Prologue
He swept paint smoothly across the canvas, going up, then curving to the right. Moving down and to the left in ridges, and then coming back up to meet the origin of the brush strokes to form the outline of a skull.
He dipped the brush in black and mixed it with brown. He began painting the shadows created by the eye sockets, the nostrils, and the cheekbones.
The cheekbones; hard and pointed, like his own.
He painted every detail in the skull, down to the very last glimmer of light reflecting off of the teeth, down to the very last yellow spot of aging.
The artist sat back in his chair to examine the painting. The skull that sat on the mantelpiece in his flat was cold, dead, and lifeless. Like him.
He sat forward and found an inconspicuous place in the corner of the canvas and signed his initials.
S.H.
Chapter One
John wandered aimlessly in the park, coat collar turned up against the harsh autumn wind. What was he even doing here? John couldn't remember how he got to the park. His mind had been a blur since he got home from Afghanistan. Home. London didn't feel like home anymore, even though it seemed to be the same, familiar city he had left only months before.
"John! John Watson, is that you?"
John looked over his shoulder, trying to spot the man who had called his name. He recognized no one and started limping forward.
"John! It's Mike, Mike Stamford. Remember me? We studied together at Bart's." John stopped and finally located the man, who was panting with the effort of trying to catch up with John.
"Oh yes, of course. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, I've just been . . . distracted . . ." John trailed off, unsure what to say next.
"No problem, I have gained a bit of weight since our days at Bart's." Mike chucked, unaware of how uncomfortable John seemed to be. "Join me for coffee, I'm on a break. Lets catch up!" And he led John off to a nearby café, not listening to any of John's objections.
John looked around the café while Mike droned on and on about his life since Bart's, giving him the occasional "mm hmm," or "sure." He acknowledged the few people behind the counter brewing coffee, the couple in the corner cuddling on the couch, and a man enjoying a morning latte at a table by the window. His eyes rested on a man with jet-black hair, a dark coat, and a blue scarf sitting directly across from a painting on the wall, seemingly admiring it.
John examined the man's face; now it seemed like the painting confused the man, like he was lost in it.
"John?"
John snapped his head up at his friend. "What?"
"Who are you looking at?" Mike turned to find the source of John's apparent fascination. "Well, I'll be damned. Sherlock!"
The mysterious man turned toward them. "You know him?" John asked.
"We have a mutual friend, Greg—not important. Sherlock, come over here!"
The man, Sherlock, strode over to their table. "Hello, Mike."
"Sherlock, this is John Watson."
Sherlock's eyes never moved from Mike's face. "Pleasure. Mike, is there something you desperately need right now, at this very moment, that may be at least somewhat interesting to me? Because I really do need to get back to—"
"Well, Sherlock, you had mentioned to me that you were looking for a flatmate."
John interrupted whatever Sherlock was about to say. "Sorry, is that supposed to be me?"
"Well, you said you were looking for a flatmate."
"When did I say that?"
"I asked if you liked your place here, or if you were maybe thinking of getting a flatmate, and you mumbled back a 'yeah,' so…"
John thought for a moment, and then realized he was miserable living alone. Maybe that was his problem. No social interaction.
"Er, sure."
"Good," Sherlock said in a deep baritone. "Well, John Watson, I'll be expecting you around, say, 14:00 tomorrow afternoon?"
John looked up at the man, slightly intrigued by his opportunistic attitude toward getting a new flatmate on the spot. He seems different from any other man I've ever met.
"I don't even know where—"
"221B Baker Street."
"And what's—"
"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock winked unexpectedly at John and then turned to walk out. "Afternoon," he called over his shoulder.
John stared through the window at him until he could no longer be seen, then turned back to Mike.
Mike chuckled. "Good luck."
"Oh, hello sweetie. You'll be Sherlock's new flatmate then?" A sweet older lady let him into the flat and was trying to help him lift a suitcase up the staircase, despite her obvious hip problem. "You two really do make such a cute couple!"
"I've got the suitcase, no need to help," John said. Then he realized what she said. "Wait, no – we're not dating – no . . . "
John saw the look Mrs. Hudson was giving him and gave up.
He reached the landing without much trouble once the landlady stopped trying to help and knocked uncertainly on the wooden door. Should I really be doing this?
"It's unlocked!"
John pushed open the door, unsure of what to expect.
Sherlock was sitting in the middle of well over a hundred cups of tea and mountains of used tea bags. He paid his new flatmate no attention as he looked from one cup of tea to the next, his fingers steepled under his chin.
"What is all . . . this?" John asked stupidly, mouth agape.
