Title: First Impressions
Summary: The first time John and Sherlock met, what exactly was going through John's head. And what kind of an impression did Sherlock Holmes make on a man like John Watson.
Warnings: Slash, meaning boyXboy. Quotes from original script.
Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Author's Note: This is strictly preslash, nothing really happens between John and Sherlock, but John is obviously pinning. This is during A Study in Pink and while you shouldn't need any direct knowledge to read, it's always helpful.
Disclaimer: I am writing this for fun and not profit. I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters therein.
Part I- John
It started in a lab. John had followed Mike in, wondering what the hell he was doing there and more importantly what any of this had to do with finding him a flat mate. Not that he was going to say anything, no. Not while the tall bloke with the dark hair kept glancing his way as if John were more interesting than the slide he had been studying. No, he was most certainly not going to do anything to dissuade him of that opinion.
John didn't say anything as Mike made a brief exchange with the dark-haired man. Something about needing a phone and Mike having left it behind. John was too distracted by the way those long fingers flicked a slide out from under the microscope and then quickly replacing it. He blinked and then remembered he had a phone to offer.
"Uh, here, use mine," he said, digging in his pockets and offering the device. The man looked up, grey eyes focused intently on his face for half a second. A long half-second. What was he staring at? Had John left his fly down, his shirt unbuttoned? Right as he was about to back away with an apology, the man spoke.
"Oh, thank you," he said, unfolding long legs and advancing on John with careful steps. He buttoned up his jacket with delicate fingers before wrapping them around John's phone and opening it without hesitation.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike said.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man asked, not even looking up from John's phone.
"Sorry?" John blinked over at him.
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" The man clarified, though John didn't find it very clarifying at all. He looked over at Mike, who smirked once, seeming to understand his confusion though he made no attempt to help John.
"Afghanistan." John shifted his weight, looking the man over again, all long limbs, high cheekbones, messy hair, and still couldn't understand how he'd known. "Sorry, how did you…" He was, of course, interrupted by a woman entering the room. The man looked up from his phone, handing it back to John without a second thought.
"Ah, Molly," he greeted the woman as she handed him coffee. John just stood there, watching him walk away and feeling… strangely… hurt. It wasn't that he particularly cared that the man blew him off; he didn't even know his name. Except that he did care. He found he didn't like the way he'd turned away and dismissed him as if he were nothing. And it had nothing to do with John's pride and everything to do with the way the man's long fingers flicked over the keyboard in front of him.
"How do you feel about the violin," he spoke suddenly. John started, staring at him. Was he speaking to him? Surely he was speaking to him, seeing as the woman had left and Mike was still standing on the other side of the table hardly paying attention.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He clarified, and again John found that his statement was not at all clarifying. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." The man suddenly turned toward him, employing the full force of those intense grey eyes directly on John. It took John an embarrassingly long time to understand just what he was implying. And it took him an even longer time to wrench his eyes away and face Mike.
"You told him about me."
"Not a word," Mike answered without hesitation.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" He asked, turning back to the man.
"I did," the man answered, standing abruptly. He turned away, fishing for a long-tailored coat and scarf. "I 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. Wasn't a difficult leap."
"Yes, how did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked, shifting his weight and avoiding the obvious dilemma for as long as possible. He wasn't entirely sure, but he thought it wasn't good to room with one when you were thinking of the fastest way to get him out of the scarf and coat he'd just put on.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," the man answered, completely ignoring John's question, which should not have made John all the more keen to know what he was going to say. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." He turned, approaching John. He had his eyes locked straight on John, the full force of his attention on him, and John suddenly felt as if he would faint. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00." He said it without hesitation, as if he hadn't even give a thought to the fact that John might say no. "Sorry, got to dash," he turned, heading for the door, dismissing John with a turn of his heel. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
John blinked, his mouth half open after the man as he walked away. And he almost—almost got out the door before John came to his senses.
"Is that it?"
"Is that what?" The man asked, turning with an annoyed expression glinting in his eyes.
"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"
"Problem?" he asked, looking around and then back at John as if he truly couldn't understand where he was coming from. John smiled, resisting the urge to laugh, to scream, to pull the man—whose name he still didn't know—by his coat lapels and…
"We don't know a thing about each other," he said instead. "I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." The man's lips curved, his eyes glinting with challenge and John felt something spark low in his belly.
"I know you're an army doctor. And you've been invalided home from Afghanistan." John shifted, unable to look away from those eyes though he was sure he should. "I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help 'cause you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." The man's lips twitched again, and he glanced down. For half a brilliant second, John thought he was looking at his crotch and then he realized the man was only looking at his leg. His bloody leg. "And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He raised in eyebrow, his light grey eyes smug as if he could tell just how impressed John was.
He turned and walked to the door, pulling it open and then hesitating. He turned to look back at John, those intense eyes taking him in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." Then he clicked his tongue, called "afternoon" to Mike and left with a snap of the door.
John stared after him, wondering what the hell was wrong with him that he already wanted to chase after the man-Sherlock Holmes. He blinked and heard Mike say something about him always being like that and a thrill of excitement wound its way through him. He wondered if he should show up the next afternoon and then dismissed the question, whether he should or not didn't matter. He knew he what he was going to do.