For those who were reading this, I edited these because since a few people actually like it, I might as well make it suck a little less. Good summary, bad fic. Hopefully not anymore.
Of course he wasn't going to admit it, but Sherlock was desperate. Mycroft, instead of sending him money, sent him texts for suitable flatmates..
MH: 'John Hamish Watson' seems to have potential.
Well, by potential, he meant the only one willing to take up the offer.
It wasn't that the place was haunted, or that it was run-down, or too expensive. It was a lovely flat, 221-B Baker Street. However, all three of these things seemed far more appealing than being flat-mates with the anti-social, judgmental freak, psychopath, Sherlock Holmes.
Knock-knock.
From a lower part of the door, John must be short. Approximately 5'6. His handing is more careful, less calculated. He is not using the hand he favors to knock, his other hand is busy. Probably holding up a flyer with his other.
Sherlock unlocks the door, meaning to look down a little to see a shorter man, the tip of his head just barely reaching the tip of Sherlock's chin.
John's breathing stops. A blush is completely enveloping his face. His pupil's almost completely conquer his irises. Dayuummmm.
Sherlock doesn't notice any of this, as his eyes are a bit pre-occupied.
John's right arm is missing.