The shrink sitting opposite him, perched on the edge of her chair, feigning interest of some sort, was a horrible contrast to the life Dr. John Watson had grown accustomed to. In fact, the whole of London was a contrast. It was terribly nice, the air was pleasant – if you don't mind the smell of burning fuel and too many people, that is – and crisp, and... different.
John was having a hard time adjusting to life 'on the outside', living in a tiny flat on an equally tiny military pension. His life was boring. He got up, had coffee, walked around as much as his leg would allow, read in the sun, ate food, and slept. When he slept, he had terrible dreams, almost nightmares. Times when he was at war, frequently when he was injured. He would wake up and cry, feeling scared. Feeling other things that he couldn't name. He'd spoken to his psychiatrist about all of these things... and felt he was getting nowhere. He was... sort of empty.
"John, you're a soldier... it's bound to take you some time to adjust to civilian life. That's normal." she yawned, writing some notes on her notepad. How is your blog going?"
"Oh, that. It's great! Lots of, er, things... more or less, to write about." He lied.
"You're not writing, are you?" She asked, not even looking up at him. Shame, she was pretty. Even looking at women made him feel empty and weird, which caused him to try relentlessly to attract some pretty lady.
"You... you just wrote 'still has trust issues' on your fancy paper..." he replied.
"And you're reading my writing upside-down, what does that say?" She looked at him, rising from her chair. "John... you need to get out, really get out. Go see some old friends! Do something... and write about what happens to you." She put her papers away in a file marked 'Watson, John', which was a very odd thing for John to see.
"But, the strange thing is, since the war... nothing really happens to me." He mumbled, making a show of leaving. His therapist smiled in a small way, waving him off.
"Go see a friend."
"Right. Will do."
Great. A friend. Where the hell am I going to find one of those? John asked himself, limping down the hallway of his therapist's office building. All these people in the city, and I don't even have a friend to go to. He pondered a long while about seeing his sister, however, discarded the idea a few days ago, seeing as he doesn't agree with her recent divorce and her problems with alcohol. Finding a friend was going to prove difficult.
John's school hadn't changed a bit. Same medical students, same London-y vibe, same green grass. He loved it, being back at the school was almost like having a friend. The big, looming building rising in the sunshine was the closest thing to his previous life. John was actually taking the advice of his therapist, and seeking a friend to see. His thoughts kept straying back to Harry, his sister, and each time he shook them out of his head, knowing that Harriet Watson couldn't be the only person he knew. He'd had friends, colleagues, school mates... and he'd lost touch with each and every one of them, being away at war.
"John! John Watson! Wait!" John turned to see a man struggling to run to catch up with him on the lawn of St Bart's. He was large, and dressed in a suit. He squinted up at John, out of breath, when he had caught up.
Well, at least he walks at my pace... John thought, frowning at his own morbid mind. His leg twinged, and he tried to hide his confused grimace by looking at a squirrel scurrying up a tree just past the man talking to him.
"John, it's me, Mike. Mike Stamford, we trained at Bart's together... I heard you were off somewhere, getting shot at or something! How are you?" the man wheezed. Realization dawned in John's mind, along with a streak of random, white-hot anger. A recent problem. His hand twitched, and he made a funny movement trying to hide it. Shove it, John, he thought, forcing calm.
"I got shot." He said with a smile, gesturing to his cane. "Coffee?"
Mike Stamford showed a mixture of amusement and shock on his face, which made John happy. An acquaintance! His mind whirled. This will probably be boring, but hopefully some small thing of interest will pop up.
"Sure!" said Mike. "I know, I got fat," he added sheepishly, causing John to stutter a moment. "But that's okay, it happens. There's a coffee stand just down the way here, in the main building. It's new, if you haven't been."
"I haven't. It's been awhile."
"So what was it like? Being in the war and all?" Mike asked, watching a frisbee cross their path, closely followed by a student. John followed his gaze, only half-interested in the topic.
"Eh, you know, getting shot at, shooting, war, trauma, all that. Acts of heroism." He shrugged.
"Ahhh."
"So... er, what about you" Wishing to change the subject as they moved toward the line, John turned it to Mike. Talking about the war was hard in a way he couldn't explain, he'd much rather hear someone drone on about a life he didn't live.
"Oh!" Mike brightened up, "Things are good, I'm teaching now, here. All the bright young things, like we used to be." He smiled. "God I hate them."
John chuckled. "Do you really?" He smiled at the barista, approaching the counter. "Black, no sugar, please."
"Always running about, thinking they know it all." Mike grabbed his coffee and took a sip, making that common face when he found it was too hot. "Ugh. I always do that. Too eager I guess. Hey, anyway, where are you living? In London? I assume so, that's the John Watson I kn-."
"I'm not the John Watson you..." John cut him off, caught himself, then smiled awkwardly. "God... I'm sorry. It's difficult. I can't afford much on an Army pension, honestly."
"It's fine. Couldn't you flatshare or something?"
"Really? Who'd want to have me as a flatmate?" John said seriously, faltering as Mike began to chuckle. "What's funny about that?"
"You're the second person to say that to me today." He retorted while mysteriously sipping his coffee.
"Really? I hope the first was a pretty lady." Mike laughed heartily at the joke and started to get up, indicating that John was to follow. Okay, thought John, now my day is getting slightly interesting. I may have something to blog about after all.
"Shut up."
"Oh, hi to you too, Sherlock." John heard Mike say as the door to the lab opened.
"I said shut up, I'm working and you know I don't like people thinking in my working space so please, Mike, give me your phone because I need to text and mine is too... obvious." All of his words pushed together like a speeding run-on sentence dripping with arrogance. Not once did he lift his eyes from the microscope, yet he knew it was Mike who opened the door. John walked in and stationed himself silently by the end of the lab table, holding his cane in front of him.
The man sitting in front of the microscope, Sherlock as he was called, was wearing all black, slightly appalling in the stark white and chrome lab room. His dark hair was a messy mop, and he wore a constant grimace, judging from what John could see. Certainly not a pretty lady, much to John's dismay.
"Sorry Sherlock," Mike smiled, "My mobile's in my coat." He took a seat.
"Uh, you can use mine." John fished for his phone in his pocket. Sherlock looked at him, expecting him to introduce himself, no amusement or thanks on his face whatsoever.
"This is my old friend, Dr John Watson." piped Mike, rising to the occasion of introduction and gesturing to John. Sherlock stood up in one fluid movement and took John's phone from him.
"Thank you. Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked, looking at the phone rather than at John, texting as he talked.
"Uh, pardon?"
"I said Afghanistan or Iraq? Better yet, do you like the violin? I play violin while I'm working sometimes, it helps me think. Would that bother you, as a potential flatmate?" the strange man asked pointedly, still texting. John looked at Sherlock, then at Mike.
"You told him about me?" came the question. Mike grinned and shook his head.
"No," quipped Sherlock, "It's merely obvious. I told Mike this morning that no one could possibly stand me as a flatmate, and here he is after lunch introducing me to someone who has obviously just returned to London from the war, someone who clearly isn't 'just on holiday' and someone who needs a... flatmate." he handed John's phone back.
"How could you possibly know all of that?" a flabbergasted John asked. Mike stifled laughter.
"I just do, and it could be because it's, well... obvious. I'm looking at a flat in the heart of London, meet me there later." Sherlock made to go out the door. "I have to run, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." John blanched. Riding crop... he thought. Sherlock certainly was odd, he could see why no one would want him as a flatmate.
"But," John asked after Sherlock "I don't even know who you are, or where this place is..."
"Oh, that. The address is 221B Baker Street. I'm Sherlock Holmes. See you later." He winked, closing the door to the lab.
"Bye now." Mike said after him, "And yes, he's always like that." he added, catching the look on John's face.
On the other side of the door, Sherlock stood, breathing shallowly, listening to their conversation about him, for 'learning purposes only', as he told himself repeatedly. He didn't understand the concept of friends, and people merely tolerated him. The only person he can see as liking or accepting him would possibly be Molly, the nerdy morgue girl, or his mother, the latter of which he preferred not to think about. The possibility of having a... flatmate was very interesting.
He wasn't sure what to think, but he knew that this soldier, this John Watson would indeed turn up, and with that knowledge Sherlock discarded all thought unrelated to his M.I.A. riding crop.