It all started when he was four. His mother's light coughing, something attributed to the allergy season, had in fact been pneumonia and he had declared this to be the case long before the doctor had stopped guessing it was the pollen. At age six he had urged his grandfather to seek medical attention because, the child patiently explained, the bouts of paranoia he had begun experiencing were very obviously early signs of dementia; his parents were only just surprised when this turned out to be true. At nine they removed him from public schools after he had diagnosed his teacher with cancer due to the exact shape of the bags beneath her eyes and the smell of her breath. Young John Watson had, at this point, begun to make the other children quite uncomfortable. His parents, unfortunately of the "barely scraping by" class, were unable to send him to a private school and so the task of educating young John fell upon his mother and father. He was surprisingly receptive to their lessons and, by the age of fifteen, he had completed all of the required courses to graduate high school. He flew through his classes like a summer breeze and devoured anything even remotely medical.

Graduating high school had been, to the young boy, an unnecessary thing made all the more unnecessary by his parent's insistence on a small ceremony. It was comprised entirely of their cheering, photography courtesy of his mother, and a home-cooked meal so lavish he had wondered how they could afford it on their salaries. Still, he said nothing and accepted it all with a gentle smile and eyes which spoke heavily of his growing world weariness.

Making it into the University of Oxford had been the easy part; tests were passed with scores that mystified the entirety of the grading staff and brought up brief and heated discussions of cheating. After all, there had never before been a set of perfect scores and a better written essay in the entirety of their accepted applications. Though they had offered him numerous scholarships it wasn't quite enough. Still too young to take his own job, both his mother and father took on second jobs until John was seventeen when he demanded they take a break and proceeded to take on two jobs of his own. Working full time between two jobs and going to school as full time as he was able, it took John nearly twelve years before he had graduated with a masters in biochemistry and his doctorate in medicine. By this point he had quit both of his jobs in favor of interning with three different medical practices and, after three particularly moving dissertations on the human body, received multiple grants from multiple sources. These included two research facilities, one of which was tied very openly to the government. Shortly after graduating, however, he made a choice that surprised not only his parents as well as the staff at Oxford, but the entire prestigious world of medicine.

John Hamish Watson joined the Army.

He completed not one, but two full tours in Afghanistan and had been on his way to completing the third when, surprise upon surprise, he was wounded. Shot, to be exact, in the heart. THROUGH the heart. But that was not what they saw when they dug out the bullet. Not what they witnessed when they were stitching him back together.

The doctors had said it was a miracle; something about a ricochet and how he shouldn't have survived, how he must have had a guardian angel. In the end, he had returned home, a wad of ugly scar tissue and a psychosomatic limp and shake tagging along for the excruciating journey. It wasn't until he had stood, alone and despondent and decked out in his fatigues with his bags at his feet for over two hours, that he realized things had changed while he was gone; not once had he ever been forgotten at the airport. Returning to his home brought him the grim discovery that both of his parents had passed in a horrific car accident and that Harry was officially an alcoholic. For all of this to happen within the span of four months was shocking, but having the knowledge that his sister, that Harry, had both neglected to send SOME sort of notice to him of the incidents at home and had also returned to the bottle left him feeling little else beyond cold.

Very, very cold.

He had, under the consistent and persistent guidance of some old Army pals, sought out a psychiatrist. Alissa was gentle with him, doing what she could to coax him from the coldness that he now found himself in. He could do little more than take what advice she gave, partly for himself but mostly for the psychiatrist. The woman was trying so very hard to help him and it would have been terribly rude to ignore everything she suggested.

He bought his laptop, a simple thing that fulfilled his needs; a writing program and access to the Internet. Though he failed to see what good this could do for his various psychoses he accepted her advice and had the good sense not to inform her that she was pregnant. Complaining about the person who put you in such a predicament suggested she would not be happy to learn of such ties now existing within her womb. She had another several weeks before she even began to see the signs of it anyhow and, really, was it is his job to tell people the things they didn't always ask for?

Laden down now as he was with a piece of technology he hadn't really thought he needed and advice he didn't believe would help, he started to write. And by "write" he mostly meant typing the letter "z" until his computer locked up. He would attempt drabbles, of course. Little blurbs and short flashes from his tours. He remembered everything. Every life he saved. Every life he ended. He tried reporting the incidents, sharing his memories with no emphasis, no sugarcoating of any kind. Kind of, he thought, like his medical textbooks, all facts and no embellishment. Reading through what he had written later, after he had let them stew and sit and fester in his mind, John had determined them a complete failure. They were…disgusting in a way he couldn't quite grasp. As though to simply report everything, to so coldly describe watching his comrades fight and die and the deaths he himself had caused… Yes. It was wrong, what he was writing. And his therapist's suggestion that he create a blog? Share his thoughts and experiences and words with the world? Insane, clearly.

And so he stopped. The shakes persevered, the limp continued, as painful and as fake as ever. More than once he reflected on the humor of it all, the limp and his shakes and his growing inability to sleep. The nightmares. The limp, that was the real punch line in the joke of his life; he hadn't even been injured in the leg. Neither a sprain nor a break had taken place and yet it felt as though his bones had been shattered, his kneecap wrenched and broken and twisted about. He hurt, yes. Everything hurt; his heart, his body, his soul. Perhaps, he found himself considering on more than a daily basis, his knee was symbolically representing the entirety of his pain. Allowing his mental anguish an escape his conscious mind was unable to offer. This option was as likely as any other; considering his two and a half psychology classes, he was as comfortable with his own self-diagnosis it as any other explanation shoved down his throat.

OoOoOoO

Time continued to slip by, unnoticed by most and yet so utterly tangible to Doctor Watson. His therapist began to show, her pregnancy at first only a gentle curve to the belly, a light fullness to the breast, that even she could not avoid seeing. He wondered, for a brief period of time, what she would do with the baby. But as their sessions continued and she grew larger and rounder he could not help but grow fonder, knowing that she had chosen to keep the life within her alive. He had, in his internment, discovered the wonders of life. Of the womb and the tiny creatures which, within one, might grow. Children became a new sort of wonder for him. Fascinating, all of them; they moved with a frenetic sort of energy that was wholly exquisite and unique to those who had yet to experience the sorrows of life. Watching them as they ran, screaming and laughing down the halls of grocery stores no longer irritated him. Rather, watching them brought to him a sense of calm and of ease. Watching them brought the realization that life could and would continue on, new waves of generational creations that would one day take his own place. It was one of the few things that could now bring a smile to his face.

And it was during one of these moments of self-reflection, watching with a sad sort of half smile as a boy who was going to develop the symptoms of epilepsy within a year or so (the irregular dilation of the eyes), that he was approached by someone he had not expected to see.

"John…? John WATSON, is that YOU?" John, who had until that very moment, been staring down at his clasped palms, seated on one of three park benches in his favorite park, jerked his head up in surprise. He had been enjoying the sunshine, surprised by it, actually, considering that the day had begun as overcast. The rain was something John very much found he enjoyed. Rain, snow, sunshine…yet again, more proof that the world around them would continue on, regardless of himself. Most days he ended up here, at the park. He had yet to find himself any sort of employment, despite the gentle and consistent encouragement of his therapist who assured him that finding something to do with his life would bring some sort of meaning back into it. He knew she was right, and yet, he had not yet brought himself around to check with the local clinics and offices for any sort of openings despite the fact that his license remained active.

"Stamford? Mike Stamford, good lord I certainly didn't expect to see you here!" John smiled, eyes flicking over his friend's worn yet jolly features, catching more than a few traces of alcoholism and chain smoking and heart disease in his old friend's ruddy nose and heavy breathing. It hurt to see that in him, the man who had fought so hard and done so much for his country, but there was little he could do and even less he could say. The heart disease, judging from his friend's constant glancing at his watch (time for medication), was already well known and bringing it up would likely just irritate him. Pushing all of this aside, John stood and wrapped a companionable arm around his friend, delighted simply to see a familiar face. As they pulled apart John winced, frustrated as the phantom pain in his knee spiked through his leg. Mike, catching his discomfort, glanced to where John had set his cane and that look, that softening of the eyes and the flash of pity was enough to send John back behind his well-stocked internal blockade. A moment of awkward silence passed and then they were both sitting on the bench, side to side and sharing a view of the impromptu soccer game that had just coalesced on the empty field before them.

"So…been a while, eh John? You just got back, right?" John nodded, mouth pressed against his joined hands in front of him.

"Yeah…couple of months now…"

"Hard adjusting, huh?" Again that sympathy and John didn't need to glance over to see Mike watching him.

"Yeah a bit, but nothing too terrible. Just been a bit…rough. Not having a flat-mate and all. Rent and…" He trailed off with a shrug, hoping he had not given away too much about his personal life; if he could avoid prattling on about his persistent nightmares he would do just that. Mike said nothing for a moment as he produced a cigarette and began rummaging through his pockets for a light. Reaching into his own pocket for his own lighter felt familiar and, as he held the flickering flame to Mike's slightly crumpled cigarette, he was unaware of his smile.

"You always DID have a light." Mike murmured around his first pull of the toxic stick.

"Yeah. Just like old times…," John shrugged, slowly spinning the lighter around in his palm. "I just - I'm not the same man, Mike. I'm just not and it SURPRISED me, that's all." He shrugged again, wondering when it was that he had become so awkward. Again that curious silence descended between them, both men now watching the game.

"If it's not too uh…presumptuous of me… I think I might know someone who could use a flat-mate. He was looking for one a while back." Casual, John thought, gaze flicking to the side as he took in his friend's increased heart rate, visible in the light pulse at the side of his neck.

"Yeah? And who's that, then?"

"He's uh…a bit odd…but uh…I think it's better if I let you meet him in person. I think…I think you'll like him, though, John. You just gotta give him a bit of a chance, yeah?" John's eyes narrowed in a look that was wholly un-John before he sighed and shrugged. "Besides, I think you two will…" Mike trailed off, averting his gaze from the steadily growing intensity of John's. "I mean, you always had that thing and…he's got the thing, too, so… Look, it's just better if you meet him, okay?" John seemed to mull his friend's words over carefully, mentally chewing them through as to taste every syllable.

"Sure I mean… I'll meet him at least." Mike seemed to let go of a breath he'd been holding, simultaneously standing and flicking the bit of ash at the end of his cigarette.

"I'm heading to the hospital where he's supposed to be working right now." John's eyes narrowed once more, this time in thought. Hospital. Did that mean…doctor? Nurse? Orderly? Janitor? Security? So many different options. Mike didn't elaborate on why he was going to the hospital and somehow John understood that it was because he himself was already aware of Mike's ailment. A grim smile flickered across John's features; it just felt so…familiar. He supposed he'd scared many of his those in his platoon with his uncanny ability to determine their ailments before they even began to feel their aches and their pains. And, yes, they'd all been grateful. The war may have claimed many of their number but not a one fell to disease. Not a single member of his unit had any wounds left untreated and few lost limbs. Still, his…talents had not always been received well by those who preferred to remain ignorant or were under the belief that John was full of shit. Mike, John remembered fondly, had always listened. Never questioned him, though he'd never been entirely comfortable with John's capabilities; in the end, it was what had endeared him so to John.

Standing, John groped for his cane and released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"I suppose I could come along with you, then. If it's not too much of a bother of course." He shrugged, gesturing lightly to his cane.

"No, no, don't worry about it!" Mike said, jovially clapping John on the back and pointedly ignoring his old comrade's visible wince. After stubbing the rest of his cigarette out in a trashcan ashtray just beside their bench, the duo were on their way to the hospital.

OoOoOoO

"St. Bart's, eh?" John huffed, eyes roving over the familiar structure as he waited for Mike to struggle free from the cab. The building held conflicting emotions for John; he'd interned here for a brief period of time before leaving because he had had numerous heated arguments with the head practitioner who had openly believed John to be a nutcase who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He had, however, met numerous supporters, some of whom continued to write to him even after leaving. Their letters had often kept him afloat when the world grew dark. Still, the feeling of indecision continued to linger even as Mike paid the cabbie and began huffing and puffing his way to the building's entrance. Stamford paused when he reached the doors, ignoring the way they slid open and closed with every shift of his body.

"You comin', John? I'm already late for my appointment." With a heavy sigh that seemed to speak volumes John turned from the busy road and limped his way over to the door, leaning heavily on the cane as he followed his friend inside. Glancing around upon entry, John realized that very little had changed in the years between his last visit and today. That long counter directly ahead, maroon with white tops, for the gathering of information for both visitors and staff. A waiting room off to the right, gift shop off to the left, and elevators just beyond them. They'd added some new furniture, repainted the walls in a gentle tan and pulled up all the vinyl flooring, replacing it with red and white checked vinyl flooring that, combined with the new red of the counter and the off white furniture, left the lobby looking more like a diner than a hospital.

"Listen, I'd really like to be there when you meet him…do you think…?"

"Yeah, no worries. I'll wait for you to be done." Mike seemed to relax at this then motioned John forward, toward the elevators. John's eyebrows rose in mild surprise but he said nothing and followed; he felt vaguely honored to have been invited along to Mike's appointment and though he would sit in the waiting room, the invite retained its' overall sense of camaraderie. The ride up to the eighth floor was quiet but not in an oppressive way with neither man speaking as the tinny elevator music filled the small space. John allowed his mind to wander, simultaneously allowing Mike his privacy whilst pondering the possibilities for this flat-mate. They would have to find somewhere else to live, he thought while following Mike's steady pace with his own limping stutter down the hallway. They made it to the office and John immediately took a seat, wincing and huffing as he forced his knee and himself down into the closest chair. Mike wandered towards the receptionist and after a few murmured words was ushered through a door just beside the receptionist's bubble. A sigh oozed free from John's just parted lips and, feeling particularly exasperated for no particular reason at all, he thumped his head against the wall behind him. Closing his eyes, he leaned his walking stick against the chair between his legs and once again allowed his thoughts to wander towards the possibility of a flat-mate and far, far from the office. Far from the place where the doctors looked down on him like some throwaway, waste of-

No. No, now was not the time for that sort of self-reflection.

So. A flat-mate.

Sure, it was something he'd discussed very briefly with Alissa, who was now looking quite pregnant. Their last appointment had been just a few days prior and had gone as successfully as their past few meetings…meaning, of course, that very little had been accomplished.

"John." Another sigh, arms crossed in what even John was aware as a sign of petulance.

"You don't NEED to explain yourself, that's not what I'm asking. I just want you to think through it, to really CONSIDER it before you-"

"Look, okay, I don't NEED to CONSIDER anything." And yes, he was hating that childish tone in his voice but it all seemed to perfectly, beautifully simple and, for the first time since he had started seeing Alissa he was beginning to wonder how they might connect at all if she could not understand this.

"I think you do, John."

"No, Alissa, I don't. Listen, okay? I don't need a flat-mate and I certainly don't WANT one."

"But if you'd just-"

"I think we're done here for today, alright?" The squeaking of his chair against the floor, the flurry of activity as John shrugged on his coat and left, ignoring the constant yet gentle pleas that he stop and turn around and talk this through.

No, Alissa had certainly not understood. And he supposed that Mike didn't really, either. In the end, not even John fully grasped his constantly warring desires to be alone and to find some sort of…friend. No, friend wasn't the right word. He wasn't even sure he was capable of having a friend. He just wanted someone to talk to, sometimes. Oh the secrets they would discover, the horrors they would unearth! The good doctor snorted, rolling his eyes behind closed lids at his own internal dialogue, all dramatic and dark and so not who he was. Still, what harm would it do? Seeing this possible flat-mate? Worst came to worst, he'd just…say no. Saying no was still an acceptable form of rejection, wasn't it? He hadn't been so far removed from society that-

"I know that look, John!" John blanched, reddening slightly as he came back down from his thoughts. He struggled briefly to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane as his knee protested. He'd been sitting for far longer than he had expected to and his knee was aching in a way that felt all too real. Glancing at his watch John realized he'd been sitting in that chair for just under an hour. Not long for an appointment of any kind yet try telling that his knee.

"And what look might THAT be?" Mike chuckled as they exited the lobby, clapping him companionably on his shoulder.

"You're thinking too HARD about this, you know. When I tell you this guy would make a good flat-mate I mean that he would make a good flat-mate for YOU. I'd probably kill him or…more likely he'd probably kill me." Though the last bit was murmured it did not escape John's keen ears and quite suddenly he was balking, pulling away from his friend and taking a few solid steps back. Mike sighed and turned, battening down his hatches as he faced the rather flustered and now irritated John Watson.

"Look, John I was kidding! Mostly, anyway-"

"No, Mike, what was…What was THAT? I'm not entirely sure what was worse, saying he'd make a good flat-mate for ME, like I'm some…some-"

"Now you STOP right there, John!" The anger in John withered and died as he stared into Mike's contorted features; anger, hurt, and something else…disgust?

"You've always been like this! Look, I know some of the other guys…they didn't…they didn't TREAT you right back then, alright? I get it, but I never did! You KNOW I never did!" Instantly the guilt hit and John was wishing he could pull everything back because Mike was right. He'd always been a bit of a pariah in the Army; avoided and ignored and sneered at and talked about behind closed doors. But not Mike. Never Mike.

"Look, Mike I-"

"No, John just SHUT up and PAY ATTENTION." Red-faced and furious, there would be no stopping Mike now. "You know I would never say something to OFFEND you like that; I thought we were actually comrades not just some Army idiots thrown together out of necessity! Now…now if I SAY that I think you two would hit it off then damn it, you two would hit it off! I know you enough to know the kind of people you can handle being around, okay?" As he lost steam his face lost its' color and he seemed to be gaining control of himself. All the while John could not help but feel like a first rate heel and an idiot of the highest order. It was difficult to reign in the constant self-protective defenses he always kept up and ready to go.

"Okay…yes, alright Mike. I'm sorry." He held out a placating palm, gaze flickering from Mike's chest to his eyes, unable to hold his gaze for long.

"Good. Now…hurry up; if we're much longer he probably be gone." With little more than a nod, neck still red from the embarrassment of having his heart disease suffering friend explode wildly in the hallway of the hospital, John limped along behind Mike towards the elevator. Before John could ask which floor Mike had pushed the button, leaning ahead and around John to press the-

"Basement?"

"Uh-HUH."

"But that's where-"

"Uh-HUH." John frowned, lips pursed as the lift lurched to life around them and the gentle tug of gravity confirmed their downward descent.

OoOoOoOoO

For a moment, as they stepped through the doors to the lab, John believed quite suddenly that Mike was trying to set him up. Not in a joking, silly manner, but to the woman working in the lab. He offered her a brief smile, leaning heavily on his cane, and said the most charming thing he could come up with.

"Hello!" And mentally kicked himself.

"Oh, Mike! Hello! And who-?" She was speaking now and it seemed she knew Mike and now John's belief that he was trying to set her up with her became more realistic.

"Cell phone." John blanched, jumping slightly as he realized that there was, in fact, someone else in the room with them. More surprisingly, it seemed as though he were speaking to him.

"Uh..p-pardon, what?" The man sighed and stood up from the microscope he'd been leaned over, giving John a good look at the man. Tall, very tall, curly hair, serious eyes and very strong features and-

"Your CELL phone. I prefer to text." An order? Still struggling to find the words to respond, John fumbled in his coat pocket until he withdrew his cell phone. It was an old, outdated thing that he'd really meant to get replaced but had not found the time. Yet it seemed to be what the man wanted and before he could properly offer the device it was whisked from his hand. The woman sighed and began to play with the ends of her pony-tail as though she wanted to run her hands through her hair but was unable to. A nervous one, the girl, but cute John supposed. His eyes roved over her: smart, cute, comfortable working with the dead, oh and just infected with the flu. He could see it in the edges of her eyes and the twitching of her fingers. Probably hadn't even started feeling it yet. And tired, she was tired… she was also dealing with some anxiety. He watched as her gaze flitted from him to the man and realized that he was out of luck; she was head over heels over whomever he was. This was both surprising and disheartening but before he could think or say anything else the man spoke again.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John jolted, aware only vaguely that Mike was smiling behind him.

"I..I beg your pardon?" The man sighed as though it was beyond burdensome to repeat himself.

"The phone. It's not yours, a gift sent overseas from…not parents, a sibling. Harry? But you're not close, you haven't got any texts or calls from or to him in ages. Probably due to his alcoholism, or perhaps the way he treated his wife. The cane, the limp, wounds, and the way you hold yourself. You've seen BATTLE, killed, but…also saved?" The man frowned, eyes piercing John's momentarily before roving over his body, leaving him feeling naked and vulnerable and far too open.

"You did two tours…almost three. Wounded in battle, sent home; how do you like the violin? I play it when I'm thinking."

"You…play…?"

"I'm quite good at it." And with that he tossed John back his phone and began shrugging on his coat.

"You were brought here because I was looking for a flat-mate, yes?" For the first time since he'd begun addressing him, the man paused, waiting for some sort of response or reaction from John who felt as though he'd just been hit by a hurricane. Not for the first time his eyes met the deductive man's and, though he saw that same impatience there as he had earlier, there was a note of curiosity in them. And for the first time in the entirety of his life, John's heart skipped a beat. His pulse quickened and he began to feel light-headed. The man's stature tightened and his eyes narrowed but before he could speak, John's lips parted and sound escaped.

"Brilliant." He breathed, feeling all at once dizzy and light-headed. He was…he was brilliant. Quick, observant, anemic, severely under-weight, sociopathic and beautifully brilliant. He was everything John was but in a tighter, messier package with the utter lack of a filter; the Asperger's, likely. How much more was hiding beneath that whip-thin exterior? Sure he'd been off about Harry being a woman but that seemed like a minor detail lost in the midst of those details. Mike had been right from the start. John made a mental note to get together more often with his old chum and certainly to take him out for a drink or two to make up for whatever doubt he'd held. In any case, the man appeared surprised that John had reacted the way he had. And for a moment, there was a tension that seemed to soak up all the air in the room.

The woman sighed and the tension was shattered and John could breathe again although he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

"Yes. Well. I must go. Meet me tomorrow and I'll show you the flat." And then he was gone and John was left feeling a bit winded.

"You uh… you alright?" The woman, she was speaking to him now and it seemed only proper that he respond.

"Yeah…Yeah, I mean, I'm fine. Now…who was that? And how exactly am I supposed to know where to go?" He shifted his weight as well as he could off of his leg, amused as he leaned even more heavily on the cane.

"Hmm? Oh, that's uh… Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. You're to be his new flat-mate, right? That was what Mike was talking about earlier." John managed a nod, mouth opening as he moved to speak again-

Only to be interrupted as the phone he still held in his open hand vibrated, a number he had not yet programmed leaving a text. Eyebrows knitting together, he pressed a few buttons and opened the message.

"221 B Baker Street? SH? How did he…?"

"Yeah, that's the place he was talking about earlier, I think. You'll get used to him. He's not as bad as people say he is…" She shrugged and leaned back over the microscope, simultaneously resuming her work and dismissing him all together. John nodded and left, programming his mobile with Sherlock's number as he limped back up to the lobby and out to the street. His knee was still aching and so, rather than risk it giving out somewhere during the walk home, he hailed a cab. The ride back to his own small, dismally dark apartment offered him an extensive amount of time to think. Sherlock…Holmes. The name was unique, wasn't it? Almost as interesting as the man it belonged to. Thinking back to the man with the curls and the coat and that tone brought back his realization that his body had had a wholly unique reaction, one he wasn't sure he wanted to analyze.

"It was just finding someone like me. I…I might not have to hide…" He murmured as the cabby drove off and he limped up the stairs to his apartment. "I…Might not have to hide..." The thought was so singular, so FASCINATING, so…

"Beautiful."