HFTS: The much awaited, much anticipated, much desired and dreamed of sequel is finally here! Well, sort of. It's just this chapter for now, and I don't know when I'm going with it. But you get the picture. I doubt I've lived up to your expectations, but so many people absolutely needed a sequel that I just couldn't leave you hanging. What sort of person would that make me? Oh right, an author. Anyway, y'all have waited long enough, and I had nothing better to do. Not that I'm not serious about this, it's just my life's kinda busy since it's my school career is coming to an end. I really wanted to write this for you guys, though. So please tell me what you think. I need to know I'm on the right track with this. Also, I wouldn't say no to suggestions. Like if you want to see something happen (something fluffy or angsty or just a small thing like holding hands or whatever) and I can work it in, I probably will.

And I'm so, so sorry it's so short, but I didn't want to go overboard with it all. If you have any questions or there's something bothering you, just PM me or leave it as a review. (Or you could message me on tumblr; a link to my blog is on my profile).

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I'm a seventeen year old girl in Australia with only so much knowledge of the outside world.

Chapter One: Like a Bad Penny

John sat at the table, looking about the restaurant disinterestedly. It was twelve-fifteen. Whoever this "perfect candidate" was, they weren't punctual. With every passing minute he grew more impatient and annoyed. One of the waiters seemed to think he had been stood up, and was continually looking from him to his cane with increasing pity. John thought darkly that if the man offered him one more cushion, one more free drink, he was going to punch him square in the nose. He checked his watch again, and told himself sternly that he'd give him five more minutes. Subconsciously he hoped he wouldn't show up. The idea of sharing a flat with someone was making him feel nauseous. What if they thought he was some kind of invalid and treated him like a helpless child? What if they tried to set him up with their sister? What if they liked karaoke? John shivered slightly, pushing away the memory of Sergeant Hughes wailing 'Learn to Fly' into a hairbrush. He hated the sadness of that memory, his last memory of Hughes before he was blown apart by an IUD. His hand shook and he balled it into a fist in his lap. That's it, he was going to leave. Screw this stupid flatmate business.

"Leaving already, Dr Watson?" a smooth voice asked.

John's head snapped up to look the man in the eyes, feeling a lump in his throat. "Um," he managed, struggling to find something to say.

"Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I heard you were looking for a flatmate," Sherlock said, sitting opposite to John.

"Oh." John felt his heart sinking. Of course. "You know my name?"

"Yes. My brother heard that you were looking for a flatmate, and decided to set this meeting up on my behalf. So, shall we?" Sherlock ignored the menu, even as a waiter came rushing over.

"May I take your-"

"No."

The waiter frowned and turned to John. "Sir?"

"A hamburger," John answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "So… Mr Holmes."

"Call me Sherlock, please."

"Sherlock. Er, have you looked at any places so far?" John asked, looking down at the table.

"One. An acquaintance of mine offered to give me a slight discount, though I'll still need a roommate for it to be… advantageous," Sherlock said. "How about you?"

"I- I'd be happy to go with your one."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked. "That was considerably easy."

"I'd rather avoid conflict," John muttered. "Is there anything I need to know about you?"

"I play my violin when I'm thinking, which is always, and I sometimes go days without speaking."

John repressed a smirk. If Sherlock was going to start listing his worst qualities, they could be here for a while. "Really? Anything else?"

"No, I don't think so."

John looked up, a smile on his lips. "That's all?"

"Did you expect me to be some form of slovenly layabout with an endless list of flaws?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's lips thinned, though his eyes twinkled with withheld amusement. "Afghanistan or Iraq, if you don't mind?"

"Afghanistan," John replied calmly. "Why do you ask?"

"You're not surprised."

"Should I be?"

Sherlock frowned, leaning closer. "You're a recently returned soldier. You suffered a traumatic wound that ended your military career. Your therapist says you have a psychosomatic limp stemming from your PTSD; she's right. You have a bad relationship with your brother, hence why you've refused his offer to stay with him," Sherlock rattled off.

John smiled widely. It felt good to one-up the genius occasionally. And he'd made the same mistake as last time. It was nostalgic, if only a little tragic. It seemed such a long time ago that the man had slid into his booth and slowly made him fall in love. And then he'd gotten hit by a taxi while John was nearly dying in the desert. He needed to ask himself if this was a good idea. Obviously Sherlock didn't remember him, but there was always a possibility that he might. Being away from him hurt, but would being near him be worse. If John was around him, wouldn't it prompt him to recover those memories? Or would it torment him? Could he stand to watch Sherlock struggle with his mind? If Sherlock asked him, could he answer honestly? Would Sherlock even believe him? But despite that, here they were. Together again, talking about being flatmates. That had to be some kind of sign, right? "Are you finished?" he said, nonchalantly sipping his water.

"Most people are irritated by that," Sherlock said.

"I'm not most people," John replied. He nodded to the waiter who placed his order in front of him, biting into a chip. "Though I do think your little trick is impressive."

"Little trick?"

"Mmm, you should show me more of it sometime," John said.

Sherlock didn't move. He seemed surprised at John's attitude. And he seemed unsure of whether John was flirting with him or not. "I've thought of something else I should tell you."

"Yes?"

"I'm married to my work. I am flattered by your interest but I have to warn you it won't lead anywhere," Sherlock said stonily.

"I'm not interested. I will admit one thing."

"And what's that?"

"You fascinate me." John pushed his plate away, putting down enough money to pay for his meal. He got to his feet, and smiled down at Sherlock. "Whenever you want me to look at that flat with you, your brother has my number."