(Every time I try to write Watson, autocorrect tries to change it to wasting, Walton, or Easton 🤦🏼)
John Watson limped through Russell Square Park, leaning on his cane. He passed a man on a bench, and the man stared at him as he walked past, clearly recognizing him.
John didn't notice. He was tired, and caught up in his own thoughts. He hadn't got a good night's sleep since he came back from Afghanistan.
"John!"
The doctor didn't hear him at first, or maybe he thought the man was talking to someone else. Someone else coincidentally named John?
"John Watson!" The man smiled, hurrying over to him as he turned around. "Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together!"
The name had a hint of recognition in John's brain, and suddenly he remembered. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike," he stammered, switching his cane to his left side so he could shake Mike's outstretched hand.
Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I know, I got fat."
"No," said John, trying to sound convincing.
Mike didn't seem to notice or care. "So, I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"
John blinked. "I got shot," he said, a tad awkwardly.
They stood there for a minute in embarrassment.
A little later, they'd bought some coffees and were sitting on a bench in the park, sipping at the beverages in silence. Mike gave John a worried look. The former soldier didn't notice.
"So, are you still at Bart's then?" he asked, glancing over at the bigger man beside him.
"Teaching now," Mike said with a smile. "Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!"
They both laughed.
"What about you?" Mike asked. "Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"
"I can't afford London on an Army pension," John replied.
"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."
"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson..." He trailed off and Mike looked away slightly awkwardly, sipping his coffee. John rested his cane against the bench and clenched his left hand into a fist, trying to calm the tremor that had just started.
Mike looked back at him, a little concerned. "Couldn't Harry help?"
"Yeah, like that's ever going to happen!" John said sarcastically, giving a cross between a scoff and a hollow laugh as he glanced down at the ground.
Mike shrugged. "I dunno, get a flatshare or something?"
"Come on." John looked at Nike with an expression that said plainly, 'really?' "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
Mike chuckled thoughtfully.
"...what?"
"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today," Mike replied.
John tilted his head a little. "Who was the first?"
~~~
A tall, dark-haired man named Sherlock Holmes unzipped a black body bag lying on the table of St Bartholomew's Hospital Morgue, frowning down at the corpse inside it.
"How fresh?" he asked the mortician, whose name was Molly Hooper.
She walked over, glancing down at a clipboard. "Just in. 67, natural causes." She gave a little empathetic smile. "He used to work here. I knew him, he was nice," she added, even though she knew Sherlock couldn't care less.
Sherlock zipped up the bag and straightened up. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." He gave Molly a false little smile.
-
Molly stood in the observation room next door, watching Sherlock repeatedly and violently hit the now-exposed corpse with the riding crop. She winced every so often, but there was a hint of admiration in her face.
She slowly walked back into the morgue, smiling a little awkwardly. Sherlock straightened up, breathless, his face emotionless like always. "So, bad day, was it?" she joked.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me," Sherlock said in one breath, getting out a notepad and scribbling something down on it.
Molly blinked. He spoke so fast sometimes that it was hard to understand him, but she nodded. "Er, listen, I was wondering, maybe later, when you're finished..." she began.
Sherlock glanced over at her as she spoke, still writing, and did a slight double-take. He frowned. "Are you wearing lipstick?" he asked, confused. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."
"I, er, refreshed it a bit," Molly said, slightly awkwardly. She smiled. He really did notice everything...
Sherlock gave her a very long and oblivious look, slowly turning his head back to his notepad. He had been writing without looking almost that whole time. "Sorry, you were saying?"
Molly stared at him. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee?"
Sherlock quickly shut the notepad. "Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs."
He walked away.
Molly stood there awkwardly. He hadn't understood. "Okay," she said quietly, not sure whether to be upset or confused.
~~~
There was a knock on the door to the lab Sherlock was in. He ignored it, continuing his experiment, only glancing slightly up when two people walked in the room. One of them was Mike, and the other was a shorter man he'd never seen before. He was definitely older than Sherlock, even if by a little, since there were a few small grey streaks in his blonde hair.
Sherlock returned his attention back to his work, still aware of the two others. The man he didn't know limped in using a cane, looking at all the equipment with wide blue eyes. "Bit different from my day," he said quietly with a little smile.
Mike chuckled. "You've no idea!"
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked, keeping a note of the new man's comment. "There's no signal on mine."
"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I prefer to text."
Mike glanced down at his pockets. "Sorry, it's in my coat."
The other person took out a silver phone from his back pocket. "Here, use mine," he said, holding it out.
Sherlock stared at him, slightly surprised he would offer. "Oh. Thank you." He glanced at Mike, then walked over to the man and took the phone, trying not to seem awkward.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," said Mike.
Sherlock turned partially away from the man - John - and flipped open the keypad on the phone. He noticed an engraving on the back:
Harry Watson
from Clara
xxx
-and some pale scratches by the charging port and all over the back of the case. He noted this and began typing. He glanced at John Watson from the corner of his eye, and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
He saw John frown, confused. Mike smiled knowingly.
"What?" the shorter man asked.
"Which was it - Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated. He looked at the very surprised John, making brief eye contact, then back down at the phone.
John looked across the room to Mike, who had a very knowing look on his face. "Afghanistan," he replied finally. "Sorry, how did you know...?"
He trailed off as Molly walked in the room, holding a mug of some kind of drink. Sherlock looked up at her. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." He closed up John's phone, handing it back to him, and took the mug from Molly. He looked at her face a little closer.
"What happened to the lipstick?" he asked.
Molly gave him a blank look, then smiled awkwardly. "Oh, it wasn't working for me."
Sherlock tilted his head a little. "Really?" He started walking back to the far end of the room. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too... small now."
He stopped in front of a laptop at the table and took a sip from the mug, grimacing slightly at the bitter taste.
"...okay," Molly said softly, and left the room. John watched her leave, still looking confused. It was an expression that fit him well, Sherlock thought, then frowned internally at the thought.
"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, changing the subject for his mind. He bent down to reach the laptop, opening it up.
It took John a moment to realize he was the one being spoken to. "I'm sorry, what?" he said politely.
" I play the violin when I'm thinking," Sherlock said as he typed on the computer. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He turned back to John, subtly examining him once more. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
He gave John a false smile - though something inside him told him it wasn't so false - and watched the former soldier stare at him blankly for a moment, then look to a smug-looking Mike.
"Oh, you... you told him about me?" he asked.
Mike shook his head. "Not a word."
John gazed back at Sherlock. There was something in his eyes that was very different than the rest of the people the detective spoke to... it was hard to discern. "Who said anything about flatmates?"
Sherlock shut the computer, then picked up his coat and put it on. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He shrugged a little, adjusting the coat so it wasn't crooked. "Wasn't that difficult a leap."
John continued to stare at him. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"
Sherlock ignored the question, wrapping his scarf around his neck, then picked up his phone and glanced at it for a moment. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it."
He started moving towards the door, sliding his phone into his coat-pocket. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00. Sorry - gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked past John and reached the door.
"Is that it?" John asked, turning to look at him.
Sherlock stopped and pivoted back towards the former soldier, stepping a bit closer. "Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"
Sherlock tilted his head. "Problem?"
John smiled in disbelief, looking towards Mike for help, but his friend just continued to smirk knowingly. He turned his gaze back to Sherlock. "We don't know a thing about each other," he explained. "I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment with piercing blue eyes. He took a breath. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic... quite correctly, I'm afraid."
John looked down at his cane and bad leg, shuffling his feet awkwardly.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock said, very smugly.
He turned and walked to the door again, feeling quite satisfied with himself, opening it and stepping through, then leaned back into the room again. "The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at John, making a clicking sound with his tongue as he did so. "Afternoon." He disappeared from the room.
Mike raised a hand in farewell as the door slammed shut behind the detective. John stared at him in disbelief. Mike smiled, nodding. "Yeah. He's always like that."
John gazed at the door in amazement.
Wow, this was actually a really long chapter! I had fun writing this one, too, and I hope you had fun reading it!!
Next chapter will have much more Johnlock, brought to you by Mrs Hudson, so stay tuned! (It probably won't be published as fast as these ones have been)
Here's some allergy-free Chick-fil-a ice cream for the wait:🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦🍦x1000000
As always, thanks for reading, commenting, and voting, and I hope you like the next one!
.