your travels ended. John longed to find his. He no longer had a childhood home. The military had always been meant to be temporary. Once they'd decided he was no longer a danger to himself, he'd be allowed to leave the hospital. Where would he go?

He'd always liked London. Perhaps his atchen tan was there.

Back in Pall Mall, the entertainment of destroying Mycroft's neckwear had worn thin, and Sherlock couldn't stop thinking: Mark saw me across a field. It had been that simple. The next time it wouldn't be, Sherlock knew. The next time he'd have to earn it.

Thanks for keeping up with the story! This chapter was a bit of a weird one. Let me know what you think in the comments!