For illustrations and more regular updates, please visit the study-in-rose tumblr.
He's engrossed in his work, the needle pricking into his skin with the long practiced ease of one familiar with the use of hypodermic needles.
His expression remains focused as he pulls the plunger, drawing the blood from his vein and into the syringe. The only sign of any discomfort is the small hiss that slips past his weathered lips. It only takes a moment for him to pull the metal from his arm and jab it into the small bottle he has in his free hand, filling it with the blood he had only just withdrawn.
With his work done and the chemicals he needed obtained, Holmes stands, setting the syringe aside on a table and beginning to make for the door.
"Ah! Mr. Holmes!"
The mentioned man turns back around, his hat in one hand and his pipe halfway to his mouth. He's used to be shouted at, particularly when he's trying to leave someplace, but he doesn't recall doing anything especially unsavory or in disagreement with the law - at least not today, anyway - and he doesn't recognize the voice.
So instead of quickening his pace he turns around and glances over the man hobbling towards him, already analyzing him without having to give it a second thought.
He walks with a clear and pronounced limp to his left leg, his cane used with his right hand. But instead of leaning so heavily upon it like a normal man with an injury, he favours his right shoulder as well, a small grimace of pain on his face.
Recent injury. A veteran of some sort – an ex-soldier. Carries himself proudly and confidently, though not senselessly. From the tanned skin, likely the Anglo-Afghan War. A fact compounded by the details of his cane.
A rare sort and exclusive type given to, as he had previously asserted to himself, veterans of said war.
The soldier looks somewhat unsure, his brows furrowed over his blue eyes.
Ah. So he doesn't recognize me. Must not have been in the area for long at all, then.
"Yes. Unless, of course, you're referring to someone or something other than myself, in which case I really must be going –"
"I was told that you're looking for a flat mate."
Holmes holds still for a moment, forgetting about the pipe clenched between his teeth.
"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place! Although, I'm afraid that you have a bit of a leg up on me, in the department of names..."
"Watson. John Watson."
A firm squeeze as hands met in a formal handshake.
Callouses, rough skin against the softer skin of a man who had known the luxury of a relatively normal life.
But those are the more common details.
It takes a practiced eye to find the small, barely noticeable scar in the crook between thumb and forefinger that mark the doctor as a swordsman; the way he leans a bit too heavily on his cane. There's the strong smell of tobacco lingering about the plain yet fashionable clothing that the man wore. But then again, they both reek of smoke.
A small but clearly knowing smirk lifts Holmes' lips as he moves his pipe to the corner of his mouth with his free hand.
"A pleasure, I'm sure," He states with finality on the matter before he takes his other hand back to tuck it into his ragged jacket's pocket. Golden brown eyes are focused on the stranger's in a manner with all too few manners as he takes him in quite clearly. "Freshly back from the war, I see." A tobacco stained hand wraps around the neck of his pipe as he takes it from between his lips, exhaling a puff of smoke out the side of his mouth in a small display of manners.
It takes only moments, but he already knows all there is to know on this finely dressed stranger. Give or take a few minute details.
"I take it Stamford told you of me, then?" The doctor smiles politely back at him as he adjusts his cane, leaning on it uncomfortably.
"Hardly!" Holmes laughs shortly, waving a hand to beckon the other after him. "I was told a name and that you were around. But you're the one that came to me." He's already walking away briskly, his hands clasped behind his back.
Watson shifts to follow him, favouring his leg and leaning even more heavily on his cane now that he's moving.
Without turning around, the dark haired man speaks up again. "Injured in the war - judging by the limp - rather recently. Discharged, with honours, for your time in service. As for how quickly you arrived here, I can assume that you were born in the area."
Blue eyes widen imperceptibly at this and he stumbles over his words for a moment. "You have quite the way with deductive reasoning."
"Mm. Consider it a hobby." Holmes doesn't bother asking if his guesses were correct – whenever he does, it's merely a formality. He knows he's right.
The detective is already on his way out the door when he speaks up again, his pipe in his hand as he calls out. "A land mine or grenade, no doubt. More likely the latter. A medical unit wouldn't be far enough out in the field for land mines. You ought to ease up on your shoulder, or it'll end up even more damaged than your leg." The self-satisfied smirk is plain in his voice as he steps out the door of the hospital into the streets; the bustle of the afternoon coming in from outside.
The clatter of the hooves of the horses against the cobbled streets. The shouts from one passerby to another. The cries of the chauffeurs driving the carriages of the better off.
Typical London.
"Shall we get on with it, then, Doctor? We have a flat to examine and a contract to sign."