Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Meeting
Harry was only walking along the street when he sensed it. He truly wasn’t looking for these things. He might have a so-called “Hero Complex” as Hermione used to put it, but he didn’t go looking for fights. But along with his powers from being the Master of Death, he also inherited the power to sense distress. He could block it out, of course, generally…usually…but this time…it was such a broken sound that Harry had to intervene.
What was alarming was instead of the amount of physical pain he sensed the person going through, this person was drowning in emotional pain. Self-loathing, low self-worth, everything Harry was when he was still a child trying to win the approval of the magical world. Earnest, eager to please, but shot down every time he tried. Harry was drawn to this person the moment he sensed him. He hurried along the street, manoeuvring the countless abandoned buildings, even having to go under a bridge and finding a secret tunnel hiding quite in plain sight. He silently stalked in, and slowly began to hear painful moans and the sounds of a whip. Harry hurried a little, startled by what he was hearing and anxious to find out what was going on.
He slipped into a cavernous room, and saw a man with shaggy black hair and frankly quite torn up clothes, hanging from the ceiling helplessly as another man whipped him senseless. The whipping man had his back towards him, but the helpless man was facing him. He saw Harry the moment he stepped into the room, his eyes widening slightly before masking his shock. He obviously figured out that Harry wasn’t a part of this operation.
Harry held on to his rage as he saw the helpless man lower his eyes. That…the moment their eyes met…Harry was completely sure…that was his soulmate. He never thought he would ever find his soulmate, not when he had been searching for twenty years. To finally have found him, yet in such impossible circumstances, he couldn’t bear it any longer. He shot a petrificus spell on the torturer, and walked up to the man hanging from the ceiling. Holding on to his tears, his fingers twitched as he released the man from his bindings wandlessly, and held on to him as he fell.
“You need to leave.” The man whispered, voice hoarse undoubtably from screaming.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out. Just rest. Everything will be fine.” Harry tried to reassure him. The man searched his face, and seemingly found what he was looking for. He relaxed in Harry’s arms, and fell unconscious. Harry casted a feather-light charm on the man, and lifting him easily, walked out on the room, a dangerous orange light illuminating behind him as he proceeded out of the tunnel, and apparated to the alley behind the nearest hospital.
Sherlock felt more than heard someone speaking near him. The vibrations kicking off a sense of security in his heart. He kept his eyes closed as he came back to his bearings, taking stock of what he can deduce without opening his eyes. He remembered everything that happened between John and himself. He remembered offering John help but being rejected. He remembered walking home dejectedly, only to be knocked unconscious and brought to that hell hole. He remembered feeling confident Mycroft could find him, and being disappointed when he apparently would not be able to. He remembered thinking John would search for him even though they were not on the best of terms. He remembered hoping, the endless hoping and the endless disappointment and feeling that…maybe…he had finally gone too far and lost all his friends in the process.
Sherlock felt tears pricking his eyes, and he swallowed silently. Someone else came to mind though. The black haired, green eyed man. The man who somehow singlehandedly defeated whoever was whipping him, and releasing him from his bonds, all without lifting a finger. Whoever he was, he was a dangerous man. But for the life of him, Sherlock could only feel safe while he thought of him. Dangerous as the man might be, Sherlock was confident the man wasn’t dangerous to himself at all.
He slowly opened his eyes, and saw that same man sitting by his bed, apparently talking to his unconscious self.
“Okay, I know this is weird, and you probably will not believe me, but we’re soulmates, ok? We’re meant to be together. So…so no matter what you’ve been through in the past, whatever or whoever hurt you, will answer to me from now on. Well…if you don’t want a relationship, I suppose we can be friends. Just…I’m hoping I can be in your life…like permanently. Frequently.” The man was going on and on and Sherlock could only stare at him in confusion. This man held himself with respect, but an underlying thrum of humility threads his movements. He wears fine clothes, but very bad and inaccurate glasses judging by the way his pupils enlarge from time to time, straining to see. He was muscular, and if Sherlock remembered correctly, had secret abilities and was not afraid of dangerous situations. He seemed like the military type, but his demeanour also screamed businessman. A walking contradiction. The man seemed to be constantly babbling about being soulmates, and by the way he talks, Sherlock was able to deduce that he definitely believed the nonsense he was spouting…except…it cannot be nonsense for this person had done inexplicable things before him. He might be…telling the truth.
After the disaster of his attempted friendship with John though, Sherlock was wary of getting into a relationship this soon. But the sense of security and safety never faded. This man was powerful, yet he was sitting by his bed, stuttering like a fool. Perhaps…he warranted some benefit of his doubt.
“I don’t even know your name yet.” He croaked with his unused voice. The man’s head shot up and looked straight at him in obvious shock, and then he let out a huge breath, gifting him with the biggest grin.
“Harry.” He breathed, “Harry Potter.” Then he reached over and pressed the button by his bed. The doctor and nurses will be here soon.
“And you?” Harry asked, joy and relief unmistakably infused in his voice. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered close as memories of his first meeting with John flooded his mind. Will this be any different? He took a deep breath, then softly answered, “Sherlock Holmes.”
Harry saw the way Sherlock’s lips thinned in sadness, and couldn’t help but wondered what happened to put this man in such misery. He wouldn’t ask though, it was his story to tell, and he will only do it if he feels like it. Harry wasn’t about to push, he knew how difficult talking about painful memories can be. He squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open as if just realising Harry’s hands on his, and Harry smiled at him softly.
The hospital staff strode in briskly, shooing Harry into a far corner before running their tests. When they were done, and allowed Harry back near Sherlock, both of them were beyond distressed. Sherlock didn’t feel safe when Harry was out of sight, and Harry could feel Sherlock’s barely suppressed panic. He rushed back to his side and took hold of his hand, and Sherlock squeezed him tightly.
“He has multiple burns along his torso, deep lacerations on both his front and his back. His muscles in his hands are strained, but not dislocated or severely injured. A couple of his ribs are broken, and breathing will be…difficult…for a while. His fingers and toes have…been broken multiple times, and will need time to heal. He’s generally dehydrated and malnourished. I’d like to keep him here overnight for observations, then he can be discharged if no complications come up tomorrow. He’ll need lots of bedrest and care for the next few weeks. I’ll come back tomorrow for another check.” The doctor hesitantly but professionally reiterated his injuries and treatment, before leading the staff back out, leaving them alone again.