One.

He came down the steps carrying a cup of coffee and an excited smirk, walking briskly towards the cab. He was of average size and build with dark eyes and salt and pepper hair and wore simple white dress shirt and jacket, top button undone, with matching pants and dress shoes. Something about the way he drew is lips together or the way he carried himself suggested that he was maybe a little above the status of an average citizen, but other than that he was nothing special.

The cab door opened, and from within came out John Watson, smiling back. He lacked anything to mark him as something more than ordinary, save for the cane he was currently leaning upon. He was a modest man: the shirt underneath his jumper was buttoned to the top and very neat, his jacket collar raised slightly to cover the back of his neck further. His shoes were light brown and well kept and the dark pants were just as neat.

The man with the coffee stood before John. "Dr. John Watson?"

John nodded. "I take it you must be Mr. Greg Lestrade?"

He smiled a little more. "Most everyone calls me Lestrade." He held out a hand to shake. "It truly is an honor, thank you so much."

John took the hand, shook it. "An honor?"

"I was told you would be very well suited for the position." He paused for a moment. "Well, used to seeing people...-"

"Right. An honor." John became aware of he dog tags he had on underneath his shirt.

Lestrade drew his hand back, losing eye conact for a few moments before meeting John's gaze again. "I'm glad you made it back safely." He meant to say he was sorry.

"I am too." He gave him his forgiveness for not knowing better.

The two men were quiet for a few moments before Lestrade broke it. "Well, erm, Doctor, there are a few people inside who you should meet."

"Okay." John followed Lestrade into the hospital and into the morgue.

John had been back from Afghanistan for the better part of a two weeks and had been looking for a job when he recieved a call one day from the man who was currently leading him through the halls.

There was an opening for a fairly new position at the Yard, and upon hearing of John Watson's abilities with medicine Lestrade had tuned to him. He had described it as a police medic, mostly to take care of injuries and illnesses of solely the members of the force. Some big people said he was highly recommended, he had told John on the phone. There were a lot of people who wouldn't have minded having a man of his standing around to help out.

In all, the job sounded a little weird to John, but it had some kind of interesting draw to it. It was unique, different, and better than the cynical routine he had been caught up in since his return. Besides, he had wanted to do something medical anyway, and he idly thought that working with the police would be as close to the war as he could get in his current state.

They entered the morgue, walking past the empty examination tables into the lab, where a young woman was leaning over a microscope. She looked up as they entered and smiled when she noticed Lestrade. The woman had brown hair pulled out of her face in a simple ponytail. Underneath a white labcoat, she wore brightly patterned sweater and simple jeans and tennis shoes. Her round brown eyes reflected her personality: kind and friendly but also a little naive.

She backed away from the mircoscope to initate conversation. "Good morning, Lestrade," the woman said. "Erm, who's...?"

"Dr. John Watson," John cut in, holding out a hand.

The woman smiled as she took it. "Molly Hooper."

"Molly does most of our forensics tests at the Yard," Lestrade said. "You'll probably be seeing her often in the time to come."

"You're our new medic?" Molly's smile faded just a bit as she glanced quickly to Lestrade then back to John.

"Yeah, something like-"

John didn't have a chance to finish his sentence before the door suddenly flew open. A man entered, looking thoroughly annoyed as he carried a shoe box into the lab. He was tall and elegant, his features angular and yet very slender. His hair was dark and curly, bringing out his high cheekbones and cold eyes. His skin was a pallid shade with the dark circles around his eyes of someone who didn't have a very good sleeping pattern. The man's neck was adorned with a dark blue scarf, and he wore a long black trench coat with a faint metallic smell to it that currently had its collar turned up. He wore dark pants and shoes underneath, but John couldn't see much beyond that.

The man's words were cold, crisp, and had an almost frustrated sound to them. "I understand that taking a new employee on a tour is very demanding work, Gavin, but you could have glanced at your phone when he was shaking hands with Molly."

Lestrade gave a low sigh. "Greg. My name is Greg. And really, hardly anyone even calls me-"

"Not important." He handed the box to Molly. "The usual."

Molly blushed a little. "O-Okay," she stammered as he returned to the equipment.

"Anyways," Lestrade said, "what are you talking about?"

The man looked over at him. "I sent you a text message two minutes and fifteen seconds ago. You would have recieved it in approximately fourty-five seconds, meaning you have known of the message for a minute and thirty seconds and yet have made no attempt to contact- No, leave that alone." He reached over an took an object out of Molly's hands.

Lestrade rolled his eyes when the man turned to a microscope of his own. "Sorry. Heaven forbid I don't immeditely acknowledge you."

From the microscope, the man shot back, "You and your wife shouldn't stay up so late fighting. Caffiene can keep you alert, but obviously is doing nothing for your mood. Speaking of which, since you still haven't looked at your phone though I have mentioned its importance, if the brother has a green ladder then arrest him."

Lestrade opened his mouth to say something, but John stepped in between the banter. "Green?"

The man looked away from the microscope to meet John's gaze for a moment before returning back with a sigh. "Four months."

"Pardon?"

"Well, you are more used to violence the the last one was. He made it about two months, which actually suprised me. Then again, saying four months is being very generous to you too, seeing that you may be-"

"What are you talking about?" John demanded.

"Sherlock-" Lestrade warned.

The man let out a long sigh. "Maybe three. And for God's sakes, I'm talking about your expiration date. The last medic was killed two months in-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade tried interuptting the man, but now he was on yet another roll.

John looked to Lestrade in shock. "You never mentioned a death."

The man, Sherlock, grinned. "Oh, it was absolutely fantastic, to be honest. You should have seen the spray-"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade shouted over the growing chaos. The lab fell silent. Molly, who had hardly said a word since Sherlock came in, stopped her work for a brief moment to look up at the three men.

Sherlock, looked at the detective for a moment before returning to the micoscope. "It was suicide, not my fault," he muttered viciously into the device.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock as he spoke to John. "I can assure you safety, Dr. Watson. What happened with our previous worker does not affect your task."

Sherlock bit his lip to hide a laugh. John watched him, becoming consumed with increasing and inexplicably founded disliking.

Lestrade cleared his throat, as if to signal that the converstion was going to change in topic. "Well, as you may have heard, John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's one of our more... specialized detectives."

"'Consulting' detective," Sherlock interuptted quietly.

Ignoring him, Lestrade continued. "Sherlock, this is John Watson. Apparently you've already filled in the rest of his resume."

There was an awakward pause before Sherlock said, "Hi."

John shifted a little on his feet and Lestrade spoke. "Are you going to come over here?"

Sherlock looked at the detective. "Terribly sorry, not very good when it comes to human interaction. I prefer other drinks."

Molly tensed a little at his words but Lestrade remained cold, his fingers twitched slightly at his side. John noticed they had something like an annoyed warning in their faces. This must have been his desired reaction because Sherlock let a devious smirk slide onto his face as he turned back to the microscope.

John could feel an odd kind of tension between the three, as if they all had some unknown secret that he wasn't supposed to know about yet. John cleared his throat, and the moment passed, everyone but Sherlock returning to normal (he kept on smirking, pleased).

"Maybe we should go meet everyone else," Lestrade thought aloud.

"Yes, that sound's fantastic," Sherlock said.

Lestrade, now upset a little himself, turned and left the room without giving his goodbyes. John lingered for a moment.

"It was nice meeting you, Molly Hooper." John turned to Sherlock. "And you too, Sherlock Holmes."

John was about to leave when he heard a voice. "John."

It was Sherlock. He turned and saw that the man had stood and approached him. John flinched a little at his sudden presence.

Sherlock ignored it and pressed onward. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"It's a simple question."

John, still shocked, said, "Afghanistan. Now could you tell me how-?"

Sherlock regarded the doctor with a smirk. "That's what I thought. I will be seeing you, Doctor." He turned and went back to his microscope, ignoring any attempt John might have made at conversation. He looked to Molly for n explanation, but she remained quiet.

John left the lab and found Lestrade not far from the door himself. He waited to speak until they were out of the morgue entirely.

"I am so, so sorry about that," Lestrade broke in. "He has the tendency to do that kind of thing all the time, I didn't think he was going to be so..."

"Unreasonable?" John filled in.

"Something like that." They continued walking. "I've personally known Sherlock for about five years, and once you get past all of that he's actually pretty manageable."

"It really wasn't any bother," John said. "Um, did you perchance mention him to me?" Lestrade shook his head. John sighed. "He asked about where I served, I just figured you may have..."

"No, he has a knack for figuring out those kind of things." Lestrade looked at his empty coffee cup. "I hope it's not going to be a problem, but... You will be doing most of your work with him. I mean, you'll take care of everyone, but Sherlock is one of our bigger concerns in that area."

"Oh." John felt a tiny bit of dread as he thought of all the fun he was going to share with the man.

Lestrade felt like he needed to explain himself a little further. "It's ridiculous, I know, but he specified it himself, and with his certain conditions I just figured-"

John stopped him. "Really, it's no bother. I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

Lestrade sighed, and as they passed a trash can he threw away his cup. "Right."

-x-

It was evening, and John had returned to his flat an hour ago. After their adventures at the morgue, Lestrade had taken him to the actual station to meet a few other people. When they finally reached John's flat, Lestrade told him he would be starting tomorrow officially. For the first few days he would be down with Molly until they got a space together at the station. Like most everything else in the job description, it seemed odd, but John simply pushed the thoughts from his mind and kept reminding himself of the escape from the old routine.

He fixed himself a cup of tea, not particularly hungry that night. As he sat in his chair, he found his mind kept drifting back to Sherlock Holmes. He was sure he would be able to adjust to his odd ways, but that didn't mean he particularly liked him. Sherlock seemed like he would be more of a downfall than a perk to his job.

John was struck with a sudden curiosity as he thought of him. He wondered...

John grabbed his laptop and returned to his chair, booting up the machine. He opened a search engine and typed in the mans name. As the results popped up, John realized why he had thought the name was familiar.

Among the list of web images, memorials, and song downloading websites, John clicked on the top link, a biography site, and was directed to a page about William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He was a skilled violinist who was born in 1718 and lived until 1750, having met an untimely and unexplained death in the middle of his music career at the age of thirty-two. As far as Classical music was concerned, he was widely unknown but had just as much skill as some of the other more noted composers like Bach and Mozart. John's mother had often made him listen to his music as a child, which led to John actually kind of liking his music himself for a few years before moving on to more modern groups.

John scrolled through the pictures, clicking on an old painting of the musician. William appeared to be looking at something beyond the artist, his eyes crinkling a little in the corners at the beginning of smile, which gave him an almost innocence as it crept onto his face. He had his almond brown hair back out of his face to expose his elegant features. He was standing, dressed in shades of blue and gray typical for the period. In his hands he held his prized violin, patterned with a very distinct and unique ivy pattern on its sides.

John looked at the picture with a nostalgic sigh, the musician bringing back to him memories of childhood and also thoughts of the man from the morgue. He imagined his parents must have been fans themselves and named their son after the long dead musician as a form of tribute. John nearly laughed out loud as he thought about what the poor boy's childhood must have been like. Perhaps Sherlock was bullied much like John was, though perhaps not about the same issues.

John didn't realize how late it had become, and as he scrolled he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. He set the computer off to the side, rubbing his eyes, and slowly sleep overtook him as he sat in the chair.

...

It was just passing midnight as the bells of Big Ben began to die away, and as they did a melody started up. Slow, dark, and haunting, the notes awoke John from his sleep. At first he thought he was just imagining things, but he heard the distant song becoming not so distant as he approached his window. He opened it, his sweat beaded forehead cooling in the gently night breeze. A silhouetted turned at the beginning of the street, playing the melody which currently was charming John's ears. He lived on a less populated street in London, and the street lights where far and few in this specific area, meaning John's eyes had to adjust to the darkness a little more to see the silhouette more clearly.

It was obviously a male, and John couldn't help but notice that he had a certain otherworldly grace to the way he walked. The man stopped walking long enough to look up to John whose heart stopped at the sudden realization that he had been spotted. He remained motionless until he suddenly was struck wit the desire to go down to meet the man. He reached out blindly for his cane and left his post, fueled by a childish kind of curiosity as he walked quickly down the steps and out onto the sidewalk where he stood.

The melody finished, and in the near dark John began to speak.