John Watson was lying in his bed staring up at the ceiling with his eyes wide open. He'd had too many sleepless nights since he'd gotten back from the war and, when he actually managed to drift into some form of decent slumber, vivid dreams of past terrors would awaken him in a trembling sweat. Tonight was no exception. It was still too early for breakfast but the sun was just starting to rise on the horizon so John figured that he should try writing in his blog as his therapist had recommended. He turned on his coffee machine before settling himself in front of his laptop. He sat staring at his screen for what seemed like an hour until his coffee was ready. He poured himself a cup and rustled through his cupboards to see what he would need to buy for groceries that morning. He was running low on his favourite tea so he'd have to go downtown to get some more; he scribbled himself a reminder. John then sat back down in front of his laptop fully knowing that he would not be writing anything in his blog today. Instead, he started up a search engine. He didn't have much money from his army pension and was beginning to consider having a roommate for the first time. His old friend from college whom he had met yesterday in the park had mentioned that one of his colleagues was looking for a flatmate in London and the offer had seemed too good to be true. His friend had suggested he come meet his colleague, M. Holmes, before deciding on anything seeing as he considered him to be a very difficult man to be around. As a result, John was to come to the school's laboratory at 2 o'clock that evening to meet with Holmes and see if they would be a good fit for each other. John decided that he should probably look up this Holmes man before meeting him; surely someone who works at a reputable laboratory could easily be found on the internet somewhere.

Sherlock Holmes was determinately gazing into his microscope when he heard two men buoyantly come into the room speaking of "old times". Sherlock looked up at the clock and saw that it was 2 o'clock. This Watson man was very punctual. Sherlock furtively glanced towards the small man before gazing back into his microscope. The man was well groomed. His hair was neatly trimmed and his posture was unnaturally perfect. He was grasping a cane to hold himself up: his right leg was injured. No, not injured; it was a psychosomatic pain: he didn't appear to be sore while standing. Watson was a military man who'd been injured in the war certainly but his injury wasn't on his right leg. Judging by the way one of his shoulders appeared bigger than the other as though one had had to substitute for the weakness of the other for some time, he'd probably been injured near the shoulder. Probably a bullet seeing as the injury must have been traumatic enough to cause the man to develop a psychosomatic injury in the leg. Why would the man need a flatmate though? Did he not have family? He'd have to discover for himself. "Could I borrow your cell phone? I seem to have lost track of mine" asked Sherlock. He was staring directly into Watson's eyes who took a quick inhale of breath when their eyes met. This was curious to Sherlock but the man interrupted his thoughts when he shuffled on his feet to steady himself as he reached into his back pocket to retrieve his cell phone and hand it over to Sherlock. Watson definitely had no one important to him in his life since his phone was kept in such a hard place for him to reach which meant that he did not regularly need to use it and so he never expected calls or texts from friends or family. A first glance at John Watson's cell phone told him everything he needed to know so he just sent himself a text to appear as though he had actually needed the cell phone. He looked directly into Watson's eyes again as he handed him his cell phone to see if he'd get the same reaction as before. He did: Watson drew a sharp intake of breathe. As their hands touched, Sherlock got a sudden idea and grabbed Watson's wrist so that he could read his pulse subtly. Watson quickly withdrew his hand and whipped the sweat that had just recently formed on his palm onto his pants. It was just as Sherlock had suspected; the man's pulse was racing but Sherlock couldn't seem to identify the cause just yet. Perhaps John Watson was frightened of him. It wouldn't come as a surprise to Sherlock if it were the case considering how bad his reputation was when it came to social matters. Sherlock smirked at himself before returning to his microscope. "I hope you don't mind the violin?" asked Sherlock.

"Sorry?" questioned Watson. He seemed confused about the query. Sherlock found it so terribly irritating when people didn't keep up with his logic but Watson was so intrigued and innocent looking that it didn't bother Sherlock in the slightest.

"Yes, well, I tend to play the violin for long periods of time and my landlord considers me to be rather inept at it. It would be somewhat inconvenient for us to be flatmates if you couldn't tolerate the God awful racket I like to make in my robes" said Sherlock without taking a breath and without looking up from his microscope. John couldn't help but choke on his own spit as he envisioned a very different kind of racket one could make in their robes at night but then he remembered that Sherlock was speaking of his violin so he quickly answered that it wouldn't be a problem. Sherlock smiled at himself as his suspicions about John Watson's quickened pulse were confirmed. John Watson, the army man, found him very attractive. Sherlock had no interest but he thought that John might turn out to be an amusing flatmate to have around. Sherlock stood up from his desk and walked over to John where he leaned onto one of the tables with his arms crossed looking at John with a smirk on his face. "Would you like to see the flat now then?" asked Sherlock.

"We've only just met and we know nothing about each other! Shouldn't we talk over a cup of tea to see if we get along first?" asked John. Watson furtively looked at Sherlock to see his reaction. He was still staring at him with a smirk on his face. Watson shivered a little. The man was indeed very good looking. The way he looked at him was unnerving.

"I'd say that I know you quite well by now and you are friends with one of my colleagues who recommended we be flatmates so you know that I am at least trustworthy since no friend would recommend a dreadful flatmate to another friend. I know you'll be tidy because you were in the army and are used to order. You have a psychosomatic limp in your leg which will be gone once you get some action back into your system so I know you'll be willing to live on the second floor. Also, by the state of your clothes, I can tell that the army hasn't left you with much and you'll need a cheap accommodation until you can find more work. I've managed to get a discount rate on the rent as my landlady owes me a favour. You don't have any relatives or friends that you could or want to receive help from which I deduced from your cell phone and you enjoy making tea which I don't make for myself but wouldn't mind having more often. I think we'll do just fine as flatmates." When Sherlock finished speaking John just stood with his mouth slightly ajar before simply uttering a "wow" and an "alright, then." Twenty minutes later, they were stepping out of a cab together in front of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock was knocking on the door.

Mrs. Hudson let them in with a knowing smile which just confused John and amused Sherlock. When John stepped into the flat, he instantly felt at home. The fireplace was lit with a nice roaring fire, the walls were painted with warm and welcoming colors and the curtains offered a stylish sense of privacy that John quite enjoyed after all his time in the army sharing a room with ten other men. Sherlock was watching John very intently to see if he liked the flat. He liked John very much and he felt that they might get along well so he hoped that John would accept the place as his own. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled. "I think this could be really nice" he said. Sherlock was pleased. Mrs. Hudson was still standing in the doorway looking at the pair of them. "If you need your own room, there's one upstairs" she said to John.

"Of course I'll need my own room" he answered, perplexed.

"Oh, well, one only presumes" she mumbled. John looked over at Sherlock who was smirking while looking out the window. He clearly found all this amusing. John's heart fluttered uneasily as he wondered if Sherlock had hoped that they would be sharing a room as well.

"I'll leave you to it then" said Mrs. Hudson as she closed the door behind her. John heard her going down the stairs while humming a tune he didn't recognize.

"I've had your things brought here already. They're in your room" said Sherlock. John quickly turned to him in bewilderment and uttered a few unintelligible words of surprise. "Unless you'd rather have them moved to my room?" teased Sherlock.

John's cheeks flushed a little at that proposition and he forgot about why he had been taken aback. He just stammered an "of course not" before running up to his new bedroom. He had left his cane behind in his hurry. Sherlock noticed and congratulated himself on his accurate deductions about his leg pain. He felt an odd urge to go up to John's room, which he brushed off, and instead decided to check on the eyeballs in the microwave.

After a couple of hours, John finally came back to the living room after having finished unpacking his things. He was still amazed at how quick everything had gone. It had only been a few hours ago that he still didn't know where he was going to live and now he was all settled in to flat with someone he barely knew; a very attractive someone. When John entered the living room, Sherlock was lying on his back reading a book on the sofa. He had taken off his coat and was wearing a nice long-sleeved silk purple shirt and it looked very good on him. John coughed away his thoughts and offered to make some tea. Sherlock simply grunted his approval and kept reading his book.

John started by turning on the stove and filling the kettle with water which he placed over the heat. Then he rummaged through the cupboards trying to find some tea bags. He found an assortment of things that should never be placed in a kitchen but no tea. "Where is your tea?" he asked. Sherlock remained silent. John just continued to open some cupboards until he found the tea on the top shelf of one of the cupboards. He reached up on the tip of his toes with his hand outstretched but he wasn't tall enough. He turned to call out to Sherlock for some help but, as he turned, he came face to face with Sherlock who was already reaching above him to get the tea. John stood paralyzed as their faces were now only inches apart. John's heart was beating furiously in his rib cage and his legs had Goosebumps all over them. He felt a pleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to what John was feeling until he lowered his gaze from the tea to look into John's eyes which only aggravated John's situation. Sherlock smirked when he realized how John's breath had quickened and deposited the tea behind John on the counter while brushing his arm against John's. A low sound escaped John's mouth and Sherlock cocked his head to the side in plain curiosity. "Really?" he asked with a deep chuckle. Sherlock brushed his hand down John's chest slowly, admiring the effect he had on John. Sherlock took a step closer to John as the sound of the kettle was getting louder. He could feel something hard pressing up against his leg but it didn't bother him. John was clearly aroused. Sherlock bent slowly down towards John so that his mouth was right next to John's ear and he dropped his voice to a seductive purr. "I think the water is sufficiently hot" he said before turning on his heels and walking casually back to the living room. John had to steady himself on the counter to catch his breath and wait for his pulse to return to normal. The man knew what he was doing to him; he enjoyed doing it to him but he didn't have the slightest bit of interest in him. It was all a game to him. John felt embarrassed for showing himself in such a vulnerable position. Sherlock was in control and he enjoyed it. Yet, John believed that he wouldn't mind getting used to that at all and Sherlock knew he'd found another way to chase away his constant boredom. All was well at 221B Baker Street.