
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/619896.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Reincarnation, Alternate_Universe_-_Past_Lives,
      Angst, References_to_Suicide, Character_Death, Soulmates, References_to
      Drug_Use
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-01 Words: 11188
****** good-morrow to our waking souls ******
by orithea
Summary
     "Their souls find each other and come together again; he is named
     John now, and he is as constant and unchangeable as ever, as sure to
     be by his side as it is sure that the sun will rise."
     Sherlock finds it difficult to live without John in any life, and
     always remembers how he is taken from him.
     Or: how many ways can two men die over the course of more than 2,000
     years?
Notes
     Want to listen to some gorgeous music while you read this? Here's_a
     playlist by the awesome jillandsarah.
     Art_of_Xanthos by Jill of jillandsarah.
See the end of the work for more notes
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.
 
—John Donne, The Good Morrow
 
 
 
The first time that they meet he is called Xanthos, because it is a family name
given to those born with his hair—a cascade of fair curls that are his one
vanity. The other man is called Ioannes, and he is inexplicably fascinating to
him. Xanthos is so rarely fascinated; to be so interested in a mere soldier is
something of a novelty. He joined the procession of the army as a historian to
document their glorious battles, more because it seemed like a good adventure
than because of any interest in warfare. What he learned is that war is not
glorious, battle is not noble nor beautiful, and that soldiers are crude and
alarmingly uneducated. Most of them, at least. He watches this Ioannes from
afar, thinks there is something less than tedious about him. 
“I overheard that you served in Alexander's army,” Xanthos says to Ioannes one
day. They are the first words he's spoken to him, or any other solider, that
were conversational rather than strictly a necessity. 
“I did,” Ioannes admits. “For many years, until he was gone and I found my way
to this one.” 
“Loyal,” is all that Xanthos says, and that is the end of their conversation as
he strides away leaving a confused man in his wake. 
He finds him again the next day. “Your name, it was a Hebrew name, was it
not?” 
Ioannes is startled to find the scholar hovering behind him, speaking with no
greeting to preface this question. He turns around to look up at him. “Yes, it
was. Translated.” 
“Transliterated. You did not grow up speaking Greek, then, because you are not
Greek. You are Hebrew.” He pauses momentarily. “That explains the way that you
say some words, it is not an accent that I've encountered before.” 
“Glad to be of help, to teach you something new.”
 Xanthos narrows his eyes. “Alexander conquered Isreal, defeated your people,
yet you joined his army, stayed loyal to him and did not desert him before his
death, even while others mutinied. Why is that?” 
Ioannes shrugs. “It was the thing to do. I wanted to see what else there was in
the world, and following an impressive man like that seemed the best option.”
After this, they are something like friends. They seek each other's company for
conversations, at least, and Ioannes is the only person who has been invited
inside of Xanthos's tent, allowed to read his accounts and handle the
instruments he keeps. 
“You are different from most of these other men,” Xanthos tells him one day
while they are eating dinner together outside, gazing up at the stars. 
Ioannes has not become tired of his friend's efforts to study him, to try to
understand him like his is some sort of puzzle rather than a man like any
other. “And you, you are not strange at all.” 
It is met with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Of course I am, I make my way
through the world using my brain and not my might—” he is interrupted by a
snort of laughter because any man would look at him, even Ioannes who accords
him some amount of respect, and not think of him as mighty. “Shut up. I use my
brain and not my might so obviously I am different, but why are you?” 
“I am what I am because that is who I am,” Ioannes says, as though it is a
simple and indisputible fact. 
There is a battle in which Ioannes takes a spear through the left shoulder. The
others are able to remove it, but they do not think that he will recover from
the wound, that it is in grave danger of festering. 
“Let him go,” an old soldier advises. “There is little that we can do to keep a
man on the earth that will not only prolong his suffering. You will see your
brave friend again in the afterlife.” 
But he will not give up, will not release Ioannes’s hand and let him slip away.
“If you take him away to die, you will have to take me too,” he tells them.  He
curses the army, the gods, and anyone who comes close, and throws himself
across his body until they give up, agree to move him into Xanthos’s tent and
let him become the scholar’s burden. 
The two are left behind as the others march on, but he does not give up hope.
He knows enough of history to believe that recovery is possible, and enough of
survival to keep them both alive as he waits for his friend's fever to break. 
“You utter idiot,” he whispers as he strokes a damp cloth over Ioannes's head,
though he does not think that he can hear him. His breathing is quiet and
steady as if in sleep rather than the edge of death. “I thought one of the
first things they taught you in training was how to dodge.” He keeps him cool,
gives him water, and is rewarded by the opening of his friend's eyes before two
full days pass.
“We were left behind,” Xanthos explains, when he appears confused by the quiet.
He tells him all that happened. 
“You have more force of will than any god,” Ioannes says with a weary laugh.
“They are all too frightened of your snarls to take me away just yet.” 
When Ioannes is well enough they pack up the tent and Xanthos's belongings,
some of which they sell in the first merchant town that they reach in order to
fund their new journey. They keep the wound of his shoulder clean, but it is
weak and Xanthos bears the brunt of moving their things, and sometimes
supporting his friend when he is feeling less than recovered. Ioannes never
again questions whether Xanthos is just as strong of body as he is of mind, and
lives in awe of this man whose sheer determination has kept both of them
alive. 
They make way for Alexandria together, where it is easy for Xanthos to work as
a scribe and surround himself with philosophers. Ioannes, no longer able to
serve in any army, learns to put his agile hands to work as an assistant to a
physician, then learns the trade himself at the great medical school of
Alexandria. Xanthos teaches his friend about philosophy, about the teachings of
Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Ioannes teaches him in turn about the
scientific method and experimentation, about Hippocrates and Herophilus, and
the argument that intellect resides in the brain rather than the heart. Xanthos
thinks that he can agree with this, because if the heart was the seat of
consciousness and decision, the fluttering and pounding of it would have
directed him into the arms of his friend long ago, while his brain reminds him
that it is unwise. 
Ioannes has never expressed any sort of longing for his friend, nor any other
men or even women. It is confusing to Xanthos who was pursued in his youth in
Greece, and often propositioned by soldiers after he went on the march. He
assumes that his friend is uninterested in that sort of thing; it is not
unheard of. As friends, it is their custom to share a bed, when Xanthos can be
bothered to sleep. They are both surprised when, one evening, Xanthos cannot
help himself and reaches out to caress Ioannes.
“This is okay?” he asks after a time, though his friend has made no move to
pull away and has put his hands on him in turn. 
“Gods, yes,” Ioannes sighs in answer. “I've wanted to do this so long,
myself.” 
“Then why haven't you told me?” 
“You always rejected the other soldiers, so I assumed—” 
“Idiot,” he says affectionately. “You know that you are unlike anyone else to
me.” 
So they become lovers as well as friends. Xanthos is a difficult man who pays
little mind to the feelings of others and spends much time wrapped in his own
preoccupations, but Ioannes loves him wholly and does not ask him to change his
ways. Later, Ioannes takes a wife, and that is okay because he is a man who
should have children—he is a wonderful father. Xanthos declines to do the same,
citing that he is married to his work. The truth is that he does not believe
that there is room in his heart or his mind for anyone else. It seems a miracle
to him sometimes that he found even one man to let in. 
They have a good life here, but it was a hard life in past years, especially
for Ioannes, who came so close to death once before. He can feel himself
getting sick, knows that his lungs are weak and he lets Xanthos know this so
that he will be prepared for what will happen. Despite this, he cannot accept
it and he is not ready when the time comes and Ioannes is on his deathbed, only
able to draw shallow breaths that cannot sustain him. Xanthos is by his side,
holding his hand like it is all that keeps him tethered to the earth.
“I will never forget you,” Ioannes promises. Xanthos does not say the words
back to him because he cannot say anything in this moment, but he knows that
this is true for him as well. 
Xanthos does not linger long after his lover is gone. He makes provisions for
his belongings to become the property of Ioannes's wife and children, because
he thinks that would make him happy. He writes their story down, paying great
attention to the loyalty and good deeds of his soldier and scientist, because
that is what he is most proud of—next to his loyalty and devotion to an
impossible, infuriating scholar who didn't deserve it but received it anyway.
He immortalizes what they were to the world and to each other and smiles to
think that this piece of papyrus, his best work, will live here in the Library
of Alexandria forever. He dies with Ioannes's name on his lips and a vial of
poison clutched in his hand.
--- 
He does not immediately remember his old life in the next. He lives in Rome in
this life, and is named Xanthus though his hair is dark rather than blond. He
is young but wishes to be an orator, has only just returned from his studies in
Greece at the age of 18, and his brother is a Senator like their father before
him; they are a powerful family. 
It is not until he sees him again that he remembers. He looks much the same
though Ioannes is many years older than himself this time, but even if he wore
a new face Xanthus would knowhim, recognize the mark of his soul  because he
knows its points, its lines, its planes as well as those of his own being. 
“Ioannes, Ioannes!” he calls out, and the man stops walking, turns around to
find the voice calling out his name. He looks confused, but Xanthus does not
notice this in his excitement. He grabs his lost love’s face in his hands,
stares at him in wonder, and presses a kiss of greeting to his mouth. “I am
sorry, I think I did forget you for some time,” he tells him. 
Ioannes is a polite and patient man in this life as well, it seems. “I’m sorry,
young man, I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else.” He does not draw
back from his touch, however. 
The memories came into existence in an instant and he can remember it all like
it happened to him just a moment ago and not to a different man in a different
body: saving the wounded soldier, his heart’s only friend, when no one else
would; their long life together, when he traced all the lines of his lover’s
body with his tongue so as to imprint them in his mind forever, when he taught
this man’s sons to hold reed pens and form letters as their father taught them
to wield swords and make war; his deathbed; his promise. Heis the one who
promised to never forget, and here they are together once more and he is a
stranger. 
His mind is sharp and its processes quick so that he only falters for a moment
as he releases him. “You knew me as a child, were a friend of my father’s,” he
tells him, injecting the barest hint of hurt into his tone. “It has been many
years since we have heard of you, and we feared you dead.” The lie comes fast
and is convincing enough that it is accepted. 
“I have a terrible memory about this sort of thing,” Ioannes apologizes. “Met a
man this morning who says we were tutored together as boys and it took me some
time to recall it. He’d gotten fat, and that never helps with remembering. Not
that you have that problem.” 
Xanthus laughs with him. He is taller than average, thin and lanky in his
youth. “And why is your memory so poor that you cannot remember our faces?” He
recognizes him as an eques Romanus from his dress and  the gold ring he wears,
but wants to hear more, wants to know everything about this new Ioannus. 
“I have been gone from Rome for many years, sent to Egypt and beyond. Too much
time outside of our city will addle a man’s wits.” 
“It was Athens for me,” Xanthus says knowingly. “Are you back home to stay
now?” 
Ioannes admits that he is; he has served as an officer for more than ten years
and that entitles him to a rest, a chance to make a life here in Rome once
more. With the help of Xanthus and his family it is a good one. He is learned,
can read and write in a variety of languages, so he is given a secure position
as a government clerk. He finds a wife and has a family, but also takes Xanthus
into his bed. 
“You would have an old man like me?” Ioannes asks after the first time that
Xanthus has kissed him with open mouth, drawing in his tongue as lovers do. 
“Old, young, in-between. However you are because you are you,” Xanthus affirms.
It makes him ache deep in his chest so that it feels his heart might burst,
that Ioannes does not remember him from before, when he was strong and saved
his life. He knows him only as he is now, an infatuated boy. 
This life ends much as the last, though this time it is Ioannes’s heart that
cannot keep up with the strain of living. After he is gone, Xanthus tries to
live with his grief for a time, but the memories of his past life and of
Ioannes have derailed his plans in this one and he is left feeling that he has
nothing to live for now. He uses a dagger belonging to his lover to end it. 
--- 
He does not forget again, after that first time. His name is now Lucius, and he
lives his life normally, but knows that somehow he will meet his Ioannes again.
It comes quickly enough—he is born well again, and while his father handles his
education in the beginning, when he is fourteen years old they hire a tutor.
This man is Ioannes, and he is a slave, albeit a well-learned one, in this
life. 
Lucius doesn't know why he can remember but the other man cannot. He has read
many accounts, known many great minds in three different lives, and he has
never seen another mention of anything like this, of repeating and remembering.
Plato presented a story about soulmates, but that was merely a story, one that
he thought was beautiful when he first heard it, but silly now. He wonders why
this does not seem to happen to other people. He decides that there is a simple
proof: he will take his tutor to Alexandria and show to him the account written
by the Greek, Xanthos, of his love for the soldier Ioannus. When he hears that
Caesar has burned down the Library, he weeps. 
He keeps Ioannes in his household as he grows older and begins to take over the
business of his father. They have a good relationship, but when Lucius buys him
his freedom, he does not stay. He had thought that watching Ioannes die was too
difficult to bear, but to have him leave willingly is devastating, and he goes
mad from despair. 
--- 
There are three lives that pass in quick succession in which he and Ioannes
come together only briefly. In the first he is called Severus, and he is a
physician himself—the only time he will take this path—, while Ioannes is one
of the Praetorian Guard. They follow Marcus Aurelius to war and both die at the
hand of the Germanian Tribes. In the next Ioannes is a gladiator, and Aelius—as
he is called this time—cannot save him from his fate but loves him while he can
and starves himself to death after he is gone. Then he becomes Lucius again,
and he and Ioannes are simply Roman citizens in Britannia, but they are both
killed during a barbarian invasion.
--- 
This time he is called Sherlock, and comes to think of that as his true name.
He has golden curls again, though now he wears them shorn close to his scalp
because the beauty of men is not prized. Their souls find each other and come
together again; he is named John now, and he is as constant and unchangeable as
ever, as sure to be by his side as it is sure that the sun will rise. They grow
up together this time, are born in the same month of the same year and are
treated as brothers by the rest of their little village despite their different
mothers. They are inseparable and understand each other in ways that no others
can. 
It is this lifetime that will shape his thoughts of John for many years to
come. When he thinks of him while he waits in their next lives he pictures him
like he was here: golden skinned, strong of arm even after he is pierced
through the shoulder in battle and scarred for the remainder of his days, sandy
haired, and full of easy smiles and praise for his companion even when there
was little to smile and praise for. This is the lifetime that brands him always
as John, no matter what name he has come to be given (they do get it wrong,
sometimes). When Sherlock reads history books about this time in the future he
will laugh to see them all characterized as unfeeling barbarians. John was more
noble, even then, than so many civilized men of later generations, and they
loved each other as strongly and purely as any love he has seen across time. 
It is life with this John that makes a warrior out of Sherlock, the man who has
always lived on the strength of his mind in the past. Their families have not
inhabited England long, were among some of the first invaders to wrest control
from the Romans and native Britons. The boys have little choice but to become
soldiers so that they can protect their new home and chief. Sherlock is not
bold, though he is strong, and would be scared to do it if it were not for the
presence of John, who he knows will always protect him even if it results in
his own harm. As teenagers they are sent together to the chieftain's home for
further training, and combine their blankets to make a single bed together on
the floor. 
“People will talk,” John says, smiling against the side of Sherlock's neck as
he holds him. 
“They do little else.” That is argument enough for John. 
They fight alongside each other always. When there is a battle on Mount Badon
and John falls, Sherlock kills the man who takes him from him and then ensures
that he will too die in combat, because he will not live without him for even a
day, not this time. 
--- 
There is a long rest after that life. To the best of Sherlock's knowledge there
is nothing between lives, no space his soul inhabits other than his various
bodies when he is conscious. He likes to think that his soul rests, becomes
stardust whirling freely through the skies until the time comes for it to
gather all of its particles together and try again, but he does not know for
sure. There is simply death, then rebirth, with no memories of the blackness
between. He has seen too many gods come and go to believe that any of them or
their afterlives exist. 
Four hundred years pass in the blink of an eye. Sherlock is sad to not have had
the time interspersed with moments of being with John, but he is also glad that
he has not had 400 years of lifetimes filled with John’s death. All that he
wishes for is a quiet life. The universe (or whatever it is that is driving
this process, he’s not entirely sure) hears his thoughts and wishes, and has a
strange sense of humor. 
They grow up in the same village again, though this time John is older and they
are not friends. Sherlock simply watches him from afar and plans to go to him
when the opportunity presents itself. It is not forthcoming, because in this
life he is rich, his father owns the land, and John’s family simply works it
and struggles to get by. Sherlock sometimes escapes his Nurse and runs down
into the village with a loaf of bread, a few apples, some cheese, or whatever
else he can manage to nick from the kitchen and carry in his little hands, and
deposits these things outside the home John shares with his family and their
animals. 
When John is nine, nearly ten, and Sherlock is just seven, his mother dies.
John’s father has three other children to raise alone now, and John is the
oldest and most capable of leaving, so he is offered to the Benedictines as an
oblate, for them to raise to join them as he grows. This leaves Sherlock no
choice but to convince his own parents that he is the most devout of children,
that he wishes nothing more than to devote his life to the church in the
service of God. He is just a middle child; there are sons and daughters older
and younger to replace him, so they send him off when he is twelve, and are
thankful that he won’t be clamoring for land of his own. Sherlock is good at
pretending what he does not truly believe. 
They do not require a vow of silence in this Order, but are encouraged to have
brevity in their speech, to save their words for when they are truly important
and must be used. It is not difficult for Sherlock, who has piercing eyes that
can communicate even delicate meanings with a mere twitch of his expression,
especially with his closest Brother, John. It is harder for John, who is full
of joy and contentment in this life, and has trouble keeping the words to show
his appreciation for the world tucked behind his lips. Sherlock regrets that
John has to limit himself at all, that his humor cannot flow freely the way it
always has in the past. He misses his observations and his praise. 
Sherlock has an intense attention to detail now as always, and he spends his
days illuminating holy manuscripts with tiny drawings, so full of life that
they almost appear to leap from the parchment. He mixes the inks himself from
plants and other natural materials gathered from the grounds (by himself or
with the help of John) that he grinds and carefully prepares.  John keeps the
monastery’s bees, harvests the honey, and with his strong steady hands makes
beeswax candles so fine and lovely that the Abbot requests his alone to adorn
the altar of the cathedral. It is a calm and quiet life. 
John pays penance each time, begging God’s forgiveness for his willful sin;
that does not stop him from spending his every night in Sherlock’s arms.
Sherlock spends all of the words that he has painstakingly saved through the
day on these nights, murmuring his awe into his lover’s ear. 
They live to be quite old for the time, and when John dies of his age, Sherlock
is not far behind. 
--- 
Sherlock becomes an excellent observer, because that is what is necessary to
spot John when the universe does not seem interested in bringing them together
on her own. They don't always look the same: there are different faces,
different hair, different bodies with different markings. John is usually
strong and stocky, Sherlock is almost always tall and wiry. No matter what the
features of the face look like, there is an expression they arrange themselves
into each time that is wholly John, a certain gait and way of holding himself
that is universally his, military service or not. John is always stoic and kind
in ways that Sherlock cannot master even across multiple lives. He is the
foremost expert in the things that make John who he is, and they are clues that
cannot be hidden from him. 
There is a painful lifetime when Sherlock lives to be 78 years old and he does
not meet John even once, or if he did he was too distracted by the world around
him to take notice. It is the 12th Century and Sherlock is a trouvere in the
courts of France. He assumes, when he is old, that John must have gone off to
the Crusades, smiles to think of him fighting alongside Richard Coeur de Lion
and of how much John would have liked the romances they sing about King Arthur
here at court. Sherlock includes him in many of his writings, gives him
different names each time but they are all just versions of John. No knight in
a story could ever be as good as that man, but Sherlock must make do and
remember when he does not have the real thing. 
He vows as he feels himself dying that he will always see and notice everything
around him so that he never misses John again. He never does.
--- 
The next time, John remembers. They think that it must be due to the fact that
they did not meet at all in their prior life, that the universe wants to give
them double the chance to make it right again. 
Sherlock decides that his best option for being sure to meet John is to join
the Crusades, though he tries to minmize the likelihood of dying before they
meet by learning the blacksmith trade and traveling with the camp. John is an
archer this time, a deadly accurate shot with the longbow. He knows Sherlock
this time, knows how he will think and plan, and joins the Crusades as well
even though he had enough of the great stinking mess the last time; lost his
faith a lifetime ago. Later John tells Sherlock how lucky he is that he found
Edward Longshanks an inspirational enough leader to follow, or he might have
stayed home and waited. No one was worth the Crusades. They both know that this
is not true. They are both worth ten Crusades or more. 
When they meet eyes for the first time in this life, there is instant
recognition. Sherlock does not have to woo John this time, does not have to
wait for him to realize that he loves him and wants to be with him. They
acknowledge each other's presence but wait until they are covered by the dark
of night to sneak away from the camp. 
Sherlock expects that they will talk, thinks that John is likely to have
questions, so he is surprised to find himself being thoroughly kissed the
moment that they're far enough away from the noise and lights for comfort. By
no means does he protest, and they're soon writhing together on the ground
without yet speaking a word. John comes with his fingers fisted in Sherlock's
curls and Sherlock clutches his shoulders as though he thinks he might
disappear if he lets go. They lie there together for a while, quietly panting. 
John is the one who breaks the silence. “I've waited... so long to do that.” 
“Worth the wait?” Sherlock asks. His wry grin is evident in his tone. 
“Always is, so much.” They go quiet again, before John adds, “I’m sorry,”
suddenly sad. “I know I’ve hurt you before. It hurts for you every time.” 
“It’s fine, it’s all fine. You didn’t know.” Sherlock pulls him close and rests
his head against his heart. More tangible proof—feeling, sound of its
beating—that John is real and he is here again. 
John listens to Sherlock talk about how it feels to remember always, and he
apologizes for not being able to do the same. It is out of his control, because
he would remember every moment spent by this man’s side if he could. 
They stay with the company until the truce is signed, then they make their way
back towards England together, just the two of them. It is one of the best
times in nearly 700 years, they agree. Sherlock sings the songs that he wrote
for John over a century ago, and laughs because in that last life he’d been a
tenor instead of his usual baritone. John reminisces about the way they both
used to look (he misses Sherlock's golden hair and regrets that he has only
been the taller of the two once before), and wonders if their graves still
exist somewhere on earth, holding bodies that used to belong to them. 
Perhaps their joy is written across their faces too brightly this time. They
have forgotten that this century is not as permissive as the last, that there
are new laws condemning the love between two men, and do not take precautions.
They settle together in Spain, only planning to stay for a short while before
continuing on to their home, but they have gotten used to the sun and the
warmth. Sherlock manages to insult one of the powerful landowners who controls
much of the region, and it is not long after that they are arrested for sodomy.
The punishment in this country is gruesome, and rather than be subjected to
torture and castration, Sherlock begs that they be hanged. 
John is dropped first. In the moments before it is his turn, Sherlock hopes
that it can be like this again next time, that John will remember too despite
the pain of doing so. 
--- 
He does not. They meet this time in London, where Sherlock is a journeyman
locksmith, having tired of the scholarly pursuits. John is a guard in the Tower
of London, and he is unusually stubborn about paying any attention to Sherlock
this time around. It takes bribes of many trips to the alehouse before he will
consider calling Sherlock a friend, though things go considerably quicker after
that so that John spends more nights in Sherlock’s cramped room in the
guildhall than he does with his wife. 
They survive the Black Death while so many others fall around them and Sherlock
thinks that he is lucky, finally. But just a few years later, years that he is
grateful for but they are not enough, the peasants revolt and take over the
Tower. John is stabbed and trampled in the process, and Sherlock goes mad from
it: first holds his lifeless body in his arms and screams for him to not be
dead, then turns his fury on the heavens, curses whatever, whoever is doing
this to him. He runs John’s sword through his breast and dies with a litany of
“why”s at his lips. 
--- 
The universe gives them another brief reprieve after this, a rest of almost two
hundred years. 
Next, they live in Venice towards the end of the 16th Century, and this is
brilliant because someone has invented the violin and Sherlock has never been
so thrilled to hold anything other than John in his hands in many, many years.
He lives this life in the thrall of music and the fact that it is his body and
this instrument put together by the hands of men that can produce those sounds
together. He composes his own music and plays that of others, becomes swept up
in the burgeoning musical tradition of the city. This is how they meet:
Sherlock gains some small fame as a player and relies upon patrons to support
him, and John is duly impressed by hearing him play. After they are together,
Sherlock will play songs that he composes just for him about their past lives,
full of joy and sorrow in equal measure. He hopes that they might trigger
something in John’s memory, but they never do. 
John is simply a physician, no soldier, and does not go off to fight in his
wars. This seems good and safe, until the plague hits the city and John feels
that it is  his duty to treat and save as many as he can. Sherlock pleads with
him, shouts at him, tells him that he is a fool to do it, but John is good and
selfless and does what he thinks is right. He takes all of the standard
precautions but they are not enough and he contracts the disease himself, just
as Sherlock knew he would. He accepts it quietly and nurses John through to his
death, knowing that the disease will take him soon after. When they take John’s
body away, Sherlock has folded his violin in John’s arms to keep his body
company under the streets of Venice. 
--- 
This time Sherlock is an actor, though not one of any particular renown. He
discovered in the last life just how much he enjoys public adoration for his
talents. John is a poet, but he is not a very good one and spends more time
reading the works of others than crafting his own. Consequently they are quite
poor, but they have a happy life together in the shared room of a tenement
after they meet.
Sherlock decides to confide in John, just to see if he can force his memory,
and to ease the burden of feeling that weighs on his heart. “Do you believe
that every soul has a mate?” he asks him as they lie in bed together. 
John smiles and twines their fingers together. “But we by a love, so much
refin'd, that our selves know not what it is, inter-assured of the mind, care
less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion,” he recites by way
of answer. 
“A yes, then?” 
“Very much so. I believe, and I believe that you are mine.” 
He tells him then, that he has known him in many lives before and that he
remembers each and every one. John takes it in stride, seems to accept that it
is true. 
“Why do you think that it’s always like this, that you remember them all and I
don’t?” 
“Cowards die a thousand deaths. The valiant taste of death but once,” Sherlock
says with a bitter smile. 
“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathes. “Is that what you think? You are not a coward.
You are brave; you are the best man that I have ever known.” He takes
Sherlock’s face in his hands, studies his eyes as though he can stare through
them to read and rewrite his thoughts. After what seems an eternity of this
scrutiny, he begins to kiss him. 
Sherlock accepts these kisses and does not protest John's declaration. But he
knows the truth. He is a coward who cannot face a life that does not contain
John. His punishment is to watch him die again and again and to always
remember. 
They die together in the Great Fire of London. 
--- 
Sherlock is sent to boarding school when he is thirteen. John is a professor
there, and Sherlock becomes one of his most favorite pupils within a few short
years. He also convinces his very reluctant teacher that it is okay to desire
him and to indulge in those desires. They have an affair that lasts several
months, until John's conscience gets the better of him. 
John leaves the school rather than stay and be faced with his shame. Sherlock
hangs himself in his room. 
--- 
They are children together again, this time in France. Sherlock's family are
part of the aristocracy, John (they call him Jean, and Sherlock is careful to
do the same everywhere but in his thoughts) is the son of one of the kitchen
maids. They are permitted to play together as they are the only young boys in
the estate, and Sherlock champions for John's right to education. His parents
indulge his notions because Sherlock is a forceful child, and they move to
Paris to study together. 
When The Terror begins, Sherlock is seized for being who he is and John is
labeled as a traitor for being with him. They send John to the guillotine first
and Sherlock wonders why it must always be him who watches the other leave.
--- 
Sherlock has become so used to noticing everything around him that it becomes
part of who he is. He has accumulated a great store of knowledge over the
course of several lifetimes, and he can't help but to be interested in science
because there is always new information there each time he comes back. In this
life he has decided to go to university, because he is lucky enough to have
been born into a family of means who encourage his mind. While there, the other
students notice his mental acuity and ask him to solve little personal
mysteries for them. It is surprisingly challenging enough for his mind and the
first good use for his skills that he has seen. He becomes an amature
detective, then a consultant to Scotland Yard. 
It is 1881 when he meets John again. He recognizes that it is him before
Stamford introduces him as Dr. Watson, because he has clearly just returned
from military service, yet he is also a doctor judging by the state of his
hands. There are two constant things about John: he longs to protect and heal
others, and he longs danger and is willing sacrifice himself to protect. Army
doctor, yes, this is the perfect combination. He puts those steady hands to
work as a surgeon. Little does he know that he has been studying anatomy and
opening bodies throughout a plethora of lifetimes. 
This John is brilliant, not as brilliant as Sherlock, but who could compare to
all of his years of accumulated knowledge? But he is indispensable to the work,
and his admiration is worth more than he might ever know. In this lifetime they
are not lovers. This is the first time that they have known each other as
adults and this has not happened, but times are different and Sherlock assumes
that John is worried about the consequences. They still love each other very
deeply; they are the closest and truest of friends. Not being lovers makes it
all the easier to take risks and put himself in danger cases, and Sherlock
convinces himself that it is an unnecessary distraction, in the end. 
They retire to Sussex together when they are old. John indulges him in his bee
keeping, and makes him stay out of trouble. Still, he has the audacity to die
first and Sherlock keeps living for several more years out of spite. It is
their longest time together, yet it is not the blessing that he thought it
would be, all told.
--- 
The next life is a short one. Sherlock is initially thrilled because they meet
again as children, and that should mean several good, happy years when they are
carefree in each other's company. Instead, John dies of diphtheria when he is
six years old. They have only been together for two years. 
When Sherlock is a child he only knows that John is someone important, even
more important than Mummy, and that he wants to spend as much time with him as
possible. He doesn’t remember the reasons why until later; the memories come to
him in dreams and he knows that they are true because they feel and taste and
smell like the truth. He screams and cries for days when his best friend dies,
but it is not until he is older that he understands fully what his life is
missing. 
He drowns himself in his parents’ swimming pool when he is thirteen years old.
He should feel badly about how that will make them feel, but he has had many
parents at this point, and he has already lived over half of this life without
John. It is unbearable to know that he will only see him again after they are
both dead. 
--- 
It is 1957 when he is struck by a car while crossing the street because he sees
him on the other side. He wants to smile when he hears him tell the bystanders
to let him through, that he's a doctor, but it hurts too much. Sherlock knows
he doesn't have much time left here, curses his impatience (he's only 16 this
go around, and even though there seems to have been a bit of an age gap this
time, he would have had plenty of time to catch up to his John later), and
takes solace in John's hands on him, checking for a pulse and trying to soothe
him. Sherlock is crying, can't help it. 
“Shhhh, I've got you,” John says quietly, calmly. He wonders if he's an army
doctor again this time, or if his steadiness is just undeniably John, no matter
the background. “I'm a doctor, James Watson.” 
Sherlock snorts derisively then winces because the sudden exhalation of what
little air his lungs still possessed was not his smartest move, in a day full
of poor choices. Still, he always is annoyed when they get his name wrong.
“John,” he corrects. “I'm Sherlock.” He is disappointed because this is not one
of those times when John does recognize him, though maybe it's for the best in
this case. 
He dies on the way to the hospital, wishing fervently that next time will be
better. 
--- 
He has modeled this life after the last happy one he had, the one from
Victorian London when he was a consulting detective. It made sense to do so
because the circumstances of this life are remarkably similar. He is called
Sherlock Holmes again, has an insufferably smart brother named Mycroft
(sometimes he suspects that his brother might be stuck in the same sort of time
repetition that he is because he almost always has an older brother, but he
never indicates as much if that is the case), and a family rich enough to give
him opportunities. A different branch of the same family, in fact, as the last
time that he was Sherlock Holmes, and he is thrilled when he is six years old
and finds that his Stradivarius is hidden away in the study of the family
estate.
 
He gets bored with waiting this time, though. University is ridiculous now that
even the stupid desire an education, and people are ungrateful of his
observations even when they are helpful—if not strictly nice, but nice has
always been John's strength, not his. He has a friend there, a real one and
perhaps the only real friend he has ever had who is not John. His name is
Victor Trevor and while they are not in love—Sherlock is not sure if he is
capable of that—they do enjoy each other's company. It has been over a century
since someone has embraced him like a lover, touched any of the bodies he has
inhabited in this way. 
Sherlock does not feel guilt about the things that they do together because he
has promised John nothing in this life; John does not know that he exists yet.
This is what he tells himself later when he is injecting cocaine into his
veins—and how that has changed and intensified like so much else in London—and
trying to forget the pain of so many remembered years. He lets the cocaine
become too much this time. He enjoys the numbness, the distraction, and the way
that it blots out the portion of his mind that focuses so very hard on the
past. 
When he has reached his twenties and there is no John in his life, he decides
to live it without waiting at all. He will power on with his life and forget
that there is a man named John, their souls twined together in some endless
connection, who he is fated to meet and fall in love with all over again at
some point in time. He does not hold to this resolution well, and it takes
Lestrade pulling him out of a gutter and threatening to take away the work
altogether that makes him give up the drugs. That, and the memory of something
John wondered damn near 750 years ago, about whether or not the graves of their
old bodies still existed. Sherlock knows where they were buried the last time
that he was Sherlock Holmes; he ignores his own grave and visits that of John
Watson, Loving Husband, d. 1923. He absconds with the skull buried there, and
does not think that John will mind because he does have a new one, after all.
Talking to John’s old skull, while not as good as talking to John himself, will
do for a while. He liked this John well, after all, though he does hope that
the new one doesn’t have a moustache. 
In a way—he's never quite sure if the time between counts—, 53 years pass
before he sees him again. It's later in their lives than he likes these things
to go, but it can’t be helped. This John looks like his John from so long ago,
the one that he fought beside, his brother in arms: compact, tan and sandy
haired, full of quiet composure and strength. He laughs when his deductions
show him that he has been wounded in his left shoulder, and wonders if the scar
will look the same, hopes that he will be allowed to run his fingers over it.
He assumes that, since so many other things are similar, there is a chance that
their relationship will be the same as it was a dozen decades ago. After all,
they’ll be living in the same 221b Baker Street, he is once again a consulting
detective, and John is once again an invalided army doctor. He hopes for Iraq
just so that something will be different, but Afghanistan it is. 
He smells like oakmoss, cheap aftershave, and even cheaper shampoo. Sherlock
wants him, wants him more than he's wanted anything in years. He has to impress
him, make sure that he will stay, so he rattles off all the details he observed
at their moment of meeting—most of them, anyway; he keeps the cataloguing of
his scents to himself. John is intrigued enough to turn up at the flat the next
day so Sherlock invites him along to see a bit of trouble, because John always
likes trouble. The first time he calls his conclusions “amazing”, he knows he's
succeeded in catching his attention. 
This John is a bit broken in ways that the others have not been: there is that
limp without real injury for instance, and just a hint of sadness and
loneliness that Sherlock is far more accustomed to finding on himself than his
mate, who finds it so easy to pretend be ordinary (Sherlock likes this, it is
like the special, real core of John belongs only to him) and fit in with other
people. He wonders if it is because of last time, though John does not appear
to be cognizant of the fact that there was a last time. Maybe he just feels the
pull and ache inside his soul, deprived from its other half for so long. No
matter the cause, Sherlock will fix it. The first step is making him forget
that ridiculous limp. 
John likes danger, it's why he is so often at war, why he puts himself in
harm's way for no good reason. It is perfect, because Sherlock has come to love
danger as well and it can be found in spades among the criminals of London. He
won't put this life on hold, not even for John, so he brings him along to the
crime scene. He had forgotten how very free John is with praise, and how easy
it is to think with his company. Much easier to sound out ideas on him than
that waste of oxygen, Anderson. 
“If you were dying, if you had been murdered: in your very last few seconds,
what would you say?” 
The answer is instant. “Please, God, let me live.” 
Sherlock scoffs. “Use your imagination!” 
“I don’t have to.” 
Sherlock’s face falls. He forgot who he was speaking to, and he doesn’t have to
imagine it either. He’s heard those very words and others from him before. 
He is utterly shocked later at Angelo's when it seems like John is coming onto
him, making it seem significant that they are both unattached, and it knocks
him off-kilter enough that he feeds him the line that he’s given so many others
across so many lifetimes about being “married to his work”. Stupid, stupid.
There had better be time to correct that in the future. 
Thinking about John makes him slow, he doesn't realize that the answer to the
murders has been right in front of his face until the cabbie comes to collect
him. Unacceptable. 
Sherlock is tempted by the game. Well over two thousand years on this earth
means that there is not much that he has not seen before, not many things that
are not boring. This is not boring, it is a puzzle that he has not been given
to solve any other time than now, and he thinks that he has it figured out. It
is a risk, he’s only just met John after all, and that’s something important,
something he’s waited for his entire life thus far. But he is sure that he has
it figured out, that if he takes this pill he will be— 
The shot rings out, the cabbie falls, and he knows that this John, this man who
hardly knows a thing about him, has killed a man just to save him, already. He
is such a fool, and John has saved him.
--- 
Sherlock has never wanted to hurt another person as much as he wants to rip
Moriarty limb from limb. It is like he knows the many lives that have been
lived, how each time John dies it rips a wound in Sherlock’s being, and knows
that one more tear, one more time watching him fall, might shatter him into
irreparable pieces. It is irrational, impossible, but how else does this man
know that John is the heart that can be burnt out of him, that he is the one
single person in all of creation who Sherlock would gladly die for, each and
every time? 
He considers doing that, dying to save him. He knows that this is where
Moriarty is headed with his little game from the first clue, that he will not
be content until he has forced Sherlock to take his own life and rewrite his
own history. Sherlock has never died to save John before, only selfishly clung
on and wrung as much time and love from him as possible. 
Oh, but it seems such a shame to die when he has not kissed this John’s lips,
does not intimately know the topography of his skin, could not describe the
different tastes of the skin at the back of his neck, along his collar bones,
behind his knees, or along his spine to the cleft of his cheeks. Sherlock’s
soul is very old, perhaps a little too set in his ways to become the one who
sacrifices rather than the one who is sacrificed for. 
So he plays the part—convincingly, because he has had much practice—and makes
plans to survive the fall that Moriarty insists that he owes him. He does not
let his friend, his one real friend, know that it is all pretend, because to do
so will put him in danger. He will let him think him dead, let him live without
him and not know that he will be back when the threat has passed. He will know
what it is like to lose the one he loves—and Sherlock knows that he is loved,
already. John can be the strong one, just this once. 
He does regret that it has become so easy to close himself off from feeling, to
try to prevent the pain from starting rather than enduring it after it begins.
It was a method of coping with not having John, then having him and not being
sure that he will be his—he remembers too well those few lives when John gave
him up. He realizes that it was not effective as he sits there and listens to
John shout at him, but it is too late. There is a plan that must be stuck to. 
“You... machine! Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own.” 
“Alone is what I have. Alone is what protects me.” It is an easy lie. He almost
believed it once. 
“No. Friends protect people.” John storms out and those are the last words he
says to him before Sherlock is on the roof. 
--- 
He returns after the threat of Moriarty has been neutralized and that is when
he learns that John might just need Sherlock as much as he needs him in turn.
He is stronger than Sherlock (he knew he would be) because he is still here,
but he did pour out his heart at the gravesite without realizing that his dead
friend was right there listening. John saw him jump off of that roof but he
still believes. What a pair the two of them have become this time. 
He waits for him inside of 221b that night, lets his presence curled familiarly
in his chair serve as proof to John that it was just a magic trick, just a
trick all along. John can't control the anger that bubbles up underneath the
relief, punches him in the face, does not avoid the nose or the teeth. Sherlock
knows that they’ll be okay then. That's John, always a fighter. Things can be
fixed, there is still hope with a John who fights, who never gives up. 
Sherlock clutches his face, not exactly surprised but caught off guard all the
same. Checks that the nose is not broken then moves fast, catching John's arms
and using his height as leverage to push him against the wall and keep him from
swinging again. John is stronger than Sherlock, better at fighting, but he's
panting and only struggling against being confined, not trying to hit him
again. Sherlock keeps holding him tight anyway. 
“Let me—this is fucking impossible, let me go, let me—” John is crying now and
stops struggling, simply going limp and sliding slowly down the wall. Sherlock
lets go of his arms and he pulls them tightly around himself, protective of the
pain inside his chest. 
“I'm sorry, John, so, so sorry.” Sherlock is on his knees right next to him.
His hand hovers above John's shoulder, not sure if it is a good idea to touch
him again just yet. 
“I watched you die, Sherlock.” John's voice is strangled and accusatory. 
“It was necessary.” He has trouble staying calm himself, after all he has
watched John die time and time again. Never of suicide at least—small mercies.
“You had to believe.” 
“I did believe! I believed in you!” 
Sherlock throws caution to the wind, pulls him close into a hug that he does
not fight off. “And I can't thank you enough for it, John. It made everything
else possible.” He holds him away again so that he can look into his eyes.
“They were going to kill you. If a body hadn't come off that roof there were
snipers ready to shoot you, to shoot Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. And if they had
any indication that you did not believe, that my death was faked, you were as
good as dead.” 
“I could have pretended,” John insists. 
Sherlock can't help a slight smile, just a quirk of the lips that might not
even be visible in the dim light of the flat. John is so good at this,
unintentionally extracting smiles at inappropriate times. “You are not that
good of a liar. It's one of your more redeeming qualities, except on the
occasions when it's necessary and therefore terribly inconvenient.” 
John sits quietly, lowers his head in his hands and considers this. He lets out
a long sigh before he speaks. “You can't just decide things like that for me,
Sherlock. You don't have that right.” 
“I know that, now. But you must understand. Understand that I will not let
anything happen to you if there is anything that I can do to prevent it.” 
“Yes, well.” John stops and clears his throat. Conflicting emotions play across
his face; he is still angry, but he is also...touched. “Well the same goes for
you, as far as I'm concerned, but I've already failed at that once, haven't
I?” 
“On the contrary, you kept me very much alive.” Sherlock stands and holds out a
hand for John to clasp. “You might find it hard to believe, but there’s nothing
that I would like more right now than to sleep.” 
“You're right,” John says while pulling himself up with Sherlock's aid, “I
don't believe it at all and now have to entertain the possibility that you're a
very poor doppelganger who doesn't understand how the real Sherlock Holmes
operates. You're probably trying to get my guard down so you can take my form
too. Bit of a downgrade, if you ask me.” 
Humor. Even better, as far as John's responses go. “Taking down an
international crime syndicate puts far too much wear on the transport.  I will
allow it to exert its superiority just this once.” 
Neither of them question the fact that John follows him to his bedroom and
climbs in beside him, still clothed. Sherlock understands that John has just
gotten him back from the dead, needs to be sure that he won't disappear again
in the night. 
--- 
The first case after his return sends them to Oxford, and once it is solved and
wrapped up (mostly, the rest can be taken care of by Lestrade) Sherlock takes
John to the library of Magdalene College, where a professor of Medieval Studies
keeps a priceless 9th Century manuscript. Sherlock calls in the rare, reluctant
favor from Mycroft, because it is important enough to merit the downsides of
asking, just this once. He and John are allowed to see it with supervision,
wear pristine white cotton gloves so that turning the pages does not make the
parchment crumble to dust or mar the ink. 
John does not know that the bees lovingly, laboriously painted in the margins
of the Creation story once belonged to a man who was him more than a millennia
ago, but Sherlock does and that is enough. He admires his handiwork and the
fact that he once had the patience to create something so fine. 
--- 
It becomes normal for them to sleep together, normal enough that they never
talk about it, and John doesn't even wake up at the feeling of Sherlock sliding
into his bed anymore (the prodding of his long limbs—ankles, knees, and elbows
too sharp—does the waking instead). But that's all that it is, just sleep.
Until the time that he wakes in the middle of the night with John pressed
against him back to front, his own legs and arms wrapped over and around him,
keeping him close, and no one has the ability to resist that much temptation.
He groans softly and burrows his face into the nape of John's neck, inhaling.
This, of course, wakes John up. 
“What are you doing?” he asks, but does not tense or move away. 
Sherlock's only answer is to nuzzle against him and press his teeth gently to
his skin. 
“Oh,” John says. “You're doing that.” He stretches and arches, which only
serves to further close the minute space between their bodies. “Didn't think
you did that.” 
“Might have spoken hastily,” Sherlock admits, his voice a low rumble against
John's back. 
“And never bothered to correct yourself all these years.” 
“Yes, John, you know that the thing that I am most likely to do in any given
situation is to admit that I might have been wrong.” 
John laughs and disentangles himself from those damnably long legs so that he
can roll over and face him. Sherlock grumbles at the loss of contact but is
stopped from further protest by the press of John's lips against his. It's
gentle, simply the slide of mouth against mouth, breathing each other's air,
but it's perfect. He pulls back to study Sherlock's face. “Most people would
ask before fondling their flatmate.” 
“This is me asking.” 
John considers this. “For sex?” 
“For everything. For anything. For sex if that's all you'd like for me to have,
but what I want is all of you.” 
John kisses him again, twining his fingers into his dark curls, coaxing his
mouth open with his tongue. They kiss slowly at first, discovering each other's
mouths for the first time. John discovers that biting Sherlock's lips will
elicit a moan and make those all-observing eyes clench shut. Sherlock discovers
that pulling away, turning his attentions back to John's neck with tongue and
teeth, will end with himself flipped over, pinned under the other man's weight
and the force of his hips rocking against him. 
“You didn't even bother to wear clothes,” John accuses. 
Sherlock shrugs. He never does, John simply hasn't noticed before. 
“Not that I'm complaining, I suppose.” 
“Oh,” Sherlock sighs at the first touch of John's hand to his cock, just
holding the weight in his palm before his fingers wrap around it gently and
move with maddening slowness. “I've wanted—so long.” 
John stills his hand, distracted. “You've thought of this before.” It is a
statement of fact, not a question. 
“Obviously.” He bucks his hips, patience completely forgotten, deleted for good
when it comes to this. “I've waited longer than you know.” 
“And what stopped you telling me?” He gives him a slow tug, delights at seeing
him writhe. 
“The girls, John.” 
“Oh yes, because you've always been so nice to them. Never sabotaged a single
one of my relationships.” 
“The sabotage was all you. Now if you would kindly shut up and fuck me.” 
“God forbid we have some sort of conversation,” John says, but when the weight
of what Sherlock has said hits him and he's reached those impossibly long
fingers up to rub him through his pajama bottoms, he makes a strangled noise
and pulls him up for a kiss, conversation forgotten. 
John is maddeningly slow in his preparations—he would call it being a
considerate lover, Sherlock calls it uncalled for levels of torture—until he
has Sherlock whimpering, shaking from need beneath him, three sure fingers
stretching him open before he replaces them with his own hardness. Sherlock
comes apart beneath him, panting mindlessly yes yes yes that yes and it is up
to John to keep them steady, holding him at hip and shoulder to guide him. When
John comes his fingers dig into Sherlock's shoulder, clamping down with an
almost painful intensity as though he's making a promise that will be felt in
those muscles for days, a promise of never letting go. 
They collapse in a dazed heap of limbs until Sherlock recovers enough to pull
himself out from under John's weight, roll over onto his side, and spoon them
together once more. John sighs contentedly, at something of a loss for words.
“I am going to catalogue and memorize every inch of you,” Sherlock murmurs
against John's hair and pulls him in close. For him it's rather romantic. 
--- 
They retire together in Sussex again, but there are no bees this time. The bees
have nearly died out in England. Disappointing. Instead Sherlock has a lab
where he studies fungal growth rates on corpses of varying age and cause of
death. It is well away from the rest of the house, because John insists that he
has earned a retirement free of body parts stored in areas in which he has to
eat. They claim to be retired, but Sherlock can be convinced to take on the
rare, interesting case. Nothing less than an 8 these days. John has turned the
cases that were once on his blog into a series of books, quite popular, and
tries to write about other things as well. The public will read his other
works, but grumble every time he releases something that doesn’t feature
detective work. Sherlock sometimes publishes the results of his forensic
experiments, and is perfectly content with the fact that John’s works outsell
his hundreds to one. It’s merely the result of injecting sentiment into the
facts, after all. 
Sherlock hopes that when they die this time, that will be all. This has been
his most satisfying life, growing old with a John who loves him in every way,
who has killed people for him, who managed to be stronger than Sherlock ever
has and kept going after he thought he had lost him. This has been perfect, it
cannot be improved upon. He is tired, and he is ready for oblivion.
End Notes
     Apologies for any gross historical inaccuracies; this was mostly
     researched through Wikipedia, not falling asleep in my Survey of the
     Middle Ages course nearly a decade ago, and being a big ol' 17th
     Century Literature nerd.
     Credit where it is due: the title is from John Donne's The Good
     Morrow. Bad poet John quotes: "But we by a love, so much refin'd,
     that our selves know not what it is, inter-assured of the mind, care
     less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss. Our two souls, therefore, which
     are one, though I must go, endure not yet a breach, but an expansion"
     from Donne's A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning. "Cowards die a
     thousand deaths. The valiant taste of death but once," is a line from
     Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Various lines from the show are peppered
     about.
     Find an error, see something that just didn't work for you? Feel free
     to point it out. This went un-betaed because there was a surprising
     lack of friends jumping to test read 11,000 words of angst. Pfft.
     This is Sherlock: you'll angst yer eyeballs out.
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