A Study in Pink (Sherlock/John)

[Dr. John Watson]

My name is Dr. John Watson, aged 31, medical doctor trained by the army in hand-on-hand and weaponry combat. Recently returned from Afghanistan through an honourable discharge from services as part of the British army after suffering permanent damage to my upper femur, which affects my ability to walk without aid though my therapist has pinned it down as a psychosomatic injury.

John stared blankly at the screen, toying with hitting the enter button, it would be his first entry on his blog. It was bare with only a small photo and a banner with his name across however his ‘followers' section was continually expanding, Harry's work no doubt. A faint smile spread across his face as he slammed the delete button, what was the use in reiterating what everyone already knew or trying to explain his own life story to people whom he didn't know. His therapist believed it might help him recover from his ‘injury', by retelling his stories and writing down any other events that were to occur within his life. She simply could not accept that his injury was down to having a piece of shrapnel thrust into his leg. He sighed as he shut the lid of his laptop. It was pointless.

He picked up his drink of coffee and sipped on it, feeling the heat scorch his throat. He looked around before picking up a newspaper that had been left on the side and quickly turned to the jobs section; his army pension barely covered the costs of his one-bedroom flat let alone the costs of further bills or food. He glanced over the jobs, nothing that he could do, he either didn't have the correct qualifications or they were jobs that involved heavy labour. He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing that he was back in the hot desert aiding his comrades not stuck in a dingy café in south London. Well there is no use complaining, you're here and there isn't much you can do other than make things simpler for yourself.

He picked himself off the chair, pulling on his familiar black military jacket however he caught sight of someone rushing in to order a take-away coffee and stopped. There was a face, a face he couldn't quite put a name too. He turned around and looked at John with the same facial expression that he was probably pulling. Then he smiled. That smile hadn't changed since they were at school together; the smallest memory of setting off a cherry bomb in the girl's toilets replayed itself in his mind, followed by his distinct remembrance of him smiling as Goldie Newman ran, screaming and covered in water. Mike Stamford.

“Mike?” John limped towards the man, leaning on the walking stick as lightly as he could manage without causing himself pain.

"John?”

Indeed it was the same Mike Stamford whom had been raised in the same town several miles from Surrey, the same boy who had shared his aspirations of finding a medicine that would cure all diseases before realizing that was unattainable had moved to the dream of doing some good in the world and the same Mike Stamford that had attended Bart's medical school with. A wide smile spread across Mike's face as he took in John's appearance.

“It is you! Last I heard you were out in Afghanistan, on the front line bandaging the boys up.”

“I guess that's one way of putting it. No, I was honourably discharged. Leg.” He indicated his head towards his left leg, there was no obvious sign but it was still there. He sighed. There was nothing honourable about his discharge, the army had decided that due to the accident that occurred they no longer needed him and wished to save him the embarrassment of being fired for an injury. The choice had been taken away and they had left him only a pittance to cover his living costs.

Mike frowned, furrowing his eyebrows as though concerned that he had upset John, John in turn smiled back at him. It seemed as though they both wanted to catch up with each other, they hadn't seen each other in years and both of them had stories to tell. By the end of their series of stories John realized the two highly different circumstances they were in: Mike had a contented life working at Bart's Medical School; happily married with two children and had two homes, one in central London and a villa in Spain. However, Mike proved highly useful in suggestions on how John might be able to manage until he found a job, a roommate. “Who'd want me for a flatmate?”

Mike's face suddenly brightened as he let out a low chuckle, “You're the second person to say that to me today.”

John looked at Mike curiously, “Who else?”

At that Mike's smile turned down slightly but a light still remained in his eyes. “He's quite ... something. I could introduce you to each other if you like. I could take you round to see him now if you're not too busy. It won't hurt you just to meet him.”

As John looked down at the floor he tried to consider it. He wasn't the most sociable person and could be an annoyance at best but if this other person was also somewhat of a difficulty then ... maybe it would be an agreeable partnership. He clasped his hands together as he looked back up at Mike, “I'm sure whoever it is can't be as bad as me. If you're sure then I wouldn't mind you introducing us.” The light grew in Mike's eyes, like he was restraining laughter.

John was escorted to Royal Brompton and Harefield hospital and guided through the series of corridors by Mike who entertained him with tales of the new generations approach to medicine, it hadn't changed from when he was studying. He smiled and made agreeing sounds at a regular intervals, letting him know that he was listening. He wasn't one to speak when it wasn't necessary. He suddenly picked up on something as they passed another sign. “He's a mortician?” He couldn't help but noticed that at every junction there was only one reoccurring section, the morgue.

“Erm ... no,” Mike didn't sound as though he was lying but he sounded almost guilty. There was something he wasn't telling him. He sighed as John's eyebrows rose. No man in there right mind would spend unnecessary time at a morgue, death was an inevitable part of work as a doctor but it wasn't a place that was nice to be regardless and it was something universally avoided.

“Then why are we—"

“It's one of his pastimes ... part of his job should I say.” He meant pastimes; he'd always been a poor liar. John remained silent as his friend lead the way into a lab that was already in use. A man was already in there and he hadn't seemed to notice the newest entries into the room. He watched the man very carefully trying to pick up on something that made him especially strange.

“Watson. Dr. John Watson.” He extended his hand courteously towards the man. He gave a half-hearted smile and tried to remember a name Mike had given him. The more he thought about it, he realized how vague Mike had tried to be with him.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock looked out of place. In a room amongst solemn faces, he was the only one smiling. Mollie, the Mortician of which he had been using to help him in his attempts to foil an alibi was busy at work whlst he took the role of onlooker and observed silently. He twiddled his thumbs idly as he watched her, so slow yet a keen eye for detail it took him barely 0.2 seconds to figure out that she was a perfectionist. He would have done the whole thing himself of course, but he was under strict instructions from Detective Lestrade not to 'contaminate' any of the evidence. He hated being restricted but if he wanted to here he would have to follow all of the rules. And if that meant sitting quietly until the autopsy was concluded then so be it.

His mind was racing, his eyes glazing over the body to pick up scraps of information in which could later be peiced together. His leg began to bounce uncontrollaby in effort to hurry her a long a little for he was a busy man and he had a lot of stuff to do. "Are you always this restless? It's kind of off-putting" Mollie spoke as she began examining his finger nails and extracting miniscule hair strands that were no bigger than a few grains of sand. "How fresh is it?" He asked, paying no attention to what she had just said, instead diverting the conversation in the direction he wanted it to take. "What?" The girl sounded confused, slightly befuddled at his re-diversion, shaking her head as she realised having a normal conversation with Sherlock would be somewhat of a rarity.

"Um, Just in. 62 potential courses of death" She said, zipping the bag back up as she turned on the spot, taking a seat on her worn out swivel chair to pencil down her findings.

"Mind if I try something?" Sherlock was being cheeky now and he knew it. He was under strict orders not to do anything rash, but if he got this right it would prove priceless for the investigation. That was one of the risks he would have to take, for when he usually followed his nose he normally found that he was right. And if anyone dared to say the dreaded words of 'no' to him- on their heads be it. "Could you bring out the riding crop from forensics? I have an idea" Mollie swivelled around to his direction, raising an eyebrow and opening her mouth to protest. Sherlock, premonitising this, put his hands together in beg, satisfied to see her nodding and giving him a brisk smile before disppearing out of the room to get the weapon.

He stood up as soon as she left, circling the corpse like a hungry Vulture, keen for answers and an explanation. Yet first he would have to make sure he was not being watched.

Sherlock began to seiz the opportunity to get up and close to the corpse, looking up and down at the cold, motionless figure before floating over to the report Mollie had been writing to make sure he had got it right. Of course he had, but there was satisfaction in knowing you were sheer and utterly brilliant. He then wandered back over to his seat as if he hadn't moved, just in time for her to come back in again with the offending item. If he was to get this wrong, he would get one hell of a telling of from Lestrade, yet if he was right it held plenty of potential to rub it in his face. A perfect reaso to actually do this. Of course he was interested in cracking the case, but he also liked to prove how capable he was strengthening his link with the Police.

"Okay, The experiment commences.. I'd step outside if I were you. Might get a little.. dangerous" As Mollie handed him the riding crop, he wielded it around his hands and got used to the weight and the balance of the item before he started to use it. Clear of Molie, he proceeded to un-zip the bag and rol the man over on his back. Counting 3 steps behind, Sherlock began to ruthlessly his the corpse with the riding crop, again and again repeatedly with a vengeance. His face contorted slightly to that of concentration yet at the same time passion, it also provided him with the opportunity to let lose some of his anger that had been padlocked inside him waiting to rattle free. Sherlock dropped the riding crop, rubbing his hands together in a job well done.

"Difficult day was it?" Mollie smirked brightly as she wandered back into the room but once again he wasn't going to engage in such pointless conversation. "Observe the man for signs of bruising over the next 20 minutes. It's important. Vital. A man's alibi depends on it." And that was all he needed.

Casually strolling over to an empty room at the end of the department, he decided to use the laboratory for his own ends. Delving his hands into his pockets, he brought out 3 test tubes. One a blood sample he had taken from the scene of the crime, the second a syringe ful of Vitreous Humor that had been extracted from the victims eye and a fingernail tip rattling around in the last of the tubes. The lab was painted a fine white, slightly cerated and uneven on the cieling and as smooth as plaster. He could tell from the state of the floor that it had only been cleaned recently and whoever it was had been cutting corners for there was a small build up of fluff and dust under one of the tables. Naughty cleaner!

Swirling around the test tube of eye fluid, he dipped in a swab and smeared it on one of the glass plates before shoving it under the microscope and twiddling the various dials.

Sherlock was immersed in his work, placing his eye on one of the microscope lenses sand zooming in and out, putting it in and out of focus as he heard the door open. Who was that Who dare disturb him. For a moment he didn't even bother to look up, guessing it would probable be Mollie but by the sound of their footsteps he knew it wasn't. When he eventually drew up his eyes, he saw Mike Stamford and someone he hadn't seen before. Instanty he knew why they were here but chose not to raise his observations just yet. He could tell as soon as someone entered what sort of person they were, their job and profession, age and sometimes mentality. He could gather most information about a person in the first few seconds of meeting them and in most cases they proved to be right 99% of the time.

Sherlock stood up straight upon the mention of this man's name. John Watson and a Doctor- that was easy to tell anyway. He politely took his hand put left it limp slightly as he narrowed his eyes at him. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq" He observed, withdrawing his hand from the man before turning round to look at Mike.

"Oh, Mike can I borrow your phone, there's no signal on mine" He asked, before returning his gaze back to Dr John Watson to recieve a confirmation to his initial observations.

[Dr. John Watson]

The more he looked at the apparatus in the room, the more he doubted his previous assumption that his potential roommate spent his free time in a morgue purely for pleasure, though he couldn't quite understand why that would ever be the case. Perhaps his job was his pastime, something he could easily relate to; he would do absolutely anything to return to how he once was, to have known to dodge that one bullet that destroyed his life, that stranded him in the middle of London having to meet a man who seemed to be happily analysing strange white fluid samples. There was no danger or excitement in his life, just mundane predictability. He felt powerless, but the man in front of him looked as though he was on top of the world ... analysing eye fluid. Strange. Definitely strange.

He tucked his hand under the other, crossing them tightly, not a very firm handshake, probably just being polite. And then he spoke. Then he said something that piqued John's curiosity. Three words. “Excuse me?” he asked reflexively, feeling his weight suddenly shift. He cocked his head as he stared at the man, eyes widening. It was understandable that he noticed his walking stick and how he had to lean to one side so as not to put pressure on it and cause any pain but to presume that it was an injury from the war especially after he had just stated he was a doctor ... He felt his back turn rigid. The arrogant smile on his face told him that it wasn't a stab in the dark; he actually had somehow known that.

“Mike, have you mentioned me to him before.” That was a rational explanation but then Mike shook his head with a large grin on his face. John looked between the two men, puzzled. Mike was aware of something, sure he had been hinting that the man wasn't the best of potential flatmates but he had put most of it to “you won't understand until you meet him” and now he seemed to be enjoying it slightly, if anything he was relishing John's confusion. His eye's never left Mike as he wandered closer to the man, however he felt a gaze on the side of his face. I could kill Mike right now. The grin on Mike's face sprawled out even further across his face and John felt his frown deepen and a V-shaped pucker chiselled itself into his face.

Then he wanted a phone Mike's phone. He looked somewhat reluctant to parting with his phone but nonetheless proceeded to check his pockets. “It's in my coat pocket,” he pointed out before he looked around himself, a little perplexed before something like intuition seemed to flicker, he didn't have a coat on him, “which is ... at home.” John sniggered under his breath, before quickly composing himself when he felt Mike's eyes narrow on him. He looked between the two of them and all of a sudden one of his pockets felt a little heavier.

John slid his hand into his inside pocket which held his sister's old, battered phone, a gift she had given him after complaining that he wasn't keeping in close enough with her. That wasn't entirely true, it was previously a gift to her from Clara but ever since she wanted to separate from her everything of Clara's went, she happened to notice John couldn't afford luxuries like mobile's and handed it to him. Guilt that she hadn't been there for him, pure and simple but she pinned it down and turned it to make it look as though he wasn't filling the duties of being an elder sibling.

He was dubious about handing the man his phone, he didn't look the type to steal a phone, he was too ... private school, and he certainly had that mannerism about him. He picked his phone out, turning it around in either hand; his concern lied with what he was planning on doing with his phone. He sighed as he threw the phone towards him, “Here; you can borrow mine.” He smiled weakly.

He tried to go through his mind, thinking of any normal reason that he could pick up on as to how a complete stranger could pick up on something like that; distant friends and family always asked how he had gotten it even though they knew he was out aiding the soldiers in the front line. Why couldn't he put it down to something simple like a disfigurement he had always had.

“It was Afghanistan. How did you know?” He couldn't not ask.

[Sherlock Holmes]

"It was Afghanistan. How did you know?"

Sherlock often liked to see the confused and shocked expressions he got from people as they wondered, maybe even marvelled at the fact he knew the most intricate of details about someone's life. Some may perscieve him to be a stalker, but he was far from it. He simply used the art of observation and deduction until he reached the real nitty gritty of the ins and outs of their lives- mostly being right in what he had concluded. And from the response he was getting from John, he knew he had hit the nail on the head. "Wasn't too difficult to work out" It hadn't, in fact it had been rather easy. By the way that he carried himself he knew he must have been military and judging by the fact that Mike had brought him here he guessed he was an old friend of his, an old friend from Barts Medical school, making him an army doctor.

He did amaze himself sometimes. He smirked incessantly, as it was confirmed it had been Afghanistan.

Sherlock browsed his eyes over at the medically severed physician. His eyes dropped to the crutch the man was holding, baring most of his weight on his 'un-injured leg' and equaling the balance by resting on the crutch. Yet as he spoke, talking to Mike it was almost as if he had forgotten about the injury, also focusing on the fact he did not ask for a chair or go to sit down made him indicate that it must be partly pyschosymatic. Being caught in the middle of the war could do funny things to the mind, and having to adjust to life outside of that exciting field was difficult to be accustomed to so he guessed it must be difficult for the man. Many serving soldiers coming out of the army especially those who had been invalided like that, must be recieving psychiatric help of some sort so he guessed he must have a psychiatrist.

“Here; you can borrow mine.” Sherlock withdrew his eyes from the man's crutch and accepted the offer greatfully. "Thanks" He was rather hoping he would do that. Once given the phone, he shot his eyes over it's appearance. First to the charger socket. Lining the edges were a series of scuff marks and scratches, indicating whoever the previous owner of this phone had a serious case of the shakes. Alcoholic? Drug user? There were many possibly causes. Brasing his eyes over the back of the phone, he grazed his finger tips over the engraved message on the covering, reading what it said.

To Harry

All my love,
Clara
xxx

Well, that said a lot. Number one, the name 'Harry'. Obviousy John's brother for any man old enough to be his father would never have this kind of gadget and know how to use it. Clara, must have been his girlfriend, fiance or maybe even wife but he guessed his attachment to his phone must have weigned otherwise he would have kept it for himself. So that meant that they must have broken up for reasons unknown, but what he could figure out was that this Harry had broken up with Clara. For had it been the other way round, the man would have been inclined to have the phone as a keep-sake because tendancies were that men did not take break-ups to easily, but he had called the shots on this one.

Along with this, the phone told him that John was reluctant to recieve aid from his brother. The phone had been given to him in an attempt for the two to stay in touch [Or so he figured] yet now, when it had come to moving out of his house instead of going to his brother he was here. That told him he hadn't consulted him on this issue not involving him, which made him wonder of John approved of his drinking/ drug taking in which he was still yet to draw a final conclusion. All of these thoughts hurled around his head at the speed of light, and within the ten seconds of having the phone in his hands he managed to pick up most aspects of the man's life. All from his mobile phone.

Sherlock used this remaining time to send a message to Detective Lestrade, who had been on his back about a final prognosis for the case. Fapping his hands on the small keyboard of the phone, he pressed the sent button before handing it back to John.

Not dwelling on the formalities he went back to his work and withdrew the specimen from the slide. Chcuking it behind him in the bin before proceeding onto the final analysis. "How do you feel about the Violin?" He proposed form out of the blue, his eye still pressed firmly against the eye peice of the microscope. "Only, I tend to play the Violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you? I feel potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, that way there's no nasty surprises" He said raising his head from the microscope, taking the slide and again throwing it into the bin. He knew the man would have questions, for neither of them had said anything about seeing a flat.

He assumed that was what he was here for anyway, in fact he was positive. Why else would he be here, with Mike after just this morning he had said he needed and was looking for a flatmate. Sherlock ripped off his plastic latex gloves and left them on the side, thrusting his hands in his pockets to await a response before he would have to disappear out of the door to recieve the results from the riding crop experiment.

[Dr. John Watson]

Wasn't too difficult to work out? They had just met and he had made an incredibly correct supposition and he was trying to tell him that it wasn't something hard to work out. A stranger. Some random man working in a mortuary simply worked out something that his friends couldn't realize even having known his circumstances. He couldn't stop his frown from deepening. He could see in his periphery vision Mike's grin widening, what was he meant to be missing? Was he a mind reader, a psychic? Some twisted joke Mike had decided to thrust his way just to put a cherry on the top of the great misery that was his life?

The way the man was smirking it was as though his horse had just come in at high odds not as though he had just heard someone admit he had been injured in the harsh terrain of Afghan.

He sighed as he examined the room whilst his phone was in other hands. He hadn't been stuck in a lab since 2002 and it was blatantly obvious when he looked around that there had been a drastic change in equipment and technology. The contents of the Petri dishes however had not changed, series of specimens of blood and diseases lined the contents of cabinets. Someone, likely to have worked their for a period of time, must have attempted to brighten up the place slightly, it wasn't as white-wash clinical as a majority of other hospital areas.

At least he hadn't smashed his phone with a hammer, a strange concern, so that was always a positive. John wordlessly slipped his phone back into his inside pocket, riffling through the other debris that had wound it's way in to his pockets and stayed their on accountability of his lack of caring for his clothes, his eyes never leaving the man. He'd have to check his outbox, nosy but possibly necessary; he could have quite easily sent a death threat on his phone, highly improbable but he felt he had the right to know just in case he had done something that could end up getting John into hot water.

Maybe his therapist was right, maybe he did have post-traumatic stress disorder, she should seriously consider adding paranoia to that list. Maybe it was the short break in the monotony that was inducing the strange behaviour in him. Well at least he might have something to blog about other than his normal drone temporary posts regarding his own life, she would be thrilled. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the thought.

The violin, how did he feel about the violin? It was simply an instrument and if he was a bad performer it wouldn't be hard for John to tune it out, he'd managed to go to sleep with the sound of land mines exploding in the distance, with the ruthless sun beating on his face and feeling his aching bones and skin swell. It wouldn't bother him. As for him being a possible sociopath, he'd be a hypocrite to say that it concerned him greatly; he too was a recluse through his own choice. And then something hit him.

“Wait, who said anything about roommates?” If Mike was telling the truth then this man should no nothing of him let alone that he was looking for a roommate. Or maybe he just worked it out like he worked out he was an ex-soldier. He thought about repeating himself, asking him how but it seemed as though the other two men in the room preferred him to remain illusive as possible.

John looked towards the door with an nervous laugh, this had to be a joke, there was no way it wasn't. He quickly turned back, shifting his weight back to his undamaged leg and turning to look at the man, trying not to sound exasperated, “Anyway we don't know each other in the slightest and you are telling me your flaws. I don't even know your name however I seem to know you play the violin.” His infuriation was unjust but it was a bad day. Everyday was a bad day. He really wasn't in the mood to be played around by Mike or this ... person. He probably didn't even need a roommate.

[Sherlock Holmes]

Sherlock kept his glance rested on this ex army doctor as he awaited a response. It seemed the man was rather confuddled with how he had managed to work all of this out, without albiet the aid of Mike who seemed rather smug and maybe a little impressed as he sat precariously on one of the laboratory stools. He had been looking out for a roomate for a while now, as he knew he was a rather hard person to get along with and anyone who agreed to share a flat cast one look at him and ran screaming in the other direction. It never bode well for him that his eccentricity and his astounding ability to read people turned them off and those were two such traits that were hardwired into his brain and a nightmare to turn 'off'.

His past two attempts at getting flatmates had been unsuccessful but that didn't mean that it would be the same on this occasion. Sometimes opposites attracted and maybe this John would not mind all of his annoying little habaits and his strange tendancies, after all that was part of what being a flat mate entialed right? So far the man had not gone running so he figured he would last longer than his two predeccors and so far he had done.

“Wait, who said anything about roommates?”

Sherlock had not even realized that neither of them had mentioned about being roomates, it was just something he figured and knew were the reason why they were both here. He had said only this morning when he had bumped into Mike that he was looking for a flatmate to help fun a flat in London and here he was with a friend, back from service in Afghanistan. There were no other explanations. Unless this man had a case for him which he highly doubted, army pensions weren't exactly the best wage around and living in curent accomdation would probably be too much for his new found income. Ergo he would be looking for a new flat and in London they didn't come cheap so a roomate would help pool towards such a thing.

Sherlock shrugged off that fact, laughing slightly at how something that was seen so simple to him would be confusing to others. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for and now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly back from military service in Afghanistan. Again, not hard" He said with a light-hearted smile, realising now that he may be coming across rather overwhelming. Surpressing who he was did not come easily to him and trying to swallow his deducations and observations drived him insane so he found it better to be honest and show himself for who he really was. He just hoped he had squandered another chance at having a roommate.

“Anyway we don't know each other in the slightest and you are telling me your flaws. I don't even know your name however I seem to know you play the violin.”

God, did this man ever let up with the inquisions? It seemed not. He liked that. Sherlock smiled and thrust his hand in his pockets as he slowly walked over to the door in which he had seen Molly walking past only minutes ago. He guessed she had just peered into the room and saw that he was busy which meant the riding crop experiment had met its completion. If the results were found out to be what he suspected, then it meant the man's alibi he had extracted just this morning was wrong, and that he was lying. That gave him enough evidence to send to Lestrade that the man was not to be trusted, as in his eyes butter would not melt.

A small pulse of adreniline and excitement coursed through his veins, he was right. He knew it. But first before he could carry on with the case and wrap it up, he needed to get this whole roommate thing out of the way.

"The Violin's important. Very important- I love my Violon." He remarked, well, more stated before carried on.

"And I know your an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother that's worried about you but you won't go to him for help, maybe possible because he's an alcoholic, might be because he recently walked out on his wife- I'm not sure. I also know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic and quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with don't you think?" He said peering his head around the door at this stage, not wishing to appear rude but he really did have to go or Lestrade would be packing off home thinking he was done for the day, when it was really only just beginning. An arrest would have to be made pretty damn split or the man would have made it out of the country by then.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet tomorrow evening at 7 o'clock. Sorry gotta dash. Appointment with a riding crop in the mortuary." He said as he made one step out of the door when he realised John would have no clue as to where to go. And as for the fact of who he was, that was a question many a man had asked and failed to discover.

"Oh and names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker street." He left with those words hanging in the atmosphere, walking with a fast pace as he turned several corners to meet Molly in the Mortuary.

[Dr. John Watson]

John had to bite his tongue to prevent him from making a sarcastic comment on the man's inability to find a flatmate if he planned on introducing himself in such a bizarre manner. As for ‘Again not hard', that took even more will power for him to point out that if the roles had been reversed then he would have been ignorant as would any other normal beings.

The stranger started to seem a little more impatient than when their conversation had begun, then again John had become progressively more irritable. He looked to the side towards the door with his peripheral vision as though something was going to appear ... nothing. He turned his full attention back to the man who was gradually getting ready to leave, obviously a man who had things to do and places to be.

How could a man love a violin? It was an inanimate object that emitted a screech at the command of whomever was in possession of it. Beggars could hardly be choosers, plus he could tell there would be no shift in his mind frame, he would just have to learn to tune it out.

He had to double take on himself, he was already accepting the idea of living with this man, someone who seemed ... at least a little strange. He owed to himself and Mike to at least turn up to the address and check about rent and the accommodation but he quickly resolved that he would not allow himself to move in with a madman blindly; it might have been of use if he wasn't utterly intrigued with the man.

John's eyes widened quickly, his eyes dilating. What he was claiming to know ... well it was impossible for him to know. Even what he claimed he was not too sure about happened to be accurate. At least he'd incorrectly identified Harry as being his brother unless he was referring to someone else but Harriet was the only sibling he had. But he had both known she had left Clara several months ago and remarked on Harry's alcohol abuse, something he had continually denied to himself and especially to others. As for trying to tell him that his limp was psychosomatic, as he had pointed out was the same opinion of his therapist Ella, there was no way he could even come close to that hypothesis with out having at least the faintest idea of his psychological background. John however still persisted with the fact his injured leg was caused by the physical damage inflicted in Afghanistan, he did not want a complete stranger presuming that was also the case.

He was rather grateful when he didn't say anything more on matters. He was right, that was enough to be going on with. His heart rate had increased ever so slightly, guns he could deal with, psychotic terrorists he could deal with, some random friend of Mike's who knew far too much about him was new territory.

His eyes shot down to his foot as he tried to calm a stray nerve. There was a reason, there always was, it was probably an elaborate joke; that was a rational reason.

What average person in 21st century Britain had a name like Sherlock? It may have been highly appropriate in the Victorian era but for a normal modern man. However, the more he turned over the name in his head, the more he found that it seemed to suit the man. Central London could be fairly costly but Baker Street was somewhat a slightly aged Victorian street as far as he was aware, possibly cheaper than somewhere like Marylebone Rd. Also it was an apartment which would make it easier to attend to and all the more cheaper. He started trying to imagine what type of accommodation he'd pick out. He almost smiled but before he could make so much of a remark, he was off.

Well that was a little dramatic if nothing else. His eyebrows shot up a little as he moved uneasily to his other foot before moving back to stand opposite Mike who was wearing a highly inappropriate complacent grin. He imagined backhanding him several feet back, that would wipe the smirk off his face. He smiled weakly at Mike.

“Well that was ... different to put it mildly. Do you want to tell me what I've just signed myself up for?” He could tell by the way Mike bent even further forward from hiding an even larger grin that his answer was a finite no. He bit the inside of his mouth impatiently.

“Not really. I think with Sherlock you'll have to find out by yourself. Are you going then?”

“I need a roommate, he needs a roommate. I'm sure we won't get too much in each other's ways and when I get a job I can move out as soon as possible.”

Mike looked at John before a look of shock spread across his face, his watch arm shooting up towards his face. His examined his watch before relaxing ever so slightly.“Listen I better be off, I have work in about half an hour and I'm walking so I'll be at least twenty minutes. Wife's attempt to get me to loose a few pounds.”

And with that John Watson found himself alone in a mortuary laboratory.

“Miss me much?” he greeted his small dingy, one person apartment. It was squalid, yes, crowded, yes, scantly clad in the furnishings department, yes and it came with the added bonus of an extortionate price tag. He looked around with a sigh, it could hardly be defined as living, the few possessions he owned were older than most kids entering secondary school and were strewn about in any nook and cranny that didn't block any of the small passages of floor. He cast off his coat onto a lopsided peg that hung on for dear life on the back of his door.

John looked out on the small forms of life several floors below, mainly the typical dole scroungers and chavs that dwelled on the boundaries of all estates. He tutted to himself as he saw a large group of young men in hoodies amassed less than 30ft from the base of the entrance to the flats, he turned his back to them not wanting to have to witness to something they'd do that would probably be illegal in some form or another. He put his crutch back by his bed, almost slumping into his chair. His mind quickly rolled back to his meeting with one, Sherlock Holmes. He pulled over the laptop which Ella had lent him for the month in an encouragement to write.

He brought up Google, tapping in Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't stalking, just ... making sure he wasn't signing himself up to live with a psychotic killer. Actually the first link was to Sherlock's own page, ‘The Science of Deduction', it seemed a little over the top but he soon found himself analysing the pages of cases and the forum, submersed in the small webpage. He somewhat doubted what he claimed to be able to do, however after his quick analyse of John he was less dubious than had they never met.

After sitting staring vacantly at the screen for what seemed like an eon John still refused to make a decision, he could only presume that the man was who he claimed to be and that hopefully he would be too busy to irritate John too much. He'd go along in the morning, be civil, maybe try it for a few weeks on a trial basis providing it was a fairly reasonable arrangement and take it from there. He sighed, shutting the lip on the laptop, he was tired and hungry and more stressed than when the day had commenced rather than relieved to find himself facing a break in the daily ennui of his life.

His kitchen was nothing but immaculate, the army had taught every soldier the strict discipline of having tidy living quarters, there was never any room for clutter in the middle of an enemy-filled terrain. Pot noodle again. He slurped on the strange good as he did most nights, pulling himself back up to his desk, searching for updates on his ‘favourite menu'.

John turned back to his vastly empty blog staring at the blank webpage, half-expecting Ella's furious face to pop up and scorn him for having neglected something that was meant to help with his ‘psychological trauma'. He had an appointment booked for several days time and for once he finally had something to write about, something that wasn't entirely mundane and repetitive. Also by mentioning meeting Mike and Sherlock he could shift some of the limelight away from himself; hitting two birds with one stone. He took the last foul bite of his ‘ meal' and threw the ‘pot' into the slightly overflowing bin in the corner, a large lump of food slowly burning it's way down his oesophagus. He sighed deeply, tapping his fingers idly against his table. He sighed again as he pulled himself up to his own, empty webpage. A deep V-shaped pucker appeared between his brows as he attempted to correctly word his encounter.

I don't know how I'm meant to be writing this. I'm not a writer. Ella thought keeping a blog would help but it hasn't because nothing ever happens to me. But today, something did. Something happened... By the time he had managed to construct a half-decent post for his blog he had managed to pass a rather large section of his day. He never realized how stressful it was just attempting to write something.

This time he was going to post something, it seemed stupid continually hitting delete on absolutely everything he wrote, ‘The first attempt is always the hardest in every aspect of your life; take the plunge because you might eventually enjoy it.' Ella was referring to re-establishing his love-life but there was very rarely something she picked up on that he could ever use in it's original context. He chuckled to himself, she would be very proud at their next session, his smile quickly pulled down as he sighed.