A/N: Dear me, I haven't written fanfiction in ages. Excuse me if I'm rusty. This gets off to a bit of a slow start, but let it build - there'll be some rewarding experiences in the end, I promise. The story switches perspectives as it progresses, so watch for the narrative shifts.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters but Niles Cohen.
Warning: There will be graphic scenes later on. I will put in appropriate warnings, especially for the gory one, and attempt to make it skipable if you are so ill inclined. This is also a slash fanfiction. There is a hearty amount of man on man action. You have been warned.
Otherwise, please do enjoy, and let me know what you think!
It never occurred to him that cleaning up the apartment would make it look so empty. He had opted to keep most of Sherlock's books - the bare shelves would be too much to look at, and he didn't have nearly enough on his own to fill them - and his damned skull, which still sat on the mantelpiece along with the other oddities that adorned it. The clutter that filled the living room and kitchen had been put away - discarded science projects, the convoluted system of glassware and tubing that occupied the kitchen table, the case notes and scribbles that sprawled across the rug, a mostly-full bottle of spray paint from that run-in with the Black Lotus -
John gripped the box of his former flat mate's possession's tightly, his left hand shaking against the cardboard.
It was hard. It was so damnably hard.
He'd almost wanted to burn it all - toss the notes and books and scribbles into the fire and forget it. Sell everything to a school - God knows he'd need the money - or a museum and tell them to make an exhibition. Leave Baker Street altogether. But part of John Watson, army doctor, bachelor of the art of Sherlock Holmes, told him he needed this. He needed Baker Street, needed the notes, needed the reminder.
Because he bloody well missed him.
"Dear? I've brought you some tea. Oh, and try these tarts, they're fresh out the oven!"
There was a clatter of old heels at the doorstep and Mrs. Hudson appeared, a silver tray bouncing in her hands. There was a kindly smile on the old woman's face, and John breathed a sigh and nodded, collapsing into the big puffy armchair by the fire.
"I don't understand it, Mrs. Hudson. It doesn't… it just doesn't feel right."
She set the tray down and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Of course not… it never will be the same in here. No more gunfire, obscenely loud bangings… I'll never catch a police car outside again, you know. Oh - " Mrs. Hudson took in a shuddering breath, and John looked up to catch her eyes tearing.
"Oh now, Mrs. Hudson, let's not get ourselves worked up. Today's a busy day, isn't it? We've got work to do, right? Right. Off we go, then. Thank - er. Thank you for the tea," he said, clearing his voice to get the quiver out of it. He guided the landlady downstairs, shut the door behind her. He was angry. Angry and depressed and stressed beyond belief. What was he doing, clearing up Sherlock's old equipment? Packing his things? Phoning for flat mates?
Moving on, John, his therapist would say. It's a healthy move for you.
He didn't want healthy. The number of prospective movers-in he'd turned down already was proof enough of that.
There was a quiet knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson entered again, no tray this time, just a bit of smeared makeup around her eyes and an uncertain smile. The landlady looked tired from her cry, but she was trying to be sweet despite how terribly their last attempts at finding a replacement - John grimaced at the word, replacement - at finding someone to help with the rent had gone.
"John, dear, there's a young man in to see you. Says he called about the room."
John steadied himself, took in a breath, puffed out his chest, nodded. He exhaled.
"Send him in, then."
He was a tall young man, slender and pale, a handsome face and a strong jaw framing a friendly smile. He was dressed smartly, a formal pair of pinstriped suit pants and a collared deep burgundy shirt, tight-fitting, sleeves rolled. Sherlock might've worn that, John mused to himself, but kicked the thought violently from his mind. And though John would swear every which way his preferences excluded men, he couldn't help but admit he was nice to look at. Even the shock of green hair, mussed and partly in his face, was a tasteful shade.
"Thank you ma'am," he said to Mrs. Hudson, bowing his head and offering the old woman a grateful smile . He took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze of a handshake before she disappeared downstairs. He was well-mannered, at least. Seemed respectable. John offered his hand stiffly.
"John Watson."
"Niles Cohen, pleasure to meet you."
They locked eyes and John attempted a smile, for propriety's sake. Now that he was paying proper attention to it, John found the resemblance the younger man bore to the detective alarming. The arched line of his eyebrows and shape of his eyes - the cheekbones, though, were much different. John was glad for that. He wasn't sure how he'd feel about living with an almost-Sherlock. Slipping back out of his reverie, he found Niles staring at his face. The taller man blinked for a moment before bursting into a cheery laugh. John feared the worst - recognition from a fan of Sherlock's, or even from someone who watched the news was the last thing he needed.
"Say, you're that doctor from St. Bart's, aren't you? The one who's always nodding off?" Niles grinned, and John let himself smile, if only in relief.
"Yes." He cleared his throat. "Uh, yes, I am."
"I've just started at the surgery," he said, gesturing at his chest. "Cardio department. We won't have met, but I've heard about you."
John's brow furrowed at him. Cardio at the surgery? He didn't look a year over twenty, and something told John he didn't work there as an intern or a nurse.
"Aren't you a bit young?"
"Early starter, I guess." Niles shrugged, providing no further explanation. John sighed and nodded. This was awkward, all of this, but he had to move through the motions, and he didn't feel like getting bogged down in Niles Cohen's personal details.
"Right. Right - um. About the room."
"Yes, of course - I called yesterday, wanted to come in and take a look."
"Yes, well. Right." John kicked himself into motion, moving past Niles and into the kitchen, cleared as it was of body parts and fermenting organs. "Kitchen's in here, standard stuff. Sink, counter, fridge." He frowned at the chemical burns and stains on the kitchen table. "Table. It - um. I've never really eaten on it…"
"More of a workspace, then?" inquired Niles, who had joined him in the kitchen. He ran a finger along a dark stain where Sherlock had spilled a vial of iodine. The stain still hadn't been pulled up, mostly for lack of effort. John blinked at the gesture, shook his head and dismissed it.
"Something like that, yeah." He wasn't about to tell him the kitchen table was used more for chemical experiments more than food consumption. Luckily, he didn't ask any more questions, only looked and followed the doctor as he lead him about.
"There's a fireplace there, chimney. Have you got many books?" he said, looking around at Sherlock's collection, still on the shelves, and swallowing hard.
"I can confine them to my room, don't worry. Are you alright?" There was something like concern in the young man's voice and John turned to look at him, finding his eyes trained on John's. Something felt strange about him - an air of eccentricity John only really picked up around a handful of people. There was an almost off-putting energy in the young man's frame, in his face and in his eyes - steely blue-grey, like Sherlock's, John thought, but with a decidedly different edge - that felt out of place in a man that stood so calm and still. "Listen, I know this is a bit of a hard time for you," said Niles, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets and taking a step towards John. The doctor stood his ground. "If it's bad, I can - well. I can come back some other time, or not at all."
There was some comfort in that notion. So few of Baker Street's prospective tenants were understanding, or at least playing at being understanding in the name of getting the room. John was eased by the idea that it wasn't an obligation, wasn't a necessity - even if he did need someone to pay the rent.
"You two were… pretty close, weren't you? You and your flat mate?"
John looked at the young man for a minute, bit his lip and nodded his head.
"Yeah. Best friend."
"I'm sorry."
John hadn't put out much. The details were everywhere in the press already - the "fraud" detective's suicide, the murder of "actor" Richard Brooke, the quiet bachelor John Watson, disappearing into his apartment at 221B Baker Street, not speaking to a soul and punching journalists in the face. It had taken months for the media to forget him, longer for him to muster the courage to put out an ad.
"Watch the news at all, do you?"
"Nah, I hate current events. Got much more pressing things on the mind when you're digging around in people's chests."
John chuckled. Maybe this would be alright. He almost needed someone who didn't know about it, someone who wouldn't be spouting constant reminders, even if Niles was another tall, slender, pale man with a classy taste in dress. But there was still something - something he couldn't accept about having a new person inhabiting Baker Street. He shook his head, balled and unballed his fists.
Niles looked at his feet, looked around at the room. He reached over and put a firm hand on John's shoulder that the soldier was too distracted to shrug off.
"Why don't you take his room, Dr. Watson?" he offered, and John was struck by how genuine he was being. He looked up at Niles uncertainly. Comforting. His expression, his tone - they were strangely comforting, for being a stranger. Perhaps it was his bedside manner.
"What, his - his room? I couldn't…"
"Shh, yes you could. Would he really mind?"
John was taken aback by the idea. Sherlock's room. It had been years - all the rearranging, the cleaning, he hadn't dared go in. He hadn't even let Mrs. Hudson go in and rearrange a thing. Could he really? Could he sleep in that bed, surrounded by those things? You're not about to let anyone else do it, are you? The realization was a certain and unsurprising one, almost a liberating one. John looked Niles in the eye and nodded.
"I think I will. Take his room, I mean. Would you like to see the other one?"
"I'd love to, Dr. Watson."