Another day, another Pokémon rescued. If that minor achievement was fulfilled within the 24 hour cycle allotted to a day, Pokémon Ranger John Watson found himself happy. His job was a bit of an easy one. Nothing like what he had done during the war. That was an overbearing cross he had dealt with before being shot in the left arm, just beside the shoulder, and a bomb shrapnel of a detonated bomb infused partially with his leg, which sent him on a one-way trip back home to London and looking for a flatmate.
It was that very need which caused him to meet a one Sherlock Holmes, Pokémon trainer and "World's only Consulting Detective." He was interesting, to say the least. But he had good intentions, and John soon found himself becoming a loyal friend to the man. Solving a few mysteries together with the help of Einstein (Sherlock's Alakazam) and Eclipse (his Umbreon), John found himself exposed to the best and worst of London, and his Pokemon, Gladstone (an Arcanine raised from an egg) and Alabaster (his Altaria) often stayed by his side and trained. And, on a rare occasion, Sherlock would train alongside them. It was a blessing and a curse, considering Einstein and Sherlock could detect John and Gladstone's every thought and move, and Alabaster would usually curl up with Eclipse on the sidelines and watch them.
But it wasn't always like this.
Had John not gotten sick of Sherlock experimenting with Einstein's power of levitation on all his personal objects, had he not walked to the abandoned construction site, he would not have met the suffering Altaria trapped underneath a fallen support beam. His Pokeball would not have sprung open, he would not have worked alongside Gladstone to safely lift the beam off the young bird. His medical instincts would not have led him to assess the wound, place Altaria upon Gladstone's back, and come back to 221b Baker Street.
A life would not have been saved.
"Sherlock, for God's sake, my room is not your personal experimentation site!" John yelled, breaking Einstein's concentration as John's alarm clock fell to the floor. Sherlock, standing beside Einstein with his hands steepled below his chin, raised an eyebrow and looked from the fallen alarm clock to his flatmate in a look that said now's not a good time. "Look, I don't care that you see how much Einstein can do, just not in my room!" He continued, voice slowly raising in anger. Last week, it was alright. Einstein worked at books, pillows, and the occasional plate (which almost threw John into a fit on its own over the trouble of shattered glass).
"John, your items are of inconsequential value and, if broken, will not add up to much overall damage to the flat." Sherlock said as he inspected Einstein and typed on his laptop.
"Inconseq- Never mind, I don't even want to ask right now." He mumbled, picking up the alarm clock and placing it back on his nightstand. "Now, please. Get out of my room." He commanded, the roughness of the army protruding through his voice in sharp edges, his eyes as sharpened daggers ready for the throw.
"What if I refuse?" Was the response as Sherlock sat down onto John's bed, placing the laptop down on his side and looking up at the man in front of him.
"I'll battle you right here and now." John hissed, hand twitching towards his belt where Gladstone's Pokeball was eagerly shaking at the word battle.
Interesting... Sherlock mused, inspecting John's actions as they played out before him. Refusal leads to a violent outburst. Seems the war isn't entirely out of his system. "Well, Einstein is ready. Need I remind you how this turned out last time? All our spare money down the drain."
God, John thought. I hate it when he brings that up. I hate that he always wins. I hate that he acts so superior to me. I hate everything about him. But that wasn't quite true. Deep down, John knew there was something about Sherlock that he couldn't put his finger on, and it called to him. It kept him there at 221b Baker Street for so long, why bother to question it now? "Oh, shut up!" He mumbled, turning his head slightly and balling his hand into a fist. "I'm sick of this." He added before walking to the door. He grabbed his coat and took one last fleeting glance in Sherlock's direction before walking out of the flat.