Short chapters = quicker updates. Will end up quite fun and angsty ;) Enjoy.
John Watson was a quiet man, not a loud or proud or obnoxious man, just quiet. To any normal eye he seemed like the perfect all around guy, his short blond hair kept neat and clean, his clothes looked comfortable but tidy. He never spoke out of turn, looked at you the wrong way or even blinked like someone with any faults. Nobody would have guessed that the crutch he carried and the limp he wore were remnants of a forgotten past of violence, of murder, bloodshed… of war.
John had been to his psychiatrist earlier that morning about the limp, it was psychosomatic she had said. 'Rubbish. I had been shot for Christ's sake and that had hardly been in my head.' It was compulsory though, to go at least once, after he returned from battle, as it was for all the other damned soldiers and even now he still pondered what she had said. 'Write a blog? What on earth for? Don't need blogs…no, not me.' He thought. His limped gait heightened as he strode along the footpath, thinking of what to do next. He only brought a few things with him to London, all packed away in storage. He had lost everything after the war, not that he really had much to begin with. Just an ordinary lad, his sister Harriet, a mother and father, both passed away at ripe old ages.
He needed a place to live. A flat of sorts but he just couldn't afford it, not any place decent at least. And he dare not ask Harry for help. 'Oh the scorn she'd give me, just like the bloody phone.' His hand grasped at the hand-me-down cellphone in his dark coat pocket. Now his limp began to aggravate him more and he sat down on the empty park bench to rest a moment and think. There had been a sign up for a shared apartment back near the airport he remembered, thought he might as well give it a look.
It took three subways, a bus and taxi ride to get back to the old apartment building he had spotted before and as he limped toward the block of brick before him he felt a little more content. 'Baker street, it certainly sounded nice.' He thought, perhaps this would work out, the rent shouldn't be too bad if he could share it and the apartment was opposite Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café which he thought would be helpful if he needed a quick bite to eat during the day.
He stepped up to the door… 222A & B was scratched, as if almost by a nail on the faded green panel. He knocked cautiously and leant on his crutch as he heard a stumble and a crash of boxes behind the door, "Eh..ah comin! Won't be a tick!" The door opened to reveal a slightly greasy young man, adorned with a white singlet and dark blue jeans. "Can I 'elp you?" His accent slurred slightly and John sighed internally as he realised the man was stoned, the baked smell wafting out of the apartment.
"Ah…I have come about the apartment?" He started but the grungy man had already pressed the key to his chest, dirtying the front of John's sweater with a smudge of grey. "If yers can pay it yers can have it, upstairs on ya left." And then he was gone, leaving a slightly startled ex-soldier holding the grubby key at the doorstep, staring up the stairs toward a fairly plain door. He took a step inside and after a few minutes he had inspected the upstairs rooms and found them to his liking, if not needing a clean. He pocketed the key with a slight smile, maybe things would go alright after all.