I wrote all this in the notes section of my phone before typing it up (because carrying a laptop around in your pocket in case you get sudden fanfic inspiration is not practical). I don't know which other scenes I could rewrite (apart from where they meet at 221B) so any suggestions would be good.

Sherlock followed Mike Stamford through the corridors, memorising the route for when he left. He'd been told by security that he needed to be accompanied by a doctor before they could let him use he labs, so was pleased when he glimpsed Mike over the street walking towards Bart's. He vaguely regretted seeing Mike, since he insisted on talking the whole time, but Sherlock supposed he could put up with it if it meant he could use the lab. He blinked when he realised Mike had asked him a question. Luckily for Sherlock, Mike repeated himself.

"Are you still living in that rundown apartment?"

"Mm."

"Can't you move? Get some help or something – what about your family? It can't be good for you, that place."

"Can't afford to move. Not asking family."

"Get a flatmate or something then – you really should move."

"I imagine I'd be rather a difficult person to find a flatmate for." Mike grinned.

"You're the second person to say that to me today." He paused before abruptly changing direction, making Sherlock frown.

"What about the lab?"

"We'll go to a different one; see if he's there today."

...

John briefly glanced up as Mike entered the lab, before he looked back down at the microscope. He couldn't talk immediately, and Mike would wait. John frowned as he heard another pair of footsteps, but he refrained from looking up until he had got the result and taken the notes he needed.

Then he looked up, glancing briefly at the stranger before asking:

"Mike, can you pass me my phone?"

"Here." The tall, dark-haired stranger held out John's phone to him.

"Oh, thank you." John took the phone and sent a quick text to a colleague with the results of the test.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Er Afghanistan...how did you know?" At that moment Molly walked in holding a mug of tea. She passed it to John whilst staring at the stranger. "Ah thanks Molly." John sipped the tea and winced. "I don't take sugar." Molly nodded absently while continuing to stare at the stranger. John cleared his throat.

"Oh sorry I should leave you to it, sorry." Molly hastened from the room.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You really should be, your hearing's atrocious. I said how do you feel about the violin? I often play when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end – would that bother you?" This time John just looked at Sherlock without speaking, but Sherlock still quirked an eyebrow and responded to the unspoken question. "Mike brought me here because I need a flatmate and he said that someone else had mentioned that to him today as well; obviously you – not a difficult leap to make." John frowned.

"So we've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat together?"

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor invalidated from service about six months ago. You've got a job at Bart's a psychosomatic limp and, therefore, a therapist. You job is only part time and even with that and your army pension you can't afford London, so you need a flat-share. You won't go to your brother for help, possibly because he just walked out on his wife; maybe you liked his wife, maybe you didn't like his drinking. I think that's enough to be going on, don't you?" John was speechless, and Sherlock barely gave him time to recover before holding out his hand for John to shake. "Sherlock Holmes." John took the offered hand and cleared his throat.

"John Watson. Meet me outside 221B Baker Street at one tomorrow. Now excuse me I have a patient to see to." John made his way towards the door, calling "Afternoon" to Mike before leaving. Sherlock stared at the door briefly before smirking and going over to the microscope.

John tried to regulate his breathing as he walked down the corridor. He had a feeling Sherlock Holmes would be no ordinary flatmate.