It was two years and thirteen flat mates later that Sherlock Holmes met Dr John H. Watson.
Sherlock had managed to drive out a total of thirteen flat mates with his… let's go with personality.
There was the barber who lasted the shortest, a whole thirty minutes. A veterinarian, gardener, and school teacher lasted for a few weeks. The police intern that Lestrade introduced Sherlock to lasted a month. The longest lasting was the deaf journalist who lived at 221B for three months because he wasn't bothered by the violin and gun shots at two o'clock in the morning.
Moving out then was a paediatrician who had finally had enough of the body parts in the kitchen and messes and annoying sounds Sherlock made.
It seemed as if no one could put up with the consulting detective, even if his life was – at least to him – a bit dull.
No scandal had shook up Scotland Yard. No one had broken into the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison, or Bank of England.
Sherlock Holmes worked as quietly as he could with Lestrade on a variety of cases, but he didn't make the papers.
Sherlock stood in 221B Baker Street, his back to the door, playing an original piece on his violin. It was new, a birthday present from a sibling he hadn't spoken to in quite some time.
"Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made!" exclaimed Mrs Hudson as she entered the room. The tall man continued his tune whilst the landlady tidied up. He didn't notice Mrs Hudson throwing away the finger stuck in the drain of his sink because he was too absorbed in his thoughts regarding the case Lestrade had called him about earlier that day.
Sherlock suddenly stopped playing and ran out the door, putting on his coat as he ran.
Mrs Hudson muttered disapprovingly at the skull on the mantel piece about severed fingers and smelly science experiments before leaving the flat, closing the door behind her.
John had just returned from his military service as an army doctor. One close call almost ended his military career, but that bullet had been, literally, dodged.
He sat in his new office at Barts admiring the view out of the window. He was retiring from the military now, and was excited to be starting this new, far less dangerous job. He had a date that night with Mary Cooper, a girl who also worked at Barts that he had met at lunch time.
John felt great. Everything was good and happy. He'd found a flat in London that he could afford with is new salary without needing a flat share. His cases were simple and there was no chance of any of his patients dying on him. He had seen enough death in his years in Afghanistan.
Mike Stamford, John's friend from their days at school in Barts, knocked on the door. They had a nice, polite conversation about the weather and football before John left to pick up Mary downstairs.
John entered Mary's lab to be met by a man in a too tight shirt peering into a microscope, muttering about flower gardens and insecticides.
"Hello," John said.
The man looked at John for a moment then said,
"Molly went to change her lipstick. She will be right back for your date."
"Molly..?" John said confusedly.
Mary came in wearing an uneven amount of red lipstick. It was splotched from her trying to wipe it off with a paper towel and failing.
John smiled, "You look lovely."
"Lie," said Sherlock.
"Excuse me, who are you?" John said angrily.
"John, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, Dr John Watson."
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan. How did you - ,"
"Let's just go, shall we?" said Mary tugging on John's arm. He followed her out of the lab.
They got on the lift and pushed the button for up.
"Who was that?" asked John.
"Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective."
"A what?"
"Consulting detective. He's brilliant. He works with Scotland Yard on cases and things."
"No way, Scotland Yard doesn't consult amateur detectives."
"You should see what he can do. He knew you were in the army."
"Not that hard of a guess. He's a bit rude."
"A bit?! He is one of the rudest men I've met in my entire life."
"But you like him?"
Mary didn't answer.
"He called you Molly. What is that? Like a nick name?"
"He doesn't actually know my name. He never asked. Just came in one day with one of the men from Scotland Yard and called me Molly and said he needed to use my lab for something."
"You are too nice for you own good," John said tapping her on the nose.
The got off the lift and walked down the road to the pub Mary liked. They chatted about work and telly and Mary told John a funny story about the family of a man she did a post mortem on who brought a Chihuahua in to the hospital to see his master's body for the last time.
Walking in to the pub, John literally ran into someone in a wheel chair.
"Captain!" The woman exclaimed, saluting.
"I'm sorry," John said stepping back. He looked at the woman and then suddenly recognized her.
"Private Holmes?"
"You do recognize me," she said.
"Mary, this is Private Roselyn Holmes. She saved my life!"
"Nice to meet you, Roselyn" Mary said shaking her hand.
"Call me Rose, please."
"How have you been?" John asked still surprised to see her.
"Well, wheelchair ridden."
"Jesus, I'm sorry," said John. "This woman saved my life. It was the second week she'd been under my command and she pushed me out of the way of a bullet."
"Wow, that's amazing," said Mary.
"Well, what else would I do?" said Rose smiling.
"It paralyzed you?" John asked.
"No, but it did wipe out one of my legs for a few months. I was sent home. I was deployed three months back and a bomb broke my spine. I only got back last month," said Rose.
"It was wonderful seeing you," said John.
"It was! We should meet up again soon," said Rose. "Mary, we should go shopping some time."
"Absolutely. What is your phone number?"
The three exchanged their numbers. Rose left, John and Mary had their date, and Sherlock Holmes, back at the hospital, solved his case.
Author's Note: I hope you liked this first chapter! I'm new to Sherlock fan fiction so please review.