"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."
The words repeated themselves in John's mind as the cab threaded its way through the streets of London. He had packed up his belongings from his old flat and hailed a cab to take him to his new home. He was supposed to meet Sherlock at 3 and it was already 2:50 and he was still 20 minutes away. John rubbed his temples, still unaccustomed to hustle and bustle of city life. As the cab pulled up to the flat, John wondered how he would carry his boxes up stairs. John pondered how Sherlock would react when he showed up with his multiple boxes. Judging from the state of the flat yesterday, John doubted whether or not the flat was large enough to fit his belongings. Sherlock had yet to fully unpack, and what belongings he had out where scattered haphazardly around the flat - microscopes, books, and specimen jars covered the living room and the kitchen table. The cab pulled up in front of the now familiar glossy black door. John limped out of the cab, knocked on the door, and then made his way back to pick up the boxes. As he leant into the cab he felt someone standing behind him.
"Do you need a hand?" Sherlock's unmistakable baritone queried.
"Yeah," said John, "could you take these for me? I'll get the rest." Sherlock extended his long arms to receive the boxes - then swiftly ran into the flat. John paid the cabbie and slowly made his way up the stairs.
John walked into the flat to find his boxes stacked neatly by the stairs to his room and Sherlock peering through a microscope - focused as ever.
John made two trips upstairs, without the aid of Sherlock who was engrossed with his latest experiment. He opened the door to find a simple bed and dresser with an adjacent bathroom. The room was warm, cozy, and complete with a desk, dresser, and bedside lamp. John neatly unpacked the boxes, his army training evident in the perfectly folded jumpers and shirts. As he unpacked his jumpers, he uncovered his Browning L9A1, something he kept as a reminder of his military experience. Unsure as to where to store it, he tucked it amongst his jumpers in the back of the dresser until a better location came to mind.
After he unpacked and showered, John made his way downstairs to find Sherlock waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs Standing at just over six foot, Sherlock looked down at his new flatmate with those watchful grey eyes - deducing everything.
"Fancy a cup of tea? Just took off the kettle," he asked. "Sure," said John, "a few biscuits too...if you've got 'em" he added tentatively - unsure as to the contents of 221B's pantry. "I don't," Sherlock replied bluntly, "I don't go shopping, it's boring." "Tea will be just fine then thanks," John said awkwardly; making a mental note to go to the Tesco in the morning.
They sipped their tea in silence - Sherlock stared off into the distance, lost in thought; John looked around the flat, acquainting himself with his new home.
"So how long have you been in London?" John asked, hoping to break the ice.
Sherlock snapped out of his trance, "Oh yes, I've been in the city since I was a boy. I was shipping off to Harrow as a young boy and then went off to university for a two semesters and then dropped out, I found it dull. I headed to the city for employment and worked a series of odd jobs for the Yard and Bart's in exchange for old case files and lab time. How about yourself?" he asked, hoping to shift the conversation away from his personal life.
"Well nothing too exciting," said John, "Grew up outside the city went to the local boys school, played rugby, cricket, and squash. Then went to university to study medicine and then enlisted. After I got shot, I underwent surgery and physical therapy in Germany before they discharged me. Once I was back in the UK, I went and stayed with my parents for a few months while I figured out what to do. I became a little stir crazy being at home and dealing with Harry, so I decided to come to London and rent the smallest flat I could find until I found a suitable flatshare. And the rest you already know from Bart's," he said with a faint smile before continuing, "Sherlock, how did you know about Afghanistan and Harry?"
"I didn't know, I saw," he said bluntly. "Moreover, I observed your conversation entering the room, you and Stamford alluded to training at Bart's so doctor; but I also saw some other things. For example, your style of clothing and haircut says utilitarian, pragmatist - but coupled with your posture - military. Your limp and lack of tan above the wrist says injured abroad. Now, where does an army doctor get injured nowadays? Afghanistan or Iraq." "Wow," said John, "that's bloody brilliant." "Really?" Sherlock said, almost in shock. "God yes," John said, "I can see how you drew those conclusions looking back - but to think you got that in a few seconds is incredible." "Thanks," Sherlock said awkwardly, unsure how to accept the praise. "You are welcome, "John said. "So what are your plans for today?" "I was thinking of going to see Lestrade. I have a feeling he will be needing my aid soon." Sherlock replied, trailing off. "And what sort of aid is this?" John queried, still not exactly sure what his flatmate did for a living.
Before Sherlock could reply, there was a knock at the door. John looked quizzically at Sherlock to see if he made any move to get the door - he didn't. He just sat in his chair with his knees near his chin in deep thought. John grabbed his cane and slowly wobbled down the stairs. When he opened the door he found a man standing on the stoop. "Sherl-" he started before noticing John, "Oh hello, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, is Sherlock home?" "Send him up," Sherlock called from inside the flat. "Come on in," said John, wondering why a Detective Inspector was at his new home. "There's been a fourth, will you come? Lestrade pleaded with Sherlock. "Are you talking about the unconnected suicides?" John asked, "I heard it on the tele this morning." "Obviously," Sherlock drawled from his chair; John looked down awkwardly, not sure how to respond. "Lauriston Gardens, if you change your mind," Lestrade informed Sherlock, ignoring John, "we need you the press is having a ball with this one." Sherlock responded almost lazily, "I'll be there in a little while, I'm not going in a police car." "Good. Thank you," Lestrade said with relief before departing the flat.
John sat back in his chair, unsure as to what his place was in all this. However he wasn't given much time to ponder the possibilities, as Sherlock began jumping about the room with excitement. "Brilliant! Three suicides and now a fourth, oh it's Christmas!" With that he bolted out the door, leaving John with his mouth agape. As Sherlock strode out the door, an older women appeared in the doorway. "Oh look at him dashing about, just as my husband used to do. You must be John, I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, Sherlock has told me all about you." "Has he? I do hope good things," John replied, surprised that Sherlock felt the need to tell her about him, knowing full well they would meet the next day. "Of course my dear. I can see you're not one to be running about London. You rest and I'll make you something to eat." "Damn my leg! John yelled uncharacteristically, he immediately apologized, "I'm so sorry." "Not to worry my dear, I'm used to hearing all sorts of things from Sherlock, it keeps me on my toes." With that, she left downstairs to make the meal in her flat; Sherlock had an experiment that took up the entirety of the kitchen.
John heard the door open and close downstairs, a moment later he saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, his eyes alight with excitement.
"Bored are we?" He queried with a smirk.
"Not particularly, I'm simply waiting for Mrs. Hudson to come back. I thought you were going to join Lestrade."
"I was just heading out, but then I had a thought. Would you like to come with me?" His grey eyes searched John's face for an indication of his intentions.
"No thank you, I've seen too much violence for a lifetime. I'd like to try my hand at civilian life."
"Are you quite sure? I thought that an expertise of an army doctor such as yourself would prove useful. I suppose my previous deductions of you were incorrect."
"What deductions?" John asked, his interest piqued by his flatmate's words.
"The way you stand, feet at a 45 degree angle, balled fists at your side, and square shoulders indicate a soldier at attention. If a soldier were tired of the violent life, he would distance themselves from military habits. The Browning L9A1 tucked amongst your jumpers suggests that you still harbor a connection to your military career as soldiers are not allowed to keep their weapons when discharged.
"How did you kno-" John started before getting bowled over the Sherlock's response.
"I took a peak in the boxes you handed me while you paid the cabbie," he said simply.
John sat back in his chair astounded. Everything that Sherlock had said was wholly accurate. He had to admit that civilian life made him quite restless, he wanted to leap back into the fray of war, despite the wounds it had inflicted upon his body.
Sherlock continued, "So I guess I'll leave you then."
With that he strode back out the flat, his black coat swirling around his long legs.
"Wait," implored John, he grabbed his cane and got out of the chair.
"You're coming after all?" Sherlock asked, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Yes, you twat," John answered before limping past him.
As the left their flat, John called, "Mrs. Hudson, I'm headed out with Sherlock, no need to worry about the meal."
"Both of you?" She asked, wringing her hands in a dishcloth.
"The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock declared adamantly, the excitement from earlier alight in his eyes.
With that, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson stepped outside 221B and hailed a cab to Lauriston Gardens.