Disclaimer: Not mine, all respects paid to the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Doyle.
A/N: This fic takes place during the first episode of the BBC's Sherlock, 'A Study in Pink', featuring scenes I know we've all seen many a time. I have come late to the series, but have enjoyed both it and writing this immensely. It's a series of various character reactions to meeting John and Sherlock for the first time, including their reaction to each other. This story is the first in a series of four, and so can be read as either friendship or pre-slash, as romance is where the series is ultimately headed. This fic is complete in six chapters, and is already finished. I will be updating once a week. Please enjoy!
First Impressions
John
Irritating. Intriguing.
The laboratory at Bart's was a study in organized mess – and the architect of said chaos was standing at a microscope when they walked in. A quick glance around at the equipment and various solutions cluttering the counter told John all he cared to know before his gaze shifted to the man who was focused entirely on the slide under his microscope. John studied his profile with an attention to detail that he did not grant machinery or chemicals. He was a doctor and a soldier. Things interested him far less than people.
And the tall man (Chemist? Lab tech?) with a mop of dark curls promised to be an intriguing person. It was there, in the taut set of his shoulders, like a bird ready to take flight, a man of action, momentarily halted to study (perhaps adjust) his course.
His voice, deep and modulated for impatience, cut across their small talk. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
"What's wrong with the land line?"
"I prefer to text."
"Sorry," Mike said, though he didn't much sound it, "it's in my coat."
John made a swift decision. He might as well open with courtesies and catch his attention, see what he could read from the other man Mike had brought him there to meet. "Er…here, use mine."
Eyes of cool grey-blue-crystal snapped to him and really looked, not the ghosting-over he'd been given a moment ago as a prop, an irrelevant set piece coming in behind Mike. The other man's sudden intensity made the doctor feel as if he'd abruptly been placed under an x-ray.
John stared back, phone in hand, partially extended, frankly admiring the man in front of him. The planes of this man's angular face were truly remarkable, a striking study in cheekbones and high ridges, executed by a master.
The doctor was heterosexual, had always had (and preferred) women in his bed, but he was, first and foremost, an admirer of the human form. And this one possessed an astonishing beauty, for all its maleness.
"Oh…thank you." The appreciation sounded so genuine, as if the offer of something so small were truly unexpected. Those startling eyes never left John's face as the taller man approached, apparently ignoring Mike's introduction, took the phone and started to text, then offhandedly asked:
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John could not credit his ears. How on earth…? "Sorry?"
"Which is it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"
He asked this question as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. As if John's military service were tattooed on his forehead for all to see.
Intriguing, yes. But also unsettling.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?"
An (Assistant?) walked in with a cup that wafted coffee aroma under his nose, reminding him that he'd skipped lunch that day. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." The tall man did a double take, glancing over her face. "What happened to the lipstick?"
The young woman swallowed, and if John was baffled by the man before him, he had no difficulty interpreting the naked emotion stamped on her face. He knew a moment of pity – it is simply unfair to have so much exposed all at once. "It wasn't working for me."
"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," the (Doctor? Biologist?) said mildly. He walked away from them, swallowing his coffee, apparently completely unaware of the reaction his words were wreaking in their wake. "Your mouth's too small now."
The raw confusion on her features moved John, and he slanted a frown at the man now bent over his microscope again as she said "Okay," in a small, breathless, voice, and departed.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
This question seemed to be directed at the doctor, but he was baffled as to the sudden left-turn. The conversation had begun to make him feel as if he was on a roller coaster – constantly being jerked in unexpected directions – but without the adrenaline rush.
He watched the door close on Molly, catching Mike's eye as he turned back. His old friend was clearly expecting him to respond. "Sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end…would that bother you?" The changeable eyes were on him again. "Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other."
Potential flat mates…ah…Mike must have phoned ahead. John let out a sigh of relief. So the man was a bit abrupt, definitely socially awkward, but in John's experience, scientists could be like that.
"Oh, you – you told him about me."
Mike shook his head, smiling, shattering the doctor's equilibrium immediately. "Not a word."
"Then who said anything about flat mates?" he asked the slender back. The other man was busy putting on his coat.
"I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."
John could only stare, unsettled becoming slightly spooked, his brief consideration of the man's arresting physical appearance submerged by reluctant admiration for the mind that must be under that thick, dark hair. And vexation that this man seemed to live about six sentences ahead in the conversation.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?"
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," the man continued, ignoring the question as he looped his scarf around his neck. "Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
John couldn't help but feel railroaded – and slightly like a pet that had been selected from the store, with no say in whether he was going or not. It was an unusual feeling for the former Captain – not to be taking orders, but to be taking personal ones from a civilian.
So his voice was slightly sharp when he said, "Is that it?" Arrested in his exit, the man turned from the door.
"Is that what?"
"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat?"
"Problem?" A small smile, almost a daring one.
John shot Mike an incredulous smile, schooled his face to serious to turn back to the eccentric man. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
The man stepped back as if to say Right. He gave John a brief once-over and began:
"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" A small smile as he sidled back towards the door, clearly pleased with himself. He opened it, turned to John almost as an afterthought and said:
"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker street." He flashed an outrageous wink, bid afternoon to Mike and walked out.
John stared at his old friend. How could Mike expect that he would get on with someone like that? His initial flash of curiosity had been completely buried by irritation for the man's high-handedness. And raw discomfort at how quickly Sherlock had divined his life. He shifted his cane uncomfortably. His therapist had been insisting that his limp was psychosomatic since his return…
And yet… Riding crop. Mortuary. Life with Sherlock Holmes was bound to be anything but boring.
"Yeah. He's always like that," Mike confirmed to John's steady glance.
"Nothing happens to me." If this first meeting was anything to go by, John would not be making that complaint to Ella again any time soon. Despite his reservations, he could feel his heart speed up hopefully at the thought.
So maybe the intrigue wasn't completely buried.
He knew, with the same surety that had allowed him to choose course after course of action in Afghanistan without looking back, that he would go see the flat at 221B Baker Street tomorrow evening.
And unless there was something seriously wrong with either the flat or Sherlock Holmes, he would be taking it.
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