Hello, all! I just wanted to thank everyone who read/subscribed/reviewed Midnight Hours. I never expected so many people to actually read it! I decided, however, that it needed some reworking- that there was more to add, more of the story to tell. So, I decided to begin rewriting it- which is what this is. So, the story will begin with its refreshed beginning and continue from here.
John dropped the last box on the floor- not that he had too many to start with. In fact, 221 B Baker's Street seemed completely unchanged, unaffected by the young doctor's presence, so much so that John begun to doubt that the flat even partly belonged to him. It reflected only Sherlock Holmes: the strange, dark man that he found himself to be boarding with. He barely even knew him- scratch that, he didn't know him at all- bar the fact that, somehow, Sherlock managed to absorb every little detail about his life; somehow, he had known about the war, about his sister (though, of course, he had falsely predicted Harriet to be his brother), about the cause of his nagging limp. He knew all this without letting on anything about himself. John could already see that this would be a recurring theme with Sherlock Holmes- all take and no give- though he was still unaware as to how that would affect him.
"Well, let's try to make this place feel more like home," he told himself to assuage the overwhelming lurch in his gut. Had he made a terrible mistake? He tried to ignore the doubt as he began to unpack.
He had just finished his second package when he heard heavy footsteps up the stairs. They were followed instantaneously with the bursting open of the door. It was, of course, his flatmate, who began to discard his lengthy, black coat and scarf before bidding good day. "Hello." It was John who broke into the silence first. He watched the slender man, now more slight in only a button down and straight trousers, turn to face him quickly.
"Oh, hello, John. Settling in?" He asked. John noted how his voice seemed to have a certain rhythm to it. It wasn't musical, per se, but a steady beat. Sherlock Holmes spoke as if keeping on time with an unheard metronome.
John chided himself for listening so closely. It was curiosity, he told himself, which had him so keenly focused on this man, an enigma in his own right. "Yes. Just wrapping up. I hope you don't mind, I put some of my things in the hall closet just off your bedroom- it was empty."
"We have a hall closet?" Sherlock mused. John glanced at him incredulously, but he didn't seem to notice. "How do you feel about Thai?"
"I'm right starving," John admitted, thinking that Sherlock would call for some takeaway and send him to fetch it, seeing as he had already abandoned his outdoor wear. But, Sherlock just quickly threw his coat back on, wrapped the scarf around his neck in haste, and looked at John as if he should be following suit.
He opened his mouth, clearly realizing that John didn't get the hint. "Right, sorry- the place I was thinking doesn't do takeaway. However, it makes up for it with authenticity. I thought it'd be only proper," he said the word as if it were ironic. John had yet to learn that anytime Sherlock referenced any sort of belief in propriety, it was probably for some ulterior gain and was always certainly uncharacteristic. "If I take my new flatmate out to celebrate. Oh, and for the future, please try to keep up with me- I often forget to say what I'm thinking."
You don't say? John remarked to himself. "I'm no mind reader, I'm afraid, Mr Holmes." He replied, steady and calm, still trying to keep up that friendly distance one keeps with people not too familiar. He put on his jacket in a timely manner, grabbed his cane from its resting place against the sofa, and stood with the strictness of a military man awaiting instructions.
"Yes. We'll certainly have to change that- and, please, do call me Sherlock."
"Right. Okay." He followed Sherlock out onto the street, gripping to his cane for dear life in an attempt to keep up with his long strides.
The dinner itself was –nice, if not revealing. Perhaps, that was what convinced John to stay against his better judgement. He had yet to learn that Sherlock could be extremely charming when it suited his interests and, in that moment, obtaining a flatmate (especially one that may be keen to join him in his crime-driven gallivants around London) was most certainly in his interests. In the coming weeks, he would discover that Sherlock Holmes was just as odd as he originally supposed and far more dangerous. He would learn that Sherlock cared for normalcy in the same way John cared for prison: he knew that it existed, noted its use value, but never wanted to personally experience it.
What he wouldn't learn- perhaps, until it was far too late- was that Sherlock was going to overtake him. The flat's reflection of Sherlock would become his own: total and whole, he would become completely absorbed by the head rush of the world's only consulting detective, absorbed by the awe of his genius, and later, by the intimate gentleness of the raging storm's subtle moments.