Sometimes you meet someone, and it's so clear that the two of you, on some level belong together. As lovers, or as friends, or as family, or as something entirely different. You just work, whether you understand one another or you're in love or you're partners in crime. You meet these people throughout your life, out of nowhere, under the strangest circumstances, and they help you feel alive. I don't know if that makes me believe in coincidence, or fate, or sheer blind luck, but it definitely makes me believe in something.

- Unknown

The day everything changed began much like any other. I was woken from a nightmare early in the morning. Images of men being pulled in on stretchers, shaking hands trying to hold entrails in the gaping hole of a stomach. I heard voices shouting my name, others screaming for help. I stood in the middle of it all, feeling pulled in every direction until I woke up.

I went about my morning as usual, grabbing my walking cane that leaned against my bedside table and getting a cup of coffee and an apple, my usual breakfast after the more realistic nightmares that made me feel too sick to be hungry.

They usually put me off food in general, but I knew that it would be bad for me to not eat. I sat down at my small desk with my tiny breakfast and reached into the top left drawer, pulling out my purple laptop. Below it lay my gun. It was the only thing I kept in my flat that tied me to the war. To be honest, there wasn't anything truly personal in my flat at all.

I opened my laptop and logged onto my online blog. I stared at the top. Signed in as Anna H. Watson. I sighed, rubbing my eyes. Nothing came to mind. Nothing at all. That was the usual. My therapist thought it would be good for me to write a blog detailing what was bothering me. Like writing about it would make me feel better. So far, I had many things that bothered me. But none that I could write about. It all felt too personal, like whoever reading it would judge me on how I felt. I really didn't need that.

That afternoon, I went to Dr. Reinhardt's office for our scheduled meeting.

"How's your blog going?" She asks.

I drum my fingers on the armrest of the stiff leather chair I sat in. "Good." I said firmly with a tight smile while nodding my head. "Good."

Being a therapist, I assumed Dr. Reinhardt saw right through that. I was correct. "You haven't written a word, have you?" She asked, the slightest hint of amusement leaking into her voice.

My eyes were drawn to the pad of paper she kept in her lap as she scribbled something down. I frowned. "You just wrote "still had trust issues"." I looked back at her accusingly as she glanced at her notes.

"And you read my writing upside down," she retorted calmly. She raised an eyebrow. "You see what I mean?"

I pursed my lips and looked out the window, deciding not to answer that question. Dr. Reinhardt, and therapists in general, didn't sit well with me. If I wanted to talk to someone about something, then I would. But, seeing as I didn't know many people, a therapist seemed as good a place as any.

'Wow,' I thought, shocking myself. 'I'm lonely enough to go to a therapist just for someone to talk to. Fantastic'.

"Anna." I looked back at Dr. Reinhardt She must've been saying my name for some time, because the look her dark brown eyes sent my way was one of veiled concern. I sent her a believable smile.

"Anna, you're a soldier. It's going to take you awhile to adjust to civilian life, and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

I hated that bit. The part where I knew she was right but I just hated to admit it. I shut my eyes and sighed, giving in and telling myself I'd write before I went to bed that night. There was just one problem with that. I had nothing to write about. My days consisted of reading, taking an occasional walk in the park, visiting the market, and going back to my small flat. Occasionally I'd go to therapy. Other than that, I was leading a very dull, very boring life.

"Nothing happens to me." I said tiredly. Yes. Nothing happens to Anna Watson.

Of course, I did say this was the day that something changed for me. And that thing began in the park.

I frequently visited the small park close to Dr. Reinhardt's office to relax and watch other people have fun. It didn't make me any happier, but I firmly believed that with my limp, I couldn't have much fun anymore. I couldn't ride a bike, couldn't swim. I couldn't go on my runs, and I couldn't go on relaxing walks before my leg began to bother me too much.

I was taking a walk through the park when it started. I was going to visit the coffee house across the street but decided to go through the park to get there that day. It was longer, but it was nice out and I wasn't feeling as depressed as I usually was. As I was walking, I heard someone call my name. "Anna! Anna Watson!"

I turned towards the voice to see a short, fairly large man jogging after me. He held a newspaper and a briefcase in his hand. He looked vaguely familiar. "Stamford, Mike Stamford," He said with a grin. "We were at Barts together!"

I blinked. Mike Stamford? Oh, yeah. He wore glasses, his hairline was receding, and he was quite a bit bigger than I remembered, but that was him. I smiled and shook his hand. "Yes, sorry. Hello, Mike."

"Yeah, I know, I got fat," He joked, and I smile again, even though it feels inappropriate. Mike was always good at keeping conversations light. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

I feel that twitch in my hand start up again and I balled it up in a fist. Right. I forgot Mike had been a bit dense as well. "I got shot." I said simply with a shrug.

Mike walked with me over to the coffeehouse and then asked me to join him in the park once more. I decided to, mainly out of boredom. It was nice to see Mike, of course, but he seemed eager to talk about Afghanistan. I, however, was not.

"Are you still at Barts, then?" I asked Mike to fill in the silence that had come after he asked me if I was seeing anyone.

"Teaching now, yeah," Mike said with a grin. "Bright young things that we used to be. God, I hate them." I chuckled. I remembered my days back in school. I'd been quite the troublemaker. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension much longer. I can't let Jamie send anymore checks." I shook my head and took a sip from my coffee.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else." I thought about how correct that is. It was easier being there after I realized that I couldn't let one event shape my whole life. It was good for me to be in London. I couldn't bear to leave it after making such progress. I was even getting comfortable walking around at night. "That's not the Anna Watson I know."

"I'm not really the Anna Watson you used to know," I joked dryly, shifting my coffee cup out of my left hand when I felt it shaking.

"Couldn't Jamie help?" Mike asked.

I scoffed. "No, I couldn't do that. Divorces are expensive, you know? Got enough going on without me asking for more money." I sighed, rubbing my eyes. "I don't think I can afford my flat much longer."

"I don't know," Mike shrugged, stretching back on the bench. "Get a flatshare. That might work."

I laughed. "Come on, Mike. Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Mike chuckled, as though something is terribly funny about what I'd said. I looked at him over my coffee cup curiously as I took a drink. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today," He said humorously.

"Who was the first?" I asked curiously.

I glanced around the hospital curiously as Mike led me down to the morgue. When he'd said it was a friend of his, I'd understood. But this friend was beginning to sound quite odd. They didn't work at the hospital, but spent a lot of time down in the morgue. Mike led me into the morgue's lab and held the door for me. I nodded in thanks and limped into the room.

A man stood behind the counter covered in beakers, fluids, and glass containers. He had dark, curly hair and sharp cheekbones. He had a short mouth but his lips were full. He was quite beautiful. He sent Mike and I a glance before returning to whatever he was working on. "Bit different from when I went here," I said to Mike.

"You've no idea," Mike agreed.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" I turned towards the man. "There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.

"I prefer to text." I raised my eyebrows. The man sure seemed detached.

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike said. "Left it up at reception."

"Oh, here," I said, fishing into my pocket and grabbing my phone. "Use mine." I may as well be polite, right?

"Oh." He glanced away from me for a moment, as though this was actually surprising to him. "Thank you." He got up and came towards me. He buttoned up his black jacket on the way. He was smartly dressed.

"This is an old friend of mine, Anna Watson." said Mike. The man gave no kind of greeting. I pursed my lips and passed him my phone.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

I froze. Mike sent me a thin smile and nodded. I frowned and looked at the tall, dark-haired man beside me. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He reiterated.

I pursed my lips into a line and glanced at my shoes before looking at him. "Afghanistan. How did you know?" I never finished that sentence before he interrupted me. The door opened and I turned to see a young woman about my age come in. She was pretty, though she immediately got flustered when she said the man beside me. She obviously had a crush on him, judging from the way she bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Ah, Molly... coffee, thank you." I think he was saying thank you to the both of us as he passed my phone back to me. "What happened to the lipstick?" I glanced over curiously to see the girl named Molly sputter for a moment.

"It wasn't working for me," she said, attempting to be flippant.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement." The man began to walk away. "Your mouth's too small now."

I made a sound of indignation. "That's a bit rude," I muttered to the Molly woman. She shrugged with a smile, as though she expected it. She walked back out of the lab.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the man asked.

I glanced at Mike again. Who was this guy? "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," the man explained. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked at me then, his face expectant.

I looked at Mike. "You told him about me?" How had he done that? He said he'd left his phone in his coat. That was up in reception. I hadn't seen him get it out on the cab ride here.

"Not a word," Mike said quite honestly.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" I asked as I looked back at the tall man. God, he was tall. At least six foot. Maybe over?

"I did." He grabbed a long, dark coat off a chair and began to put it. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He sent me a look that made it seem like that should have been obvious.

"How did you know about Afghanistan, then?" I asked.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," said the man, completely ignoring my question. "Together we ought to able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He slipped a scarf over his head and knotted it. "Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked around me and headed for the door.

I blinked. Riding crop? What the hell? "Is that it?" I asked, turning to look at him, trying my best to keep my face blank.

"Is that what?" asked the tall man, removing his hand from the door.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

The tall man glanced at Mike quickly before returning his gaze to me. "Problem?"

I chuckled. Right. Problem. Yes, bit of a problem. "We don't know anything about each other, for starters. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

The tall man glanced over me from head to toe, as though trying to take in every aspect of me. Finally, he opened his mouth and said, "I know you're an army medic and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid." I glanced down at my leg and shuffled awkwardly. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He passed me back my phone.

How did he know all that? While he had been wrong about one thing, the rest of it was spot on. And Mike said he's never mentioned me before. This was my first time meeting him. I felt my cheeks begin to color with anger, though I once again kept my face blank. Years of practice with drill sergeants trying to make you flinch or show emotion on your face. The tall man began to leave again. Before he completely left, however, he stuck his head back inside the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He made some sort of weird clicking noise with his tongue as he winked. "Afternoon!"

I blinked as the door shut. I looked at Mike who answered my silent question. "Yeah. He's always like that."

Sherlock

I hear the door open and turn my head. It's Mike and some woman I've never seen before. My eyes immediately rove over her body once, twice, and then I turn away.

Tanned face and neck, as well as hands. No tan on her forearms or chest. Been to war. Afghanistan or Iraq? Hasn't eaten well in a long time. Dark circles under the eyes, suggesting insomnia or, more likely, war nightmares. Has a limp and walks with a cane. Again, mostly likely the cause of war. Her hair is long and pulled up into a ponytail. Probably not a style preference, suggested by the way she continues to tuck too-short pieces behind her ears with an annoyed face. Not enough money for a haircut. The hair is colored like sunlight, though not artificially. Natural highlights of lighter blond peek out. It's wavy and curled at the tips. Obviously comfortable with her body, judging by the confidence in her stance. Her clothes are plain yet feminine. Dark red shirt, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Unbuttoned slightly to reveal a white camisole beneath that doesn't show any cleavage. Not in search of attention. Dark wash jeans with a few runs in them. Not placed there for style, but rather from wear and tear. Scuffed black boots that go up to her knees. They've attempted to be cleaned recently. Probably one of her more favorite articles of clothing. One of the more expensive ones, too, no doubt. Her irises are large, with thick, long eyelashes. Chocolate brown eyes. Full lips. Delicate nose turned up slightly at the tip. White, even teeth. Good dental hygiene. Her eyes take in the room first, scanning over everything. Medical career. Doctor? Army medic, then.

My mind falters for a moment as her eyes look at me now. Turned in my direction, locked on mine. She catches me looking. Her eyes stare straight into mine, boring into me. They zero in on me, and I can't help but have a very strong sense of deja vu. She's familiar, but only vaguely so. I already know her from somewhere. Where, though? Have I deleted it? I must have. She can't have been a terribly important person for me to have deleted it. But something is poking at the back of my mind still. Who is she? I know her from somewhere. Where? Where? I look away.

I stop. I only have moments to form a sentence before they think I am ignoring their presence. I open my mouth and say the only thing that seems reasonable at the time.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?"

He's saying he doesn't have it. Drat. I suppose I could just ask Molly, or... Wait a moment. She just spoke. The woman. "Oh, here. Use mine."

Generous as well. Kind. She's smiling at me, but in a way that is not forced. She seems to generally enjoy meeting people. How odd. I offer a thanks and take the phone. As I send the text, I take in the phone and all that is on it. Not originally hers. Scratches. Given by a drunk. Engraving for a boy. Sentimental gift? More than likely.

She seems shocked by me, something I fully expected. At the same time though, she seems slightly curious. The entire time we talk, I see her almost physically attempt to keep up with what I'm saying, which is odd given that most people give up after minutes.