[A/N: Fill for the Sherlock kink meme over on Livejournal. A short one to start, but planning a couple more chapters in the future, though I'm not entirely sure where I'm going. Is John/Sherlock pre-slash if you squint, possiblt? :3]
It's been an hour since the end of the session but John's still standing outside the building, lingering just beyond the revolving doors amongst the smokers, distinctly out of place. He smiles politely at the one woman who catches his eye and pretends that he doesn't mind breathing it in, that he is actually standing here for his health and not because he can't bear the thought of going back to a flat that even a student might think is a bit dingy and tight for space to argue relentlessly with his therapist. All in his head, of course.
He presses his thumb to his temple, hoping to relieve the steady thrumming that the thought is already beginning to inspire, leaning to one side to spare his aching leg. He's not sure these appointments are really worth the grief anymore.
A loud, vulgar snuffling around his feet prompts him to open his eyes, falling on the small, heavyset dog that's nudging its squashed nose against the rubber tip of his cane, lifting its red, drooping eyes to look woefully up at him. He half-smiles at it and its tongue lolls heavily out of its mouth in response, apparently pleased with what little attention its managed to glean from him.
A piercing whistle halfway down the street gets both of their attention. The dog turns towards what John can only guess must be its owner, its stump of a tail wagging once in reply, but it seems reluctant to move. The man comes to meet him instead, drawing down the lip of the baseball cap on his head and stuffing long, pale hands into his pockets.
"Gladstone." His voice is deep, surprisingly rich and, for a moment, John gapes at him in mild astonishment, but the man doesn't pay him any mind. He bends down, hitching up old jeans that are clearly too large for his thin frame, and ties a lead to the dog's makeshift collar, muttering reprimandingly. "What's gotten into you?"
The dog – Gladstone? Bit strange, and not really to John's taste but, alright. – looks to John as though hoping he'll vouch for his innocence, and the man's quick to follow his gaze. His eyes are so vividly blue and so fiercely cognizant that they give John his second surprise in less than two minutes. They simply stare at each other in silence, the man's hand – he must be a pianist, John thinks distantly – strokes absently at Gladstone's ears.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John blinks at him. "I don't – What?"
"It's a simple enough question," the man says dully, ignoring Gladstone as licks enthusiastically at those long, agile fingers, lapping up every little smattering of attention. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I – Afghanistan. How did -"
"I notice things," he cuts in evenly, lowering his head and leaving John to direct his bewildered stare at the top of his baseball cap instead. He talks as though directing a personal question at a stranger on the street is the normal course of things and not half as astounding as John seems to think it is. "And you should fire your therapist. She's clearly useless."
And before John has a chance to even consider forming a reply, his leg's being pointed out and he notices for the first time that the smokers around him are slowly edging away, trying to avoid looking at the scene, afraid of being sucked in. "Psychosomatic limp. It's been a few months, at least. She can't be much good if she hasn't even been able to rectify –"
"No, wait, hang on. How do you know I've got a -"
"Just look at where you're standing." The man straightens, tying the end of the lead around his wrist, and John's confronted with those blue eyes again. "You don't have to be especially clever to figure it out."
He graces John with a brief, humourless smile, his eyes shining with something he can't quite define, a sort of exhilaration, like he's revelling in knowing just how right he is. He can tell by John's puzzled frown that he's certainly not far off the mark. "And I'll bet the tenner in your pocket that that limp of yours is indeed psychosomatic. Has to be if you're seeing a specialist."
Finally, John composes himself enough to snap his mouth closed and, with a grudging smile, he reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet, drawing out the single five pound note - at least he can't be right about everything - he has and holding it out to him. "Unbelievable."
"Cheers." The fiver quickly disappears into the many pockets of the man's coat and, with a satisfied grin, he turns to leave.
"Hold on, what about you?" John's not sure what compels him to say it, what it is about him that he finds so undeniably fascinating, but he can't just let him leave, let him disappear back into the ether.
"Me?"
"Yeah. You're not going to tell me all of that without at least telling me a little about you, are you?" It sounds like a challenge, and John hopes it's enough to draw him in. The smile is a little less predatory now, softened by intrigue, and John knows that, somehow, he's managed to hook him.
"My name's Sherlock. And if you value any of your hard earned cash, I suggest you stay away from Baker Street in future."
"Is that where you live?"
"In a manner of speaking."
And, with that, he molds into the crowd of Londoners hurrying to and from work, lost in a sea of faces. John spends the next two weeks searching for blue eyes and a small, pot-bellied dog.