I know it's been done a million times (and about 999,000 times by me - lol!) but this is SiP in a nutshell, seen through the eyes of the two main protagonists, and the man who brought them together.
Disclaimer: I don't own, don't profit, we just play awhile, the boys and me :)
John sat on the single bed and stared down at his hand. He didn't really need to look at it to know that a tremor ran through it every now and then, but the sight both horrified and fascinated him in equal measure.
He didn't have to look to see the loaded gun sitting in his drawer as he reached in for his laptop, but he stared at it none the less, his calm glance belying the turmoil he felt inside as his brain screamed at him to take up the weapon and end it now – save himself and those around him from a world of pain. He closed the drawer.
With a sigh John entered the building, knowing that this appointment was going to be just another fruitless exercise in trying to make him feel better. Ella would be wearing her usual encouraging half-smile, trying to tease information out of him, make him open up. A wry smile twisted the ex-soldiers lips – he'd had thoughts about opening up in ways that would horrify his therapist, and he wondered what she would say if he chose to tell her.
Trust issues? What the hell did she mean, trust issues? John knew it wasn't lack of trust that stopped him talking about how he felt; it was apathy, and the knowledge that talking about it wouldn't bring his career back. And writing a blog? Well that was simply a waste of time and effort.
"Nothing ever happens to me."
xXx
Sherlock wished Stamford would either shut up or find another laboratory to work in – there were after all, several in this hospital that he could choose from. He peered into the microscope at the slide he had prepared, and tried to block out the other man's incessant chatter.
Anyone looking at him would assume that he was concentrating on the experiment in front of him, when in fact he had retreated to his mind palace to compare his lifestyle to that of other people. He had a room dedicated to musing, but generally it was used for musing about the failings of others rather than self-examination, although this was far from the first time he had turned it to such purpose.
It was hard to identify what triggered the need to look at himself so closely, and harder to admit that at times he didn't really like what he saw. Sherlock had realised from a very early age that he and his brother were very different from their peers, and he was astute enough to understand that while Mycroft had mastered the art of tact and diplomacy, he would never be able to do so. He was far too impatient with what he saw as the failings of others, yet in this room, in this moment, he saw his own failings acutely as well.
He returned from his palace to find Stamford was talking still, this time rattling on about there being a way that to afford that prime flat in Baker Street, if only he didn't insist on being such a loner. Sherlock sighed. If Stamford ever discovered the truth he's laugh himself hoarse, because Sherlock wasn't a loner – he was lonely. Resorting as ever to his default – snarky – he advised the tubby doctor previous attempts to get someone to share lodgings had failed miserably. He watched carefully as the other man pulled his coat on in preparation to going out for lunch.
"I must be a hard man to find a flatmate for."
xXx
Stamford had just convinced himself that taking a walk across the park before eating his lunch was just what his GP wanted him to do, but in his heart he knew that it was simply the only way to get to the best coffee and cake in the vicinity – at the Criterion. His route brought him into contact with a ghost from his past – John Watson. They had been friends years back, before Watson went off to specialise in frontline trauma surgery, and he himself managed to catch a plum job at Bart's.
Over take-away coffee he'd tried to find the man he once knew within the shell of a man sitting next to him, sipping his drink. It was obvious from the stiff, forced smile that getting shot was the catalyst to what appeared to be a downward spiral. The bitterness at being unable to afford to live in London and the emptiness behind his eyes didn't escape Stamford's covert scrutiny, and a twinge of guilt twisted his ample gut at how his own life had surged ever upward to the higher echelons of the medical profession while his old friend's nobler intentions had thrust him into professional freefall.
The rigid set of his companion's shoulders told Stamford that any offer of help would be refused – pride would win that argument hands down, yet at the back of his mind, the echoes of an earlier conversation grew louder. Of course! Why not find a flat share? His question raised the first genuine smile to be seen on the ex-soldier's face, as he doubted anyone would want him for a flatmate. This brought a smug satisfaction to Stamford's chubby visage.
"You're the second person to say that to me today."
xXx
He heard the sound of footsteps – two people – approaching the laboratory, and Sherlock's interest quickened. One was the slow and heavy tread of Stamford, unwilling to return to the lab while the sun shone brightly outside, but the other… now the other was a stranger. A stranger with a limp.
Following his old student friend into the lab John looked around, momentarily surprised to see a young man working at one of the benches, unwilling to intrude. He stopped at the end of the bench and waited, forcing his limbs into a relaxed stance.
Used to abrupt demands, Stamford didn't bat an eyelid when the occupant of the lab interrupted him mid tour, wanting to use his mobile. Unfazed, he pointed out that his mobile was in another coat, yet he was also unsurprised that John willingly handed his phone over. John still displayed that unselfish, generous nature that made him so popular at Medical School.
Stamford stepped back and watched the interaction between the two men, the convergence of opposites. And he smiled at John's stunned expression as Sherlock swept out of the room.
"Yeah, he's always like that."
xXx
Two Days. The strangest two days the doctor had ever experienced.
First a chance meeting, then an introduction. A visit to view a flat that culminated in his being left amid a clutch on constables at a crime scene, while his strange new acquaintance dashed off into the night.
Kidnapped and driven to meet a man wearing a three piece suit and carrying an umbrella, a man who asked all kinds of intrusive questions before reading back to him the notes of his latest counselling session. A text from his new flatmate ended the situation, and at least he got a free ride back to Baker Street.
Sherlock hadn't expected the quiet man who had just become his flatmate to actually be game for the chase, but as they tracked the black cab, short-cutting over rooftops or running down dark alleys, to laugh at the ruse of being policemen, and collapse giggling as they burst through the Baker Street door.
That he went immediately to Sherlock's defence in the face of the police raid, the fake drugs bust that would have driven anyone else from the building, was something to be filed away for later consideration, for it was an unknown, a concept he'd never considered before – Doctor Watson, John, treated him as a friend.
"Sherlock, you okay?"
xXx
John didn't know whether laugh or worry as he watched the tall man dove into the back of the cab. There they were, in the middle of a police raid on their flat, and he just saunters off and jumps into a cab. None of the police were happy about it, but John really didn't care, he was listening to the pink lady's phone ringing out – it was obviously not in the flat, the police could stop looking through the flatmates' belongings.
When the flat was empty once more, John set about tidying the mess the police had made and settling what little of his own gear he had with him into the upstairs bedroom. He was just about to take his now redundant walking stick up there when an alert sounded on Sherlock's notebook, and as the tracker on the pink lady's phone sprung to life John cast aside his stick, snatched up the small computer and dashed out of the door.
Jeff Hope, killer cabbie, had brought him to Roland-Kerr College. He was easy to read, a dying man killing for….for what. Sherlock wouldn't give the man the satisfaction of knowing he was surprised – surprised that this ordinary looking little man had a sponsor, someone who paid him for every kill.
And now, with the explanation of how Hope had accomplished the so-called serial suicides Sherlock was bored. He got as far as the door before Hope taunted him, asked that question, which pill would he have taken? He chose. He couldn't resist the challenge. Holding the pill up he examined it in the light, and was about to pop it on his tongue when there was a tinkling crash, and Jeff Hope dropped to the floor, dying.
"Moriarty!"
xXx
It had been fairly simple for John to slip out of the building and wait in the shadows, arriving on the side-lines at the height of the bustle, watching as first his flatmate was escorted out by the same senior police officer that had been at the flat, before the forensic team could enter the building. The younger man caught his eye and suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence, then stepped away from the frustrated police officer and crossed the road
There were numerous police cars, their blue lights illuminating the college forecourt, and as Sherlock sat in the open back of an ambulance trying to explain to Lestrade that the gunman should be easy to identify he suddenly caught sight of John, standing outside the police cordon, looking innocently around, and suddenly it became crystal clear. Telling Lestrade to ignore him, he was in shock - he had a blanket to prove it- he crossed the road to join his flatmate.
John remained calm under Sherlock's keen scrutiny. Yes, he had just killed a man, but he was a bad man. A very bad man Sherlock had insisted. A bloody awful cabbie John added cheekily, causing them both to giggle.
It was the start of a partnership, a friendship, and for both a new life. As they walked away the man in the suit gave voice to the names that were to become famous – or infamous – in criminal circles and law courts alike.
"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson"