As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms

Warmth in your eyes? Oh hell no! He's cold as a brick. He's a dick. Great. Now I'm rhyming.

Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?

Definitely the fear of the cold. Fear of living on the streets would be even better. Love! Pfft!

For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt

Well… yes. He sure as hell is a beauty. But I still doubt this was a good idea. It's been three months now and I'm the living proof that there is such a thing as regret. It's just lucky I don't have to do the 'walk of shame' through the streets every morning.

This is the story of John BAMF Watson. Just kidding. Right now I'm feeling like a pile of ash. In a dirty ashtray. On the counter of a filthy gay bar.

This is the story of John Watson being abused. Nooo, kidding again! Okay, let's be honest. Let's put the cards on the table.

I was alone. And I had no money whatsoever. And I desperately, reeeaally desperately needed a place to stay, okay? I didn't know that it was going to come with sexual favours. It wasn't intended to be like that. But what can I say? You can't say no to a recovering cocaine addict. Why am I being so cynical? Well, I guess it's a defence mechanism I developed over the last three months. I don't remember having it in the army though… Huh - That has to make some kind of statement what this man has done to me!

But I didn't want this to turn out like it did, okay? You have to believe me! I didn't know what I was getting into. It's not like you can see it on his face. You can barely read anything from his face. I'm not even sure he has emotions, well other than… You know what I'm talking about! And now get your head out of the dirty underwear drawer! I mean, just look at him. Take a good long look. You can do it. I'm in the flat now, he won't bite you if I'm there. See these long black curls? The pale skin? The slender body and the extremely well tailored suits? They probably cost a fortune! I don't know where he gets the money from. Maybe his insane brother.

Well, that's him in all his glory. If he decides to put on clothes for a change. That's usually when he doesn't need me. Good God, now I really sound like a prostitute. Okay, let's make that sound less appalling… callboy, maybe?

And my head told my heart

For God's sake someone turn off the bloody radio already! Ah, see, that's better. I can't stand to listen to anymore heartbreak or lovey dovey crap or I'm going to drown myself. Yeah, I know it's not actually possible to drown yourself, I'm a doctor!

Okay, I guess your opinion of me just sank below sea level. Oh! He's an university graduate! He should know better! Well, you can get off your high horses ladies and gentlemen, because I simply don't give a fuck! It's just the way it is.

You wanna now how it all started out? You really wanna now? You're going to make me live through it again, aren't you?

Okay, let me start by telling you I was desperate. Oh, did I already mention that? Well, then let's get right to it.

…

John Watson, the ex-army doctor was sitting in a pub in the middle of London. It was loud and cramped and muggy. A typical saturday night. He didn't even know what he was doing here. He didn't have enough money to afford going to a restaurant and what was the point in eating alone anyway. Yet he was sitting here alone in a booth. Not even at the bar! He had been nursing the same Scotch since three hours, staring deeply into his alcoholy depths, trying to discover some values of life in it. Needless to say, he had had no luck. His landlord had told him last week that he had to move out by the end of the month. Today was the 23rd.

Now he was contemplating staying at his sister's place. The only thing they had in common was their homosexuality. And that didn't bear for good flatmates. The newspaper with the apartment listing was resting on the table. It had been laying there untouched since he had yanked it out of his pocket. He was never going to find a flat in London by the end of the week! The ones that he considered he couldn't afford, the ones he could afford came with an unbelievable eccentric flatmate with disputable personal hygiene habits. Most of them gave him a weird look when he told them he just came from Afghanistan. You can imagine what inappropriate and mostly left-winged questions followed. At the start, he even told them that he sometimes woke up screaming in the middle of the night. But that was his problem and they wouldn't have to bother about that. He didn't even know why the hell he was being so nice! He was sabotaging himself.

Yes, the dreams were still there. He was still limping around. He felt like his own grandfather with the goddamn cane.

Another sip on the Scotch, it had to last until midnight at least! His mind had drained out the noise around him. He had been doing that for a while now. It was a technique he had acquired in the war. It came in quiet handy when you had to patch up a man without painkillers if you were able to shut up his cries and the guns around you. But now… he was simply lost in his thoughts, his self-pity.

That's why he didn't notice until he lifted his head, that a tall man was standing beside him. John was startled by the sincere expression on the man's face. He was staring directly at him, he was barely a foot away from him. He could have reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder if he liked. It didn't help his overall appearance to be less creepy that he was wearing a long, black coat with the collar turned up. A blue scarf still wrapped around his neck even though it was temperatures of a summer day at the beach in the pub. But John had to admit, he was quite handsome.

"Evening. May I sit with you?" The stranger with indescribable cheekbones slid into the booth opposite to John without waiting for an answer.

"I'm Sherlock." He said, holding out his right hand, the other one wrapped around a glass of Scotch which obviously remained untouched. John shook his hand.

"Err… I'm John. Nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry, I seem to have shanghaied you into letting me sit here."

John raised his eyebrows and let his hands slip under the table.

"Well, I wouldn't use that term. You simply didn't wait for my response."

"Is it okay if I sit here?"

"Sure. Do as you like."

Okay, that was weird. But John shrugged it off and turned towards the bar to look around. Not a lot of blokes here tonight. Mostly couples or students, not really his hunting ground if you could call it that. The man sitting opposite to him however… No. He was not going to jump on the first one that talked to him. He didn't even know what this was supposed to be. It seemed like he simply needed a place to sit. John tried to catch a glimpse of this Sherlock guy in the corner of his eye.

Oh God, was he still looking at him? He kind of looked a little… no! Don't judge people like that, John!

Sherlock He let the name run through his mouth, not noticing that it escaped in a low whisper. His tongue played around with the letters. Sheeerrrrlooockkk Who named his kid like that nowadays? He probably got a lot of bullying in school. And if not for the name, maybe for the creepy looks he kept giving people. John tried to look over his shoulder without attracting attention. Yes, he was still doing it!

"Would you like to rent a flat in Baker Street?"

John turned and looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, would you like to rent a flat in Baker Street?" Sherlock repeated, his tone drifting off a bit, letting him seem a little annoyed.

"Why?" John's heart was pumping adrenaline from now on. He was officially scared.

Why would he ask him something like that?

"Because you're looking for a flat and there's one in my building that's vacant at the moment. I know the housekee- I mean landlady. It's cheap, I can get you a good price if you'd like."

John shook his head with closed eyes and waved his hands in the air.

"Hold up! What? How? Why?" He stammered.

"Okay, easy. Just one question after the other." Now this guy seemed to mock him! Did he follow him? Was he a stalker or something?

"How do you know that I'm looking for a flat?"

"The same way I know that you're an invalid army doctor who just returned from Afghanistan – or Iraq, not quite sure about that point. The same way I know that you need a flat in – possibly the next week. And it has to be cheap and in the London area. I know that you can't go to friends for help and you don't have a good relationship with your family, you don't have a boyfriend at the moment. You have a limp, your therapist thinks it's psychosomatic. Quite correctly, I'm afraid. So… that leaves us with the remaining question: Would like to rent a flat in Baker Street?" Sherlock had rattled down the words faster than John could take them in. He only stopped before the question, repeating it loud and clear for him once more. What the hell was happening? How could he possibly know that even if he was following him?

"That's… astoundingly accurate and… a little scary. That was amazing!"

He saw Sherlock smirk a little. But he also noticed that he was trying to hide that by sipping on his Scotch but not really drinking anything. The idea dawned on John that the drink was probably just a prop. Something Sherlock needed to hold in his hands to seem normal in the pub.

"How… How did you do that?"

"Simple. Posture and your haircut say army. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists, so no sunbathing but you've been abroad. When you stand your leg doesn't seem to bother you. The original circumstances of the injury must have been traumatic so invalided home from the war. You're sitting here on a saturday night alone at a pub, no friends who would be willing to help you with a flat then. You've been staring at the same Scotch since three and a half hours. You're looking for cheap accommodation, hence the apartment listing in the newspaper that's lying beside you but you're not willing to go to your family for help. - - I simply observe, John."

Again with the rattling, only his name remained, Sherlock dragging everything single letter so the word seemed to last for a decade. John felt like he had lost all ground beneath his feet.

"I don't know what to say."

"Just say you will take a look at the flat." Sherlock smiled and held out his glass like he was toasting John.

John was so overwhelmed he simply nodded and lifted his glass to clink it against Sherlock's. Then he took swallowed the Scotch in one go. What the hell! This night wouldn't get any better than this.

Sherlock stood up and threw some money on the table.

"Come on!"

John pushed the remaining Scotch down and looked up at Sherlock, totally confused.

"You want to go look at it now?"

"Sure, what's the problem?"

John shrugged again and got his jacket.

"But wait a minute. How did you know that I don't have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock smiled over his shoulder as he was already walking through the door of the pub.

"I didn't, but I know now."

He really didn't know what he was getting into.

…

Sherlock showed him 221C Baker Street, a small flat that was pretty convenient for John at the moment. He still didn't know how Sherlock managed to get the landlady to this low rent though. It was probably better not to ask.

Now he was sitting here in Sherlock's flat, 221B Baker Street, and why was that again? He didn't know. He didn't know why Sherlock handed him another glass of Scotch by now and how they had come to laugh uncontrollably. He had thought that he had forgotten how to enjoy himself after the war. But it was still there. And he couldn't shake the feeling that Sherlock was coming on to him. They had been sitting here for over two hours, talking. He had moved from a chair across the room, to standing in front of the window, then he sat on the coffee table when finally Sherlock was now resting against the armrest of the couch John himself was sitting on.

John was probably the straightest gay in London. How could Sherlock even know that he was approachable. On top of that, John still couldn't quite grip how Sherlock knew all these other things. Even the psychosomatic limp! 'Observing' that he was gay was probably a piece of cake when he knew that.

Then it happened. All these small things coming quickly after the other. The alcohol made him lose his desire to explain all this, he just wanted to feel now. And all the while Sherlock probably hadn't touched a drop of Scotch all night. John's confusion left and gave way for another feeling. Raw sexual lust. A hand on his thigh, soon he discovered that his hands had snuck up to Sherlock's hair, a tongue moving around in his mouth and it was all downhill from there.

…

I was desperate FOR A FLAT! OKAY! Jeez… You really can't get that out of your head, huh? There's enough gay porn on the internet already, google it! You're not gonna get it here. This is not a love story.

And I think I'm probably kidding myself. I can see your smile, you're about to crack a laugh! You already know more than I do. Great.

And my head told my heart
"Let love grow"
But my heart told my head
"This time no
This time no"

Good God! What's it trying to do? Is this some kind of elaborate joke? Is this supposed to be foreshadowing? Who's writing this poor example of life that I live?

This is me – rolling my eyes.

Hey! I'm the one fabricating this mess :P

This story is toootally different from what I've been writing before, and it's been a lot of fun so far- we'll see how this goes! Each chapter will follow one episode of the show and joke around with the idea what would have happened if John was... well Sherlock's booty call :)

You may notice the song lyrics at the beginning, it's Mumford & Sons' "Winter Winds" if you care to listen to it! Beautiful song! ;)

I hope you enjoyed reading the first chapter, be nice and leave a review - I always get excited like a unicorn on LSD when I get one xD wow that was graphic oO okay, moving on! :)