"Bit different from my day," John mutters as Mike shows him into the lab. His eyes flick across the equipment and eventually land on the suited man at the opposite end of the room. He leans heavily on his cane when the man speaks, seemingly ignoring him.
"Mike, could I borrow your phone," he says, not looking up from his microscope.
Mike's eyebrows knit together, "and what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text."
"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike says, patting his pockets.
"Here," John says, smiling at the man, "use mine."
He looks between John and Mike curiously and stands to take it from him, "thank you."
"This is an old friend of mine," Mike introduces, "John Watson."
Sherlock takes John's phone after sweeping his gaze over both men. He opens it and begins to text, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John looks towards Mike, who grins at him, and then towards the man, "I'm sorry?"
"Which one was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" He repeats.
"I'm sorry, but how did you—"
John is interrupted when a young woman enters the room with a mug of coffee, "ah Molly, coffee, thank you."
John feels as though the "thank you" was aimed at both him and Molly as his phone is shoved back into his hand.
John tucks the phone into his pocket and watches as Molly leaves the room, obviously offended at Sherlock's comment about her small mouth. A sudden "how do you feel about the violin?" interrupts his thoughts.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I play the violin when I'm thinking," he explains, "sometimes I don't talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates ought to know the worst about each other."
"Are you? You told him about me?" John says, directed towards Mike.
Mike smirks, "not a word."
"Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did. Told Mike this morning that we must be a difficult pair to find a flatmate for, now here he is, just after lunch with a friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He tugs a blue scarf around his neck and smiles sweetly.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John says.
The man ignores him completely, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we should 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 stands for a second, trying to catalogue the information. Just as the man reaches the door he speaks, "is that it? We've only just met, and now we're going to go look at a flat?"
"Problem?"
John glances towards Mike, "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 takes a deep breath and reels off a long list of facts about John he couldn't have possibly known. John stands in awed silence until the man finishes with, "that's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" and goes to open the door. He leans back, "the name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is two two one bee Baker Street. Afternoon." He leaves with a wink and click of his tongue.
John and Mike are left in the lab, "yeah, he's always like that." Mike mumbles, as John uncomfortably leans on his cane.