Chapter One: The Game is On

There were two people in the otherwise empty St. Bartholomew's lab as the pudgy, balding Mike Stamford showed John Watson into the sterilized room. One was a tall, lanky man with pale skin and curly dark brown hair, hunched over an experiment of some sort. The other seemed to be a young girl—maybe in secondary school—with short, straight, light blue hair (probably dyed, John thought) and, as he discovered when she looked up from the text books she'd been studying from upon his and Mike's entrance, wide, innocent eyes of the same shade (must be coloured contacts). "Bit different from my day," the ex-Army doctor mused as he hobbled in on his cane, unsure if he meant the lab or its inhabitants.

Without removing his eyes from the experiment, the lanky man said, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine doesn't have a signal." His voice was deep, rich—John was sure that voice haunted the dreams of men and women alike.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, sounding rather like a fond parent to a child innocently asking for a unicorn.

"I prefer to text," replied the man flatly.

"Well," said Mike apologetically, "I left it in my coat."

Before he even realized he was doing it, John reached into his jumper pocket and pulled his phone out of its depths, offering it to this dark haired stranger. "Here, use mine."

The man looked up then, and John almost felt himself flinching from his eyes. They were an odd colour, an almost silvery colour, but without the silver hue. "Thanks," he said, accepting the proffered device and quickly pecking out a text message. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "What?"

But the man didn't answer. Instead, he pressed the phone back into John's outstretched hand and said, "How do you feel about the violin?"

"What?" John repeated.

"I play the violin when I think. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, after all."

To say John was beginning to feel a bit overwhelmed would be an understatement. "Wait, who said anything about flatmates?"

"I just did. Weren't you listening?" He reached for his black coat, which had been draped across a stool behind him, and began to put it on as he continued. "I told Mike earlier that I must be a hard man to find a flatmate for. I got a deal on a nice place in central London; we should be able to afford it together. We'll meet there tomorrow at seven in the evening. Now, if you'll excuse me, I left my riding crop in the mortuary. Come, Tetsuna." The girl with the light blue hair, who John had quite forgotten was there, was by the man's side in a flash. "Good day, gentlemen."

John caught the man's wrist, and tried to ignore the rush of electricity that was suddenly coursing through his veins. "Wait!" he demanded, feeling pride swell in his chest when the taller man complied to his order. "That's it, then? We've just met and we're getting a flat together?"

"Is there a problem?" the man asked.

"We don't know a thing about each other!"

A sly look entered the man's eye. "I know you're an army doctor recently invalidated from overseas.I know you have a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him, possibly because he's just walked out on his wife, but more likely because of his drinking habits. I know your therapist thinks you limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." He smirked at the astonished look on John's face. "I think that's enough to go on, don't you? The name's Sherlock Holmes, this," he gestured to the girl, "is Tetsuna Kuroko, and the address is Two Two One Bee Baker Street." With a wink and a click of his tongue, Sherlock Holmes swept out of the lab, Tetsuna following closely behind.

When John turned his gobsmacked self to face Mike, the fat man started guwaffing. "Yeah, he's always like that."

When John returned to the halfway house that night, he typed up a quick blog entry (signed, Happy now, Ella?) and opened Google. A search on Tetsuna Kuroko led to several sports sites, which rather surprised him. He found that Tetsuna used to be a part of a group of Japanese basketball players called the Generation of Miracles for their prodigious skills on the court. According to a recent article, each member apart from Tetsuna was leading a successful careers back in Japan: Seijuuro Akashi was the CEO of his family's company, Atsushi Murasakibara owned his own bakery, Daiki Aomine was a police officer, Ryouta Kise was an airplane pilot, and Shintarou Midorima was a surgeon. Another site stated that Tetsuna Kuroko, known as the Phantom Sixth Man, was studying early childhood development at Kingston University.

After recovering from the shock of such a tiny girl being a uni student, John went back to the browser and typed 'Sherlock Holmes' into the search bar.

The first page he found was a website called 'The Science of Deduction. The site regaled Sherlock's abilities of deduction, claiming he could identify a surgeon by his left thumb and an airplane pilot by his tie.

John found the boasts quite ridiculous. No one was that smart, right?

But then again, isn't that exactly what he'd done that afternoon?

John slammed his laptop shut and hobbled to his bed, still unsure if he would be going to Baker Street.

John's watch read 6:45 when he found himself standing outside 221B Baker Street. Surprisingly, Tetsuna was leaning against the window of the neighboring sandwich shop, holding the leash of what appeared to be a husky puppy. "Hello, Dr. Watson," she said, a slight accent evident in her voice as she bowed, keeping her hands in the pockets of her light blue hoodie. "Sherlock will be here precisely at seven, so we have a bit to wait."

"Ah, yes." John kneeled in front of the furry dog whose eyes,he noticed, were that same shade of blue as his mistress's. "And who's this?"

A small smile broke lit her face as she, too, crouched. "This is Nigou."

"Nigou?"

"It means 'number two' in Japanese, One of my old teammates named him that after I found him because we have the same eyes."

John stood, brushing soot of the knees of his trousers. "Ah, yes. You played basketball in school, didn't you?"

"Yes," she said, and a serene, peaceful expression crossed her face as she continued scratching Nigou behind the ears. "I love basketball."

It took John a moment to recover from how, well, adorable she looked. "But, uh, wasn't it hard, being the only girl in a man's sport?"

She shrugged, standing. "There wasn't any rule forbidding me from playing, and neither of my coaches cared. I just changed after everyone else, though Aomine would sometimes sneak in to snap my bra." A scowl marred her features as John chuckled. "It wasn't funny. I still tense up every time he walks behind me. Other than that, though, my teammates and opponents respected me as a player, not a girl." She reached into the pocket of her white shorts (just how she was wearing shorts in a London January, John didn't know) and pulled a light blue phone out of it. She flipped it open, hit a few buttons, and turned the screen to John. "This was my middle school team—the Generation of Miracles."

The picture showed seven people—five boys and two girls. One of the girls was, obviously, Tetsuna. Her hair was longer, and it was pulled up out of her face in a high ponytail. She was looking at the camera, face bland but eyes sparking. The girl next to her was the only one not wearing a light blue and white basketball jersey. She had long, pastel pink hair, loose around her shoulders, and her eyes were closed, mouth smiling as she threw her arms around Tetsuna's shoulders. On Tetsuna's other side was a tall boy with tanned skin and dark blue hair. He was holding up a peace sign with one hand and grinning so wide John was sure it actually pained him. Behind him was a blond boy with a single silver earring, appearing to be in mid-laugh and reaching for Tetsuna as well. Beside him was an absurdly tall boy with long-ish purple hair, sporting a bored expression and eating from a bag of crisps. Then there was a short-ish boy with red hair and eyes, smiling triumphantly and crossing his arms. The last figure was a boy with green hair who was in the process of pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the resulting glare shielding his eyes from the camera.

"Very...colorful," John supplied, wondering just how common dyeing one's hair was in Japan.

A soft giggle escaped Tetsuna's lips as if she'd read John's mind. "Yes, I suppose so. those are our natural colors by the way. Hair and eyes."

John's eyes nearly popped out of his head in shock. "Really?" he asked.

"Really," she affirmed with a nod of her head.

As John processed this new information, one of London's black cabs rolled up to the Sherlock Holmes stepped out of it, looking as meticulous as it was possible to be when one was holding a giant box. "Afternoon," he called, striding to John, Tetsuna, and Nigou on those long legs of his.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," John returned, offering Sherlock a hand to shake.

"Sherlock, please," the taller man said, accepting the proffered appendage. "Tetsuna, can you help me with this cake? It's for you, anyway."

The uni student eagerly took the box John was sure was as big as her and smiled. Sherlock was then free to move to the door marked 221B in proud brass characters and knock on the wood. "You said you got a deal on this place," John said cautiously.

"The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, owes me a favour. A few years ago her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help."

"You stopped his execution?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock said, a wicked glint entering his colourless eyes. "I ensured it."

Before John could think of an appropriate response, the door swung open to reveal an older, purple-clad woman with (actually dyed, John was later assured) red hair and a grandmotherly face. "Oh, Sherlock," she cooed, wrapping her arms around the tall man. She then turned her attention to Tetsuna and, since she couldn't hug her, settled for pinching the student's cheeks. "And Tetsuna, look at you. You just keep getting lovelier every day!"

"Ith goo tho sthee you thoo, Mithus Hudthon," Tetsuna replied.

"Please, Mrs. Hudson, don't embarrass the girl." Sherlock put his hand on Tetsuna's shoulder, indicating that she should run the cake box upstairs. Nigou eagerly followed his mistress, woofing in a puppy-like way as he went. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Dr. John Watson. John, this is the landlady, Mrs. Hudson."

John stepped forward to shake the woman's hand. Mrs. Hudson's grip was very impressive for such an elderly person, leaving his hand a little sore afterwards. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson!"

"Call me John, please," John said offhandedly. He was showed up seventeen stairs to another wooden door, which was wide open, showing a portion of the flat. Various papers and manilla folders were scattered about on a persian rug on the floor, and Nigou was lying quietly in a leather armchair, head pointed to where John presumed Tetsuna was. A lone basketball rested by a bookshelf, its bright orange color a stark contrast to the neutral tones of the rest of the room.

As John stepped into the flat, he was able to spot Tetsuna once more. She was in the kitchen, opening the box Sherlock had given her. "Would you like some cake, Dr. Watson?" she asked in that quiet voice of hers. "My friend got a bit carried away making it and there is no way Sherlock and I will be able to eat it all."

"Ah, sure. What kind is it?"

"Vanilla, probably. He knows it's my favorite." She turned her head and gestured toward the leather sofa with her hand. "Please, take a seat. Your leg must be bothering you."

John did as she bid while Mrs. Hudson tittered about, scolding Sherlock for the mess he'd made. "I hope you don't mind," the tall man said as he moved Nigou from the armchair so he himself could sit in it, "that I've already taken the liberty of moving in."

Mrs. Hudson perched herself on an arm of the couch and sighed happily. "It's oh so very nice to see—a slice for me too, Tetsuna, if you please—it's so nice to see Sherlock getting out there. It's a bit sudden, of course, but as long as Tetsuna's okay with it—"

John abruptly started coughing, alarming the elderly landlady. "It's—we're not—he's not my boyfriend!"

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Oh, don't worry, dear. There's all sorts around here—Mrs. Turner's got married ones!" She looked absolutely delighted as Tetsuna emerged from the kitchen, carrying four plates of a delectable looking cake.

As they settled into their seats and began to eat, Sherlock got down to business. "Now, the flat has two bedrooms, but Tetsuna needs her own, leaving us with one. I am comfortable sleeping on the couch for the time-being, so you can have the second bedroom, if that is alright with you."

"That's fine," said John.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say more when Mrs. Hudson reached for a newspaper sitting on the coffee table and flipped it open. "What about these suicides, Sherlock? I figured they'd be right up your alley."

"Yes," Tetsuna agreed, a sly look in her eyes. "Three suicides, all the same cause of death? A bit odd if you ask me."

"Actually," said Sherlock, bounding out of the armchair and to one of the large windows covering the wall facing the street, "there's been a fourth."

A set of pounding footsteps climbed the stairs, and in the doorway of the flat was an older man with caramel skin and startlingly white teeth. "There's another one," he said without preamble, stepping into the flat with an air of desperation.

"Yes, but what's different? You wouldn't come to me unless something was different," Sherlock said superiorly.

The man sighed. "This one left a note."

"A note?"

"Yes, a note! Will you come or not?"

"Who's on forensics."

"Anderson."

Sherlock hissed. He actually hissed, like a cat. "Anderson won't work with me."

The new man seemed exasperated. "Well, he won't be your assistant!"

"I need an assistant!"

"Sherlock, please."

After a tense moment, Sherlock relented. "I'll follow in a cab." The man rattled off an address and went back down the stairs.

As soon as the footsteps died away, Sherlock jumped for joy. He literally jumped, tucking his feet up and letting out a whoop of excitement. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas!" He patted Tetsuna on the head and strode for the coat rack. "Wrap my piece in plastic wrap, Tetsuna; I'll finish it later. Make yourself at home, John!"

Once he'd disappeared into what John assumed what the downstairs bedroom, Mrs. Hudson huffed and left the room while Tetsuna shot him an apologetic look. "I am sorry, Dr. Watson. Sherlock tends to get over excited by things like this."

"Oh, it's fine. You forget I was in the army."

Tetsuna smiled and took the plates back to the kitchen. John heard the clinking of plates and the running of water, and, thus, was rather surprised by Sherlock's deep voice behind him. "You were an army doctor."

"Yes," John replied, standing up shakily.

"Any good?"

"Yes."

"You've seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths."

"Yes, I suppose. More than a lifetime's worth."

A feral grin broke Sherlock's face. "Want to see some more?"

And, without hesitation, John said, "Oh, God, yes."

John leapt out of the chair and followed Sherlock as he trotted down the stairs, a spring in his step. Tetsuna poked her head through the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. "You're both going?"

"We'll be back before long," Sherlock assured. "There'll be time enough to get to dinner."

Mrs. Hudson came out of her own flat to throw in her two cents. "It's not proper to get so excited over these things, Sherlock."

"Proper? I don't care about things like propriety when something exciting is finally happening!" Sherlock kissed the older woman's cheeks and led John to the door with a hand on his back. "The game is on!"