John Watson slowly opened his eyes, quickly shutting them to block out the sunshine streaming in through the room. For a second, just a brief moment, he panicked. He didn't know where he was. It was like that strange feeling one gets when they fall asleep with their shoes on and wakes up with them off. Then he opened his eyes again and really focused.

Oh, right. He was in his own flat; his minute, postage-stamp-sized flat. He doesn't know why he's surprised. It's not like he had anywhere else to be. He can't even remember the last time he went out. It seems like forever since he's been to the movies or even to the pub. Feels like ages since he's talked to Harry. Maybe he should give her a call. Won't help to just drop in on her, though. Especially not this early in the morning. If John had to guess, he'd say she would be asleep. Maybe he'd call her out for dinner. It'd be nice to spend an evening with his sister. It'd be nice to have some friends, too.

Not that he didn't have any friends; he had plenty, but most were still off in Afghanistan. For a second, he misses being there. It was never boring there, to say the least. At least he wasn't lonely. But no, he shakes the thought from his head. Better to be bored and safe than excited and in danger. At least that's what he tries to tell himself.

He sits up in bed slowly. John rubs his eyes and pulls his hand back in shock. There are tears dried on his cheeks and the rims of his eyes. Had he been crying in his sleep? He can't remember. He doesn't remember what he even dreamed about. He'd find it odd if he weren't so relieved that he couldn't remember if it was about Afghanistan.

Sunlight (pretty rare in London at this time of year) is shining through the window. It seems even brighter from the liberal amount of snow on the ground. John can see it from his window. It hurts his eyes to see the way the sun reflects off the snow. He wonders what time it is.

'Can't be too late,' He figures. His time spent abroad had made him an early riser. If he really let himself sleep, knowing that he didn't have to be up early, he still only got a solid eight hours. He glances around the room, and then leans over the side of the bed and picks up his watch. It was nearly 11.

"Jesus," He mutters to himself, running his hand down his face. He can't remember what time he fell asleep (in fact, he can't remember even crawling into bed) but he feels out of sorts. He must have been sleeping for a really long time. Despite that, he feels reluctant to get out of bed. He doesn't feel tired or sick, but something was…wrong. Something felt off and he couldn't figure out what it was.

He pulls the covers off himself and gets out of bed. Even the way his feet feel on the floor feel wrong. He can tell it is going to be a bad day. It must be. This must be his subconscious telling him to just stop and get back in bed and save himself the trouble. He goes to the bathroom to relieve himself.

Once out, he grabs an apple and sits down at the desk where his laptop is. He opens the Internet, going to his blog website. For a few moments, he stares at it, puzzled. There is only one entry, and it simply says, "Nothing ever happens to me."

After a while, he opens up a new blog entry and begins to write.

:::

This seems to be my first blog post in two years. It is the day before Valentines Day, and it seems I am alone…again. Never really liked Valentines Day. Seemed a bit silly, if you ask me. I don't know. I suppose I was hoping it would be a bit different this time around. It'd be…nice to have someone make plans with. To have a girlfriend or…yes, it'd be nice.

I feel out of sorts today. Remember when you were a kid and you would fall asleep in the car and wake up in your own bed? I suppose that's a bit how I feel. Lost. I have no reason to be.

Snowed a bit over the night.

I can see why I haven't written a blog post in two years. I'm not very good at it.

:::

He saves the post and closes the laptop. He sees the light on the answering machine flashing, signaling that he has a missed message.

He hits the playback button and goes to the kitchen (if one is generous enough to call it that) to make him a cup of coffee. It isn't gourmet, just the instant powder in some water. It's never really bothered John before, but today he kind of hates it. The answering machine beeps twice, signaling that it is an old message, before playing.

"John, where the hell are you?" John recognizes Clara's voice, vaguely surprised that she is calling. "You said you'd meet me at St. Barts! I told you that this job interview is really important, and I can't guarantee that Lorelei will be around after noon, so hurry up!"

John's eyes widen as he vaguely remembers Clara calling him earlier that week to tell him about a position at the hospital near her house that just opened up. She said something about John needing a job and that she had a friend pull some strings…or something like that. He can't really remember. As he quickly moves to the shower, he is cursing the fact that he could forget something as important as a job interview. It was just absurd. He barely had any time to get ready. St. Barts was about 20 minutes away, and it was already 11.

After John showered and shaved, he was grabbing a suit from the plastic dry cleaner wrapping and throwing it on. He hadn't even laid it out the night before. He was completely unprepared. This was so unlike him!

He didn't have time to get breakfast. He stuffed his wallet in his back pocket and then took off out of the apartment. He didn't have much other choice but to take a cab and hope they got them there in time.

::::

He was really out of sorts. He has a kind of déjà vu feeling about this floor of St. Barts, but he can't recall off the top of his head if he had been there before.

The job interview had gone well enough. Dr. Lorelei Tebond had been a very strict and grim looking woman, but John didn't really have a problem with that. A job was a job. John still couldn't shake that weird feeling. It was like he had gotten home and hadn't remembered driving there. Almost as if he had been functioning on autopilot.

Maybe it's just because he was tired. Yeah, that's it. Perhaps he'd go down to the eating hall, get a cup of coffee. That'll help. He saw a little map on the wall, and he stopped in front of it, looking for the floor that the eating hall was on. He hadn't noticed a very tall, thin man with dark hair walking towards him until he had knocked right into John, sending John falling to the floor and the man to his knees. He had been carrying a thick stack of papers and they all went fluttering to the floor in a big mess.

"Damn!" Said the man, his voice unexpectedly deep. John was on the floor, rubbing his knee where it had connected with the wall as he fell. He looked up at the man.

He was very pale, and had a very interesting facial structure. The height of his cheekbones seemed unreal and his almond eyes were huge. His hair was a little long and dark and curly. He wore a long black coat and a blue scarf. As he turned his gaze to John, he could see that the stranger had either gray eyes or a very light blue.

"Watch where you're going!" The man spat. John laughed in disbelief.

"What, me? You knocked me over!" He said indignantly. The stranger ignored him, muttering the word "idiot" as he began to gather the papers on the floor. John sighed.

"Here, let me help." He said quietly, grabbing a few papers near him and starting to stack them. John could see the man jerk his head up at him, but then he just went back to the task at hand. There were so many papers that it took quite a few minutes to put them back into a pile and even after the man was flipping through them, seeming to rearrange them.

After another moment, and the papers were in order, both men stood up.

"I suppose I should thank you." Said the stranger reluctantly. The words came out bitter, as if he thought it was entirely beneath him to have to thank someone else. "Though if you had just gotten out of my way, I wouldn't have needed your assistance."

John stared up at the man. He was quite tall (thought it didn't take much to be taller than John) and was really a bit beautiful. Even John had to admit that.

"You're welcome." John said slowly, if not a little sarcastically. The two just looked at each other for a long moment. The corner of the man's lips turned up in a very small smile.

"How did the job interview go? I hope you weren't late." He said. John was shocked. How had he known? He voiced the question aloud.

"Your suit." The man said. John looked down at what he was wearing.

"What about it?" He asked.

"You missed a belt loop. Your shirt isn't tucked in all the way and your tie is slightly crooked. Means you were in a hurry when you put it on," The man said quickly, looking over John again. "I'd say you've owned it a little over two years—I recognize the tie from a clothing line that was popular two years ago—and it is still a little bulky around the shoulders, so it wasn't made especially for you. The creases are still in the trousers from being folded and the receipt from the dry cleaners," He reached into John's inside pocket and pulled out a receipt John hadn't noticed before. He quickly looked over it. "Yes it says that you had taken this suit to be cleaned about 2 years ago. So you haven't worn this suit in two years. Why is that?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but the man continued on. It was either a rhetorical question or he had just asked it to himself.

"It means that you wear this suit only on special occasions. Couldn't be a Christmas party because the receipt says the suit was received in March, and you wouldn't wear this nice a suit to a birthday party, so it had to be something else. No, I suspect the last place you wore this suit to was a job interview." The man looked at John even more carefully. "Pair your clothing mishaps with the fact that you missed two spots while shaving and you have toothpaste on the edge of your mouth, I would say that you forgot you had a job interview this morning and was nearly late to it."

John stared in shock at the man. Had he really known all that just from looking at him? It was insane. This man had to be crazy. He was…

"Brilliant." John breathed. The man's eyes widened fractionally in surprise. "That was brilliant."

The man ducked his head slightly. "Thank you." He said.

"I'm John," He said, holding out his hand. "John Watson."

The man looked at John's hand with a slight air of caution, almost like he thought John was playing a rude trick on him.

"Sherlock Holmes." The man said, taking John's hand and shaking it. John was surprised to find the man's hand calloused. He looked so delicate that John had suspected he didn't work with his hands.

John grinned at the man. For some reason (and he really couldn't figure out what) John had immediately liked Sherlock.

"What are those papers for, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock's head jerked slightly to the left, as if in surprise that John had used his first name, but quickly moved on.

"They're for a case I'm working on." He said. John felt his eyebrows shoot up.

"You're a doctor?" John asked and Sherlock's lip twitched, though John couldn't tell if it was from amusement or disgust.

"No." He said. "I'm a consulting detective."

"Never heard of it." John said slowly, racking his brain for any memory on such a position.

"'Course you wouldn't," Sherlock said with a satisfied smile. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"So, what exactly does-?"

"Sherlock!" A pretty woman with long brown hair was turning around the corner, walking quickly towards the two of them and waving a file in her hand. "Sherlock, you forgot…"

Her voice died out, and her eyes widened as she caught sight of John. He looked back at her with a puzzled expression. She was staring at John like she'd seen a ghost.

"Oh, Molly, very good." Sherlock said. His tone was the same that one might praise a dog or a baby. It was a little degrading, if John was honest with himself. Sherlock flipped open the file and gestured at John. "John Watson, this is Molly Hooper. She works here in the hospital. Molly, John Watson. He used to be an army doctor in Afghanistan."

Both John and Molly quickly looked at Sherlock with surprised expressions. Sherlock was staring intently down at the file, quite oblivious. After noticing the silence, he looked up.

"What?" He asked.

"How did you know I was an army doctor?" John asked quietly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's a bit obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asked. "Haircut and posture says military. Sun damage on your lips and your hair is not naturally that bright. You wait two years to wear your nicest suit, so you're not the type to dye your hair. Means that hours in the sun have made it lighter. You favor your right left and your shoulder is still a bit stiff, so you've gotten shot and used to have a psychosomatic limp but it seems that you've recovered. And you're at a job interview at a hospital? You have delicate and steady hands, doctor's hands, so you must be a doctor. Afghanistan was a shot in the dark. Did I get it right?"

He didn't wait for an answer, just turned his gaze back to the file.

"You did." John said.

"Of course I did." Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"That…was amazing." John said. Sherlock jerked his head back towards John with the same shocked expression and John smiled back admirably. Molly was a few feet away, a confused and slightly panicked expression on her face.

"What are you doing today?" Sherlock asked. "I could use a doctor's perspective on this case."

"I…uh…sure. Sure. That would be…fine." John said, stammering for a moment. Sherlock smiled faintly.

"Good." He said, and then he turned and started walking down the hall, clearly expecting John to follow. "Afternoon, Molly!"

"Afternoon." Molly said very faintly, and John glanced at her with an uncomfortable look. Did she fancy Sherlock? He couldn't tell. John just cleared his throat, nodded at her and then followed Sherlock.

:::

The flat on Baker Street was charming, if a little bit cluttered. There were countless papers all over, boxes full of files and manila envelopes. Pictures of what seemed to be a bloody crime scene were taped above the mantelpiece. Books were sprinkled liberally all over the place. John could see an expensive looking violin placed carelessly on the coffee table.

There was a flurry of movement and John looked over to see Sherlock removing his scarf and coat. He tossed them onto the coffee table and turned so that John could see that he was wearing a light blue dress shirt and black trousers. The first few buttons were left open, revealing his pale throat. John had a sudden urge to cross the room and run his tongue and teeth along that throat. He quickly cleared his throat and looked away.

"Is that a skull?" John asked, pointing toward the mantelpiece, where a (possibly) human skull rested on top of a thick German dictionary and a book titled 'Jack the Ripper'.

Sherlock glanced over at the skull and smiled minutely.

"Friend of mine," Sherlock said, ignoring John's slightly alarmed look. Sherlock clapped his hands together and pointed off toward the kitchen with both index fingers.

"Tea?" He asked. John looked over at the entryway to the kitchen.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, sure. I'd love some." He said.

"Me, too," Sherlock sighed as he flopped himself on the couch. "Kettle is in the cupboard next to the sink. You know how to use a stove, don't you?"

He clasped his hands under his chin like he was in prayer and shut his eyes. John stared in disbelief. What a passive aggressive thing to do! Yet John wasn't angry in the slightest.

"John," Sherlock said, as if he enjoyed saying the name. "The tea."

"I'm not your house keeper." Muttered John, though there was a good-natured smile on his face. He had already started walking toward the kitchen so he didn't see Sherlock open one eye and smile after him.

The amusement John felt vanished almost immediately. The dining table was almost hidden under so many science tools that it wasn't as if he had walked into a kitchen but into a lab.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John asked in concern.

"Do try not to disturb any of the experiments; they are all in critical stages." Sherlock called.

John turned back to the kitchen, a bewildered look on his face. Luckily, it didn't seem that anything was cooking or on fire. It wasn't too smelly, either.

"Right." John muttered. He slowly advanced into the kitchen, glancing around. Yes, the papers books and files had migrated into the kitchen as well. There were some odd containers in the sink, filled with substances John felt he was better off not knowing about.

"Unless you have a strong stomach, I would frown upon you looking at the contents of the fridge," Sherlock warned from the other room. It made John want to run open to the fridge and yank it open but he quickly controlled the urge. He briefly wondered if there was something crazy in there, like fingers or a head, but he found that he really didn't care either way. For all he knew, Sherlock could be a psychopathic serial killer, and John found he didn't really mind. Unless he was planning on murdering John. Then were would be a problem.

He opened the cupboard next to the sink, spotted an ancient looking black kettle. He filled it with water (taking care to avoid the 'experiments' growing in the sink) and put it on the stove.

As it was heating, John turned back to the living room, where Sherlock was still resting. Actually, though Sherlock hadn't seemed to move, John saw that the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up and a nicotine patch had been applied to the inside of his arm.

"Nicotine patch?" John asked. He hadn't taken Sherlock to be a smoker, even if he didn't do it now.

Sherlock hummed in response. John looked off for a place to sit. Unfortunately, the wicker chair in the corner was stacked to the nines with books, and the desk chair had four boxes stacked on it. The sofa was the only available seat and Sherlock was currently sprawled across it.

"Two bodies," Sherlock said quietly.

"Pardon?" John asked.

"The case, John. Pay attention." Sherlock said in the same way one might scold a child. "Two bodies of men in their 30's were found in a warehouse on the east side of London."

Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John.

"They were found holding swords in their hands, but they were both shot directly in the heart. Gunpowder residue on their hands. Yet their bodies were facing away from each other." Sherlock said.

"So, they shot each other and someone else arranged the bodies to look otherwise." John said.

"That might be, but there was a witness to the entire thing." Sherlock said. "A blind man named Michael Haddison. Does this sound familiar to you?"

"Should it?" John asked.

"One dark day in the middle of the night, two dead men got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other. If you don't believe the story is true, ask the blind man, he saw too!" Sherlock recited.

"A poem?" John asked.

"Yes. Which makes it even stranger. I was—," The sound of the kettle screeching filled the room. John quickly turned and walked back in. He moved the kettle to a different burner and turned off the stove.

"Sherlock?" John called. "Where do you keep the tea?"

There was a brief moment of silence and then an earsplitting crash. John didn't flinch (years in the military had cured him of that habit) but he turned and moved quickly back to the living room.

Sherlock was standing and was staring down at the office chair, which he had either shoved or kicked to the ground. The boxes had spilled their contents, creating a huge mess. Sherlock took a deep breath and ran his hand through his dark curls.

"Sorry, tea?" Sherlock asked. "I'm afraid I don't remember."

And if John wasn't mistaken, Sherlock seemed to be very disturbed about that.

:::

Two hours had passed and John had quickly learned that Sherlock's idea of "getting a doctor's perspective on the case" was to sit on the sofa and watch Sherlock pace the room and mutter angrily.

"How? It doesn't make sense." He muttered. "I need to talk to the blind man. I need to interrogate him. There must be something in the statement that he left out. If I could get a look at his face!"

Sherlock sat down on the couch beside John. He hadn't acknowledged John's presence for half an hour. John was contemplating on leaving (after all, it didn't seem that Sherlock really need him) but he was surprisingly reluctant to go. He felt at home in the messy flat. He was even kind of fond of the eccentric Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't figure out why, but it was familiar and comforting.

"We need to talk to the blind man," Sherlock breathed. "Look at the report. His address should be on there."

John flipped through the pages and found the police report. He recited the address to Sherlock, who was pulling on his coat.

"Well?" Sherlock asked. John looked up.

"What?" He asked.

"You're coming with me," Sherlock said. He didn't phrase it like a question or even a confirmation. No, he almost whined it, as if it was painfully obvious and he couldn't believe that John had the gall to think otherwise.

"Oh, uh, okay." John said and he thought he heard Sherlock mutter something that sounded a lot like 'honestly, John' and it made John smile.

There was a cab going right by the flat as they were leaving and Sherlock managed to hail it down. By the time John had gotten into it, Sherlock had already given the cabbie the directions and was pulling away from the curb.

John gazed out the window. It was mid-afternoon and snow was softly beginning to fall.

"Got any plans tomorrow, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock jerked his head back towards John, his look questioning his sanity.

"Why would I have plans?" Sherlock asked.

"It is Valentine's Day." John said.

"Dull," Sherlock said in a disinterested tone, pulling his cell phone out of his coat pocket.

"So, no girlfriend, then?" John asked.

"Not exactly my area, John." Sherlock said. John didn't realize that he had been tensed up until he relaxed after hearing that. Sherlock was looking down at his phone and hadn't seen.

"Boyfriend?" John prompted. Sherlock turned his head to look at John accusingly, that same look like the one at the hospital that questioned if John was playing a joke on him. He stared at John for a long moment and then turned his look back to his phone.

"Oh, alright then." Sherlock said with a bored tone.

"Pardon?" John asked.

"I was under the impression that you were inviting me to spend Valentines Day with you." Sherlock answered. "And I accept."

"Oh," John said, dumb struck. He hadn't seen that coming. How had Sherlock even known that John was bisexual? It wasn't as if he was particularly flamboyant. In fact, he'd only ever had one boyfriend, and that was back when he was just a teenager. It hadn't ended well. Sherlock turned to look at John out of the corner of his eye and John wondered why Sherlock agreed.

"You aren't an imbecile like the others, I can see that." Sherlock murmured, reading John's emotions on his face. "And you haven't run away screaming by now, so that is always a good sign."

"People normally do that?" John asked.

"People don't appreciate me seeing things about them. It unsettles them. They like to think they can keep their secrets." Sherlock said, casting his eyes down at his phone. "So people don't really like me."

This seemed a very intimate confession, especially since they hadn't even known each other a day. John got the feeling that Sherlock was a very private person.

"Well, you can't really help it, can you?" He asked. "Besides, I haven't got any secrets to keep."

"I know." Sherlock said.

John felt a smile growing on his face. Sherlock's lips turned up at the corners for a barely noticeable smile.

"Now, back to the case." Sherlock said. "We're nearly there so I want you to…"

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he looked back out the window.

"We're not going the right way." He said in a hushed voice. Evidently the cabbie was taking them away from their destination.

"There is an intersection coming up," Sherlock whispered. "When I tell you to, I want you to get out of the cab and run as fast as you can."

John looked over at Sherlock and their eyes locked. This wasn't a trick, he could see that.

"Okay." John whispered. Sherlock's eyes blazed for a second and he nodded.

"Now!"

The car had just pulled to a stop at a red light when both Sherlock and John opened the doors on either side and climbed out. John had just gotten to a standing position when he felt like a bee had stung him on the neck. He cried out, reaching up and ripping a tranquilizer dart of his neck. It wasn't like a tranquilizer dart used on animals. It was a sleek silver dart with a long needle, and it was as thick as a bullet.

Already his arms felt numb and his vision was fuzzy. He lurched against the cab and behind him just in time to see Sherlock crumble to the ground. John struggled to stay conscious but his knees were already beginning to buckle. He saw the road jump up at him and then he saw darkness.