Three times Sherlock tried to say ''Thank you'' and one time he actually did.
''By the laws of statistics we could probably approximate just how unlikely it is that it would happen. But people forget—especially those who ought to know better, such as yourself—that while the laws of statistics tell you how unlikely a particular coincidence is, they state just as firmly that coincidences do happen.''
-Robert A. Heinlein, ''The Door Into Summer'';
1.
He was sitting in the lecture hall. Studying chemistry was something he really liked but the elementary things they taught at his High School weren't enough for him. So there he was. It was exciting, intriguing, new. It wasn't his first time at St. Barts, of course not, but it was his first real chemistry lesson in an actual University and his future has never seemed so real. Even if he wasn't a student (and was much younger than the Med students that were now listening to Professor Hughes and taking notes) nobody noticed his presence. He looked like an ordinary medical student, sitting there, listening to the lesson and taking notes with eagerness. Nothing could distract him that day or make him feel anything but happy, nothing coul-
''What the-…'', he whispered. Well, nothing except his pen. The same pen that choose this moment to say ''goodbye''. No ink, no notes.
''Use mine.''
The voice belonged to a young man with sandy blond hair and eyes as blue as the ridiculous jumper he was wearing. At least that was what Sherlock saw before he took the pen that the man was offering him. It was a simple Biro, nothing compared to his Mont Blanc, a gift from Mycroft. He was just going to say ''Thank you'', when he noticed that the ''Biro-man'' wasn't looking at him anymore, his eyes on Professor Hughes.
After the lesson, as he was putting his belongings inside the leather bag he stole from Mycroft's room that morning (it made him look older), he remembered about the pen he was still holding in his right hand and turned around.
''Hey, I just wanted to-…'', he looked around the hall, still full of students. He wasn't there.
2.
It was raining. He wasn't surprised, not at all. He was shocked. It was just an ordinary, cold day. And Sherlock Holmes didn't have an umbrella. He forgot something. Forgetting was something normal people did, it wasn't his case, he never forgot a thing ! Removed intentionally, yes. But this…no, just no. When he left the apartment he was sharing with his brother, the sky was already grey so he should have deduced he would be needing an umbrella later. But he didn't. So there he was, with his wool coat on but nothing to protect him from the falling drops of water. Fortunately, he was 5 minutes away from the small café he knew so well.
It was full of people but at least it was warm.
''Sherlock ! It's good to see you ! How are you my dear?'', Mrs. Hudson appeared from nowhere and gave him a hug.
''I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Your husband?'', asked Sherlock, taking his leather gloves off.
''Still nothing, they don't have enough proofs…'', she whispered. ''I'm afraid they won't-…'', her face, the cheerful expression completely gone now, was pale. It was evident that she was scared.
''I will take care of it, Mrs. Hudson. I promise. Did Lestrade left something for me this morning?'', he asked, his hopes high. He needed a case. Desperately.
''Yes, dear ! I almost forgot !'', one minute later she returned from behind the counter with a yellow portfolio. ''Here you go.''
He didn't notice the man standing near the counter, waiting to pay for his tea. His mind was traveling at the speed of light. A case ! After days spent at St. Barts' morgue doing just experiments!
''Mrs. Hudson, I have to go now !'', he said after a minute, his eyes still glued to the pages Lestrade prepared for him this morning.
''Are you sure you don't want some tea, dear? It's so cold outside, you don't even have an umbrella!'', said Mrs. Hudson, concern in her voice.
''Oh, I forgot it this morning but it's not important right now ! Right now I just need to-…'', but Mrs. Hudson never knew what Sherlock needed to do, because a kind voice interrupted Sherlock's excited babbling.
''Here, use mine. I've got a spare one here.''
Sherlock finally looked at the man that was standing beside him. Sandy blonde hair. Blue eyes. A ridiculous jumper with…oh, really?…cats.
He took the small umbrella, his mouth open in surprise, and before he had a chance to say ''Thank you'', the kind stranger was already outside, calling a cab.
3.
He was working on a case. A serial killer, six people killed. Lestrade asked him for help, again, and Sherlock couldn't be happier. He was heading to the morgue, the experiment he started yesterday should be ready by now. He just had to ask Molly Hooper to let him use her laboratory and he-…
He bumped into someone. Five seconds. It took his mind five seconds to register five different things : he bumped into a man, a short man with light hair that was holding a cup of coffee, the same coffee that was now all over his coat.
''I'm so sorry ! Here, let me help you, Sir-…'', the short man pulled out a blue handkerchief without looking at Sherlock and was about to start drying his coat with it, when Sherlock walked away as if nothing happened. He wanted to say ''My fault, but thanks for the help'' but he was too distracted, the case was more important. He will let Molly deal with the coat.
4.
John Watson was walking down the street, his head low and a cup of coffee in his left hand. He would be walking faster if it wasn't for the cane. And his leg, obviously. So it was no surprise when he felt something, someone, suddenly invading his space. Goodbye morning coffee.
''I'm so sorry ! Here, let me help you, Sir-…'', he said without looking up. He was too scared to do so, the man in front of him was very tall and his coat, rapidly changing color from dark blue to dark brown because of his coffee, looked very expensive. The punch John had been expecting never arrived. He turned around, the handkerchief still in his hand, and opened his mouth to speak. The man was gone. He would probably go after him if it wasn't for a familiar voice that called his name.
''John ? John Watson?'', he knew this voice but the man smiling at him right now was less familiar.
''Stamford ! Mike Stamford !'', then it hit him. Mike ! From the University ! He looked…different.
''Hi Mike ! Long time, no see ! How are you ?'', he asked politely.
''Always the same. Yeah…I know, I got fat !'', John just shook his head lightly at that. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"
John looked at him for a moment. "I got shot."
They went to the park and were now sitting on a bench, talking.
''So you are still at Barts then ?, asked John.
''Teaching now. To bright young things like we used to be. I hate them all.'', Mike smiled. ''What about you ? Are you looking for a house here in London?''
''I don't think I could afford it.'', answered John honestly.
''What about a flatmate ?''
John looked Mike in the eye and laughed. ''Come on, who would want me for a flatmate ?''
''You know…you are the second person to ask me that today-…'', said Mike with a smile.
''Who was the first?''
Sherlock Holmes was in the laboratory. Beaming. He has just solved another case. He had to tell Lestrade, he had to tell him now ! Where was his phone ?
''…and here is our old lab. A friend of mine works here, you know? Molly Hooper….here we go…''. Sherlock looked up from the microscope to see a smiling Mike Stamford. Just in time.
''It's a bit different from my day.'' Sherlock knew this voice. It was a fresh memory, but also an old one. He couldn't decide.
''You have no idea.''
'' Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine.'' The case. He had to text Lestrade.
''And what's wrong with the landline?'', asked Mike.
'' I prefer to text.'', was his short answer.
Mike searched inside the pockets of his trousers. ''Sorry, it's in my coat.''
''Here, use mine.'' Sherlock felt many emotions at once. If anyone asked him if he had a favorite sound, something able to relax him, right now he would answer, ''This voice''. He looked up. The man that was handing him the phone was familiar. It took him five seconds to remember. Pen, umbrella, coffee. Yes.
He stood up.
''Thank you.''
Finally.
One year later.
John Watson was sitting in his favorite spot, near the fireplace. It was a cold afternoon so they decided to stay home and enjoy the silence of their flat. He was solving crosswords puzzles out of boredom, while Sherlock was reading an old chemistry textbook. For an experiment, he said. They were enjoying the sound of the rain that was pouring outside, the silence of their sitting room and the heat of the fire that was-….
''What the-…'', said John looking at his pen. It stopped working just as he was writing in the last word.
''Use mine''.
John stopped talking. He felt something strange, something… He looked at Sherlock. Really looked at him. As if he was seeing him for the first time. And he did, in a way.
He looked at the Biro pen. Then he smiled.
''Thank you.''