Just so you know, I have no idea what is going on in this AU. My brain is mysterious like that. But, basically, it’s similar to a soulmate AU where you have the red string of fate. However, essentially, your heart is the thing that holds all emotional memories, memories of feelings and stuff like that. You don’t need your heart to live, but as long as you have your heart, your soulmate can use the red string of fate to repair the heart so that you can feel and identify emotions again, though you don’t miraculously regain all your emotions and emotional memories back. After all, once a heart is broken, it will never be the same again. In this case, it means that you have to build memories back up. That’s all I managed to make sense of the jumble in my head.
Basically, your soul mate is the only one that can protect you from supernatural shit and repair your heart. You need to keep your soulmate happy, otherwise you’re screwed over. Yup.
Cause teabeforewar requested this… and, well, I started working on Sherlock fic again. Be aware this isn’t finished, and someday… I will soon finish it. Just want to know if any of it makes any sense. I still have a long way to go, I think.
Also a beta would be extremely appreciated, especially someone who can Brit-pick for me.
-and he’s running, but after what? Is he running after someone (who?), or is he trying to escape? All he knows, all he feels is something going through his veins, but what is it? What’s this… thing he’s experiencing? How does he even know he’s running?
He wants to stop and just… think, but something (what is it?) forces him to run. Why? Why can he not stop? There should be a reason, something that makes sense of why he has to get away.
There’s noise coming from in front and from behind. One is desperate, the other is vicious. Why is he so-
Sherlock? A name. But, whose? It can’t be him, he has no name. But, it’s illogical for someone to not have a name… right? Maybe it is his- No, it can’t. He was a lab experiment, white walls, scientific equipment everywhere. He had- has no name.
Yes. He has no name, so the thing he’s running from must be Sherlock, the thing he doesn’t know why he’s running from, the thing that his body seems to think is monstrous. He is just a lab experiment, he is of no importance, he has no name, what is this he’s feeling, why is he running, why, why, why?
He looks up and there’s something in the man’s hand. What is that? Why is the other man standing so firmly, what makes him not want to run? He wants to ask the man so many questions, but he can’t, not when he has to run even though he has no valid reason to do so.
He gets closer to the man and flinches when the gun swings to him, instead of whatever he’s trying to get away from. He wonders why there’s a look on the man’s face, why suddenly, the gun’s dropped, and a cracked, “Sherlock” is uttered again. He isn’t Sherlock, he isn’t anybody, he’s just an experiment, so why is this broken looking man calling him Sherlock?
“Sherlock, you git, I thought you were dead!” cries the man, paying no attention to the thing that is coming. “I- what- how are you still alive?”
He just wordlessly snarls at the man who is forcing names upon him, and veers around him, wanting nothing to do with the other who is so broken and crushed (reminding him so much of those other people, always looking so- so… different)
And the other man grabs him by the hand, the idiot not seeing that he’s trying to get away from something, that he doesn’t want to be with this man who calls him “Sherlock” when in actuality, he has no name. The grip is strong, and there’s a spark, a flash of recognition, but he can’t keep hold onto that spark, why did he just feel that, and why can he not remember anything?
The man pulls him closer and he stiffens. Physical contact… he shudders as he’s wrapped into the man’s body. It’s highly uncomfortable for him being held by people, and there’s something out there that he needs to get away from.
There’s that noise, the tiny, low growl from behind him, and the unnatural stillness (what is that sensation called?) he has in the man’s arms is broken. It’s come even closer, when he was with this man that he knows nothing of; how stupid he is, to have stopped running, to have stopped for this man and the name that is not his.
He struggles as if he cannot bear to be near this man, arms flinging everywhere, hands trying to smack and punch the other man. The growl grows louder, and he fights even more. The menacing noise sends something cloying into him, something he knows not the name of.
“Let me go!” he snaps urgently, pushing against the other man. “Do you not hear that thing?”
The man only looks confused and lost, and stares at him as if to ask what is wrong with him. He knows he must look insane and crazed, but he cannot bring himself to care when there is still that thing coming after him.
“Sherlock, what are you talking about? There’s nothing there.” the man says soothingly, as if he is trying to calm him down, when he is already perfectly calm and collected. He is not panicking, and the man does not need to treat him as if he were some delicate thing needing to be coddled.
“Are you that much of an idiot to not notice it?” he asks venomously, a menacing look on his face that promises to rip and tear something into shreds if he is not unhanded now.
The man’s eyes widen and the grip loosens a fraction as something bounds out, almost enough to-
“Dear lord, what is that?” the man asks, shocked. “Why in the world is it-“
“Shut up, you imbecile!” he snarls, sounding crazed to even his own ears. “Just move!”
“No.” the man mutters, as he takes a solid stance. The idiot releases him and brings his gun up, and it’s so obvious what’s going to happen. Just like every other imbecile in the world, he plans on shooting it.
He flinches and instinctively ducks down as he hears the sharp crack of the bullet. He expects a scream of terror to come soon and oh why had he not run the minute the fool had decided to shoot that thing, the minute the grip had listened? But, there’s nothing.
There’s only a low, unearthly sound coming from behind him, no bloodcurdling shriek from the foolish man. It’s as if the bullet had worked to kill the thing, or at the very least, injure it. How? Any other person who had tried to get rid of it had failed, so why was it this man who had done it?
He turns back, and only sees the fading black as the creature somehow starts to melt into the ground, as if there’s nothing left in it, just a shell of slime left behind.
“How did you do that?” he asks in a hushed tone, looking at the man. Only to find that there’s a look on his face that he can’t understand and why is the man looking at him that way?
“I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” The man whimpers as he sinks to the ground, kneeling down to where he had ducked down. “I’m so sorry, I never meant to leave you, I thought you were dead, Mycroft told me-“
“Do not touch me!” he hisses, instantly hating the look on the man’s face. “I am not this Sherlock you speak of. I have never met a Sherlock. I have no name! Do not speak to me as if you know me!”
He- he just wants to tear that look to shreds, rip it to pieces. It aggravates him, not knowing what that look is, what it signifies, why the man has the look when there is no reason for the man to look that way! It’s just an irrevocable… something that irks at him.
“Oh my god… What did they do to you?” the man asks, a different look, one more… more… -one that makes him want to claw it off even more. “Do you not… remember anything?”
A hand reaches out towards him- calloused, clearly used to holding a gun, fading tan line at the wrist, steady, clearly a hand of an army man. He
Sorry folks, that’s all I have written so far! Definitely gonna change a few things up, given that I wrote this 2 months back, lol.