It was a rainy Monday afternoon when John Watson returned to his flat at 221B Baker Street, London. On the advice of his therapist, he had been on a five-day holiday to the coast to revitalize himself and to take a break from his very trying roommate, Sherlock Holmes. In some respects the break had allowed him the perspective of distance and provided a welcome change of scenery. On the other hand, John had felt so lonely during those five days, he found to his surprise that he actually missed Sherlock. He even missed his friend's dark moods and tirades, simply because they were more interesting and entertaining than being lonely and staring at the wall.
Regardless of Sherlock's apparent inability to cultivate relationships, John regarded the aloof consulting detective as his friend. In moments of high danger and adrenaline, Sherlock had shown undeniable care for John's safety and for the well-being of their land lady, Mrs. Hudson. John knew that Sherlock's unsociable behavior covered a deep reservoir of hidden or repressed emotion. Since John himself often suffered from bouts of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of his stint in the Afghanistan war, he understood the subtleties of mental conditions. As a doctor, he was possessed of a high degree of compassion. He was the ideal flat mate for Sherlock, who returned the sentiment, even if he never said it in so many words.
As he approached the front door, he felt a surge of warmth that he hadn't known since childhood. It was the warmth of coming home. He smiled to himself as he mounted the steps and unlocked the outer door. Once inside, he noticed that the door opposite his, 221C, was slightly ajar. He could hear light strains of classical music and could hear someone moving about. Mrs. Hudson hadn't mentioned a new tenant before he'd left, and he was both curious about it and oddly guarded. He viewed himself Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson as a tight knit trio, their friendship reinforced by their shared experiences with Sherlock's detective cases.
His suspicion was quickly dispelled when a beautiful woman opened the door to the hallway, looking surprised when she saw John standing there staring at her door.
"Oh, hello," she said smiling.
John smiled back, unable to resist the charm of a beautiful woman.
"Hello," he answered. "I'm John Watson. I live in 221B."
"Nice to meet you, John," she said. "Mrs. Hudson has told me all about you and Sherlock. I've spotted him once or twice, but we haven't spoken yet. I'm Emma Brown."
"American?" asked John, noting her accent.
"Yes," she answered as if uncertain of her reception.
Emma was a pretty woman in her 30's. She had thick dark hair and dark emotive eyes. Her smile was warm and her expression gentle, but there was no mistaking a sense of strength and intelligence in her demeanor. John thought he was becoming very good at reading people, perhaps even picking up some of Sherlock's techniques. She was quite a bit taller than John, a fact which didn't bother him as he was so used to it by now, for John was quite short in stature.
Sherlock, who had apparently heard voices in the hall, pulled open the door to their flat and stuck his head out. He was in a dressing gown with no shoes on and disheveled hair, as if he'd just gotten out of bed.
"You're home," he said to John flatly, ignoring Emma.
"Yes," said John making a disapproving face at his friend. "Sherlock, have you met our new neighbor?"
"No," he replied his eyes flitting to Emma assessing her head to toe in one glance.
"This is Emma," introduced John. Sherlock executed a brief smile that was more like a grimace and was quickly replaced with a stoic expression.
"Hello," said Emma. She knew from Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock exhibited Asperger-like symptoms, so she didn't allow herself to be offended by his stand-offishness. Sherlock snapped the door shut. John pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head in disbelief, but Emma only smiled understandingly.
"Mrs. Hudson told me all about him," she said reassuringly.
John ventured a look at her. She was definitely worth 'chatting up' if only she weren't driven away by his flat mate's behavior.
"If there's anything we can help you with, just let us know. Knock anytime," he offered.
"Thank you," she said, awarding him a dazzling smile. She locked her own door and made her way out to the busy London street, while John proceeded into his own flat, his suitcase in tow.
"Sherlock..." John began in an admonishing tone as he closed the door behind him.
"Oh goody, my conscience has returned," said Sherlock drolly while throwing himself onto the sofa so hard, it actually moved backwards several inches.
"For God's sake can't you at least be civil?" chided John.
"I trust you had a restful holiday," replied Sherlock, ignoring his friend's admonishment.
John sighed. "Yes. Yes. It was...restful." He flopped his suitcase on the table, unzipped it and began rooting around in it.
"Boring, you mean," interrupted Sherlock.
"Well..." began John, but Sherlock sat bolt upright and stared hard at his friend with that dreadful piercing stare. John knew what was coming.
"You're not tan so you obviously didn't spend much time outside on the beach even though the weather was good; Given the fact that some of your outfits are unworn I deduce you spent much of your time in the hotel watching the telly. The dark circles under your eyes suggest you didn't rest well, probably the result of your frugalness, meaning you selected a cheap room which was probably near an ice machine so foot traffic kept you awake late at night. You've gained three pounds which indicates that you spent the whole time eating and without any dining companion or you would have talked more and ate less. Am I right?" He awaited his friend's reaction expectantly, totally unaware that he might be offending him.
John felt all the benefits of his holiday perspective slipping away.
"You are a piece of work, Sherlock," he said angrily. "Do you know that?"
Sherlock simply blinked at him innocently and cocked his head to the side as if trying to figure out why John had reacted angrily.
"Here, I brought you a gift," said John, who had found the small package at the bottom of his case and threw it at Sherlock's head, clearly annoyed.
Sherlock caught the small white bag with lightening fast reflexes. John was always amazed at his friend's agility given his apparent lack of activity. The only time Sherlock displayed any energy at all was when he was hot on a case, and then he was tireless and almost wired like a drug addict.
"Oh," he said opening the small bag. He pulled out a flat silver case about the size of a thumbnail drive but a little wider.
"What's this?" he asked turning it over looking for a mechanism to open it. John took it and slid the side panel with his thumb. A retractable magnifying glass emerged, and when a tiny button was pushed an LED light came on. Sherlock's eyebrows raised up and he looked at John confused. John looked at him expectantly.
"...Thank you," he said at last, with effort. Sometimes John thought he did things like this on purpose to be annoying, but at other times, he could see genuine confusion on the man's face and actually felt sorry for him for being so socially awkward. John took a deep breath, smiled weakly and said a little sarcastically, "It's good to be home."