'John?" Mike asked, "Earth to John, are you with me?'

'Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out for a second.'

'That was more than a second. Is everything alright?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. Bloody tired is all.'

'Well alright then. So what've you gotten up to lately?'

'Not much. Nothing ever seems to happen to me. I can't find a job. I might not even be able to stay in London.'

'Why not?'

'Flats are too expensive on nothing but an army pension. I'd gladly move in with someone, but I doubt there's anyone willing to share with me.'

A curious expression crossed Mike's face, but then he smiled and said, 'You know, you're the second person to say that to me today.'

'Now, before you meet this man, I should warn you. He's a bit… well, odd.' Mike's voice took on a strange quality, and John couldn't help but wonder what he meant.

'Odd?' John asked.

'Oh, he's perfectly alright, really. Just takes some getting used to.' Mike pushed open the door to the morgue. John followed him in, then immediately stepped back at the sight of a tall man beating a corpse with a riding crop as a small, brown- haired woman watched. 'Please tell me that's not him,' John whispered.

'No, that's him,' Mike whispered back, 'Told you he was odd. Brilliant, though.'

Meanwhile, the tall man had set down his riding crop and was dusting off his hands. 'That should do it,' he said, 'Molly, I'll be in the lab. Text me if bruises form in the next twenty minutes.'

'I will,' she said, 'Um, Sherlock?'

'Yes Molly?'

'I was wondering if, um, you'd like to have coffee.'

'Yes please. Black, two sugars.'

'...Okay,' Molly said in a small voice. Sherlock didn't seem to hear her.

'Is he always like this?' John asked.

'Unfortunately yes,' Mike replied, 'But he's a good bloke, really.'

The man, whose name was Sherlock, apparently, (Of all the bloody things to name your son, John thought, Why pick Sherlock? I mean really.) strode past them into the hall. 'Hello Mike,' he said, 'Follow me. We'll talk upstairs.' John followed, a little ways behind, limping a little as he walked. Blasted leg. Why can't it just leave me alone?

Upstairs in the lab, Sherlock turned towards them, 'Mike, I need to borrow your phone,' he said.

'Why can't you use the landline?' Mike asked, 'It works perfectly well.'

'I prefer to text.'

Mike sighed. 'Here,' John said, 'You can use mine.' He held his phone out. Sherlock took it and began typing.'Who's this?' he asked as he worked.

'Oh, this is an old friend of mine. John Watson.' Mike answered.

'Hmm.' Sherlock folded his fingers underneath his chin and stared at John for a moment. John was struck by how intense his gaze was, almost as if the man was reading his mind.

'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock asked.

'Sorry?' John said.

'Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?'

'Afghanistan- Sorry, how did you know?'

Just then, the door opened and Molly came in holding a steaming coffee mug. 'Ah, coffee. Thank you, Molly,' Sherlock said. He shut down John's phone and walked over to return it and take the coffee.

'You're welcome, Sherlock,' Molly said, and turned to leave.

'How do you feel about the violin?' Sherlock asked.

For a moment, John was confused. He thought Sherlock must have been talking to Molly, but when he looked he saw that she had already left. 'I'm sorry, what?' John asked.

'I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end,' Sherlock said, turning to John, 'Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.'

John looked at Mike, 'Oh, you ... you told him about me?'

'Not a word,' Mike said.

'Then who said anything about flatmates?' John asked.

Sherlock picked up a long, black coat from a chair. As he put it on, he said, 'I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap.'

'How did you know about Afghanistan?' John asked, puzzled.

'Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it,' Sherlock continued, wrapping a scarf around his neck and ignoring John's question.

He walked towards the door. 'We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.'

'Is that it?' John asked.

Sherlock turned back towards him. 'Is that what?'

'We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?'

'Problem?'

John shook his head, unable to believe the strange man in front of him. 'We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your last name.'

'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 your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid.'

John stared at the floor, a little awkwardly. How on earth?

'That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?' Sherlock said, smugly. He walked out of the room, then turned back to John, 'The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.' He winked at John and turned to Mike, 'Afternoon,' he said.

Mike waved after him and the door slammed shut. John stared at him in disbelief. 'Yeah. He's always like that,' Mike said.

John returned home, his head still reeling from his encounter with Sherlock Holmes. Who is this man anyway? he thought. Can't be very many people with that name… Let's see… He typed the name into his search engine. After almost an hour of scrolling through Sherlock's website, The Science of Deduction, he sat back in his chair and let out a short laugh. Well, whatever I was expecting, it wasn't that. That night, while he slept, he dreamed about running, a chase. Sherlock was with him, and they were on the tail of someone dangerous. It was the best dream he had had in ages.

John opened his eyes slowly, and yawned. Sunlight had forced it's way through the cracks at the edges of the curtains, waking him. He lay in bed a while longer, thinking maybe he'd try and sleep some more, but after a while he decided it wasn't happening and got up. It wasn't until he was in the bathroom, squeezing toothpaste onto his toothbrush, that he saw it. Black ink against his skin. There it was, written along the length of his left forearm in perfect copperplate. A name. Sherlock.