[Disclaimer: I own none of the characters in this story, merely a creative exercise and a bit of fun.]
Chapter 1
Doctor John Watson sat in the uncomfortably low backed chair with his right hand resting on his cane and his left pressed firmly against his thigh. He willed the hand not to twitch as his therapist pressed on in her line of obnoxiously intrusive questioning. He pointedly dodged half of her inquiries, just slouching low in his chair and waiting for the hour to end. Yes, he had been having nightmares. How much more needed to be said about it? That he'd woken up sweating, crying, shaking? That he found the idea of facing day after mundane day unbearable? That his own family, what was left of it anyway, was as unattractive an option as living on the street or, God forbid, leaving London? All of that was true, but he really didn't see how it was any of her business.
"How's your blog going?" She asked in a put on upbeat voice after several minutes of silence.
"Yeah, good." John said, sitting up a little straighter and clearing his throat. "Very good." He had always been a terrible liar.
"You haven't written a word, have you?" She said, dropping the front.
"You just wrote 'still has trust issues'." He countered immediately.
"And you read my writing upside down. You see what I mean?" She sighed. "You've got to open up for this process to be at all helpful." John sat in stubborn silence. "John, you're a soldier and it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you." She said sincerely. There was another long pause.
"Nothing happens to me." John said, deflated.
The television in the waiting room at St. Bartholomew's was always on and rarely paid attention to. In fact, the young man who sat the clerical desk couldn't remember an occasion where someone had actually asked for it to be turned up. That is, until the smartly dressed woman with short, dark curls had rather abruptly knocked on the glass divider and demanded it of him like it was his sole job. The woman in question never sat, choosing instead to pace in front of the set with her mobile in hand. The television was displaying a press conference at Scotland Yard.
"But you can't have serial suicides." One of the reporters on the television said adamantly.
"Well apparently you can." The Detective Inspector replied, clearly annoyed.
"These three people, there's nothing that links them?" Another reporter asked.
"There's no link we've found yet but we're looking for it. There has to be one." The DI said.
The woman in the hospital waiting room huffed loudly and tapped out a word on her phone before pressing send. A chorus of beeps came from the television and the woman's lips curled into a smug smile.
"If you've all got texts please ignore them." Said the lady Sergeant positioned next to the DI in front of the crowd of increasingly sceptical reporters.
"It just says 'Wrong'." One of the journalists said, holding up his phone.
"Can't you see how thick they are?" The dark haired woman said aloud, turning to one of the patients who was currently breathing heavily from a portable oxygen tank. The old lady just blinked over the top of her mask. "No, I don't suppose you can." The woman drawled before turning back to the set.
"As I say, these suicides are clearly linked. It's an unusual situation, we've got our best people investigating." The DI said. This time the woman laughed as she tapped out the word.
"Says 'Wrong' again." The same reporter interjected.
"I'm surprised that one can read." The woman said, once again to the old lady.
"Here you are. Bothering the patients?" A rail thin woman with her light auburn hair pulled back and a white lab coat on entered the room.
"Molly." The dark haired woman said, perking up instantly. "Do you have my body? Is it fresh?" Molly Hooper rolled her eyes and waved for the woman to follow her.
"Come on, Sherlock, before you give everyone a fright." Molly said. With one final glance at the press conference Sherlock Holmes followed, typing out one final message and clicking send.
The two women walked side by side down the corridor until the silence grew too uncomfortable for Molly. "You're looking well. Fit, I mean. Healthy." She said, smiling. It was Sherlock's turn to roll her eyes.
"Must we do this? The chit chat thing is so boring." Sherlock said, drawing out the last word with revulsion.
"I just meant that it's nice to see you, that's all." Molly said, her voice tight. "And that I'm glad you're well."
"I was never ill, contrary to what those idiotic support programs might say. I know that you're not an actual doctor, but one would assume you might have picked up a thing or two." Sherlock replied crisply. "Now are we going to get to it or would you like to discuss the weather next?"
"All right! Christ, why do I put up with you?" Molly asked as she shoved the double doors to the morgue open with both hands.
"Probably because you are lonely and I am the only one other than the pathologist who comes in here with a pulse and without tears and you haven't yet gotten around to telling him that your name is, in fact, Molly not Mary so I doubt you will work up the courage to inundate him with your drivel any time in the near future." She spoke quickly, enunciating every word with her posh accent while following Molly into the morgue and producing a riding crop from underneath her topcoat.
"It was a rhetorical question, Sherlock." Molly bit back as she wheeled a metal slab over towards Sherlock with a black body bag on it.
"The finer points of discourse are wasted on you, Molly. Stick with what you know, hm? Now, how long?" Sherlock asked, taking off her coat and scarf as Molly unzipped the bag.
"Changed quite a bit since my day." John said as he entered the lab at Bart's, leaning heavily on his cane as he looked around. A portly man in glasses followed him, smiling warmly at Sherlock as they entered.
Holmes, for her part, was leaning over a microscope and barely gave the two men a fleeting glance. "Mike, can I borrow your mobile? There's no service on mine." She asked without looking up, merely holding out her hand across the workstation.
"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked, more curious than suspicious.
"I prefer to text." Sherlock replied, still not looking up.
"Sorry, left it in my coat." Mike said, picking up a phial of something to examine. Sherlock's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch to signal her disappointment.
"Here... you can use mine." John said, partly as a way to wedge himself into the conversation and hopefully earn the overlooked introduction. Sherlock sat up straight and spun in her seat to look at him.
"Oh, thank you." She said, standing and crossing to where he was holding out his phone. She would have made him bring it to her, but his offer caught her off guard. As Sherlock took the phone from him they both gave each other appraising looks. Hers was quick and subtle whereas John's was lingering. As she typed away he looked her up and down. She was tall, for a woman. A few inches taller than he was and well proportioned. Her hair was dark, curled, and barely hit her jaw. It was neat, like everything about her: her nails, manicured but not polished, her slim fitting trousers and silky blouse, all pressed. Beyond all of that John took notice of the fact that she was quite beautiful. He took a moment to admire her smooth, pale skin and thick eyelashes while she was typing. He was having a good look at her full lips, pressed together in a line of concentration when they suddenly parted and spoke. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I'm sorry?" John said, startled by her question and slightly embarrassed that Mike may have noticed that he had been staring. Perhaps being flatmates with a woman isn't such a good idea.
"Which was it, in Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, looking up from the phone in her hands at John expectantly.
"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" John said uncomfortably, looking between Sherlock's pale mask and Mike's amused expression. Sherlock had catalogued every visible detail of John's appearance, from his close cropped sandy coloured hair to his polished but worn light brown oxfords.
"Ah, coffee!" Sherlock declared as Molly walked in, thankful for the distraction. She handed John his phone back and went to snatch the cup out of Molly's hand on her way back to the microscope. She intended to keep the good doctor in the dark a bit longer.
"Who's this, then?" Molly asked, bringing a hand up to her hair self consciously as she looked at John. She completely overlooked Mike, predictably. Sherlock had to fight the urge to snort.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said.
"Molly... Molly Hooper." She said, smiling.
"Uh, yeah. Pleasure." John said distractedly, still eyeing Sherlock. This time with suspicion.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock said as she bent over the microscope once more.
"Are you talking to yourself, again?" Molly asked sympathetically. Sherlock's mouth formed a firm line.
"I am asking Doctor Watson." She said.
"I'm sorry, what?" John had been left behind miles ago.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days, sometimes I talk all at once. I keep odd hours and I often bring work home with me. Any red flags? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock said, rattling off the most common reasons that previous cohabitants had kicked her out.
John smiled, clearly thinking that he'd caught on. "Oh, you told her about me." He said to Mike.
"Not a word." Mike held up his hands, looking like he was holding in a laugh.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John looked to Molly for help but she just smiled sweetly.
"I did." Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I spoke with our mutual acquaintance this morning about the fact that I was difficult to find a flatmate for and here he is, ta da, just back from lunch with an old friend. One who has clearly just returned from military service in Afghanistan. It was hardly a great leap of logic." She picked up her coat from the back of her chair and began putting it on.
"How did you know about Afghanistan? And that I'm a doctor?" John demanded.
"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Between the two of us we should be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, Got to dash." She looped her blue scarf around her neck. "I think I left my riding crop in the morgue." She flashed a brilliant smile and then headed for the door.
"That's it, then?" John said.
"That's what?" Sherlock took a step backwards and waited in the doorway.
"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat?" Now it was John's turn to feel like he was having to point out the obvious.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked. Honestly, what is it with people today wanting to talk incessantly?
"We don't know a thing about each other. You'd just live with a strange man without knowing anything about him? I don't even know where we're meeting or, hell, I don't know your name." John said.
Sherlock gave him a reproachful look. "I know that you're an army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother who you won't go to for help, even though he's clearly worried for you. Why is that, I wonder? Because of his drinking or because he recently left his wife? Then there's your therapist. . . thinks your limp is psychosomatic, which of course it is. That's quite enough to be going on with, don't you think? Military, strong sense of duty, a bit desperate but proud and principled. Plus, I'm fairly certain that I can outrun you, so I consider myself quite safe." The woman smirked and enjoyed the look of shock on John's face. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Ta." She walked out, letting the door swing shut dramatically behind her. Today is shaping up to be a good day. Lets see about those bruises.
"Yeah, she's always like that." Mike said.
[Huzzah, you made it to the end of my first chapter. This is my first fic and it is ongoing so reviews are not only appreciated but essential. Your feedback will determine how this story plays out.
With that said, I don't intend to borrow so heavily from the show's scenes/dialogue in the future but there is just so much of these early introductory scenes that are too perfect to tamper with.
Those of you who are wondering what the MA rating is for, there will eventually be smut, violence, drug use/references, and all sorts of angst-filled fun and action. Thank you very much for reading. I'll do my best to update twice per week.]