Sherlock easily tolerated John Watson's idiosyncrasies; after all, his were so much worse. Sherlock Holmes thought he knew everything about his new flat mate. Sherlock Holmes as wrong on both counts
It was 3 a.m. when the call came in. Sherlock was still wired after their latest case, but John had gone off to bed, citing a need for sleep.
John was fast asleep, for once not dreaming of the war when he heard it, worming its way into his brain. Whenever his phone rang in that tone, it always jolted John, and this time was no different. The ex-army medic leaped out of bed and fumbled for his phone, his left hand steady he pressed the button.
"John how fast can you get down here?"
He hadn't heard that voice since just before he left for Afghanistan, memory hadn't exaggerated for him.
"Ten minutes."
"Good, you know the place." Why was there amusement in that voice?
John hurried to dress, wondering what he was going to tell his omniscient flat mate.
Sherlock looked up as, just seconds after the call ended, John came down stairs. His grey-blue eyes catalogued.
John was impeccably dressed, the jumper of higher quality than what he normally wore, he was wearing boots Sherlock wasn't aware the other man owned. The boots were well worn in and had seen a lot of work.
John looked wide awake.
John's hand was steady, his limp nowhere in sight.
Sherlock frowned to himself, it didn't add up. John was dressed nicely, as if he were going to go see someone who expected him to wear nice clothes, but he was steadied for combat.
Knowing that Sherlock had seen and deduced something John said the first thing that came to mind, "An old friend from before the army called, impatient sort."
"I see, and you normally wake up at 3 a.m. to answer to his call?"
"Yes."
And John was out the door, leaving Sherlock behind, frowning.
