Sherlock knew himself … and he knew others as well – well enough.
Sherlock always dressed in a tailored suit. He personally didn't care about how he looked, but he knew others did. His sharp eyes never missed the crinkling of the brow, the straightening of the spine, and the stiffening of the muscles in the face – no matter how small the gesture. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that a professional and strict appearance always granted respect.
His apartment on the other hand was less tidy.
It was an ordered chaos. He knew where everything was, of course. It wasn't filthy – he hated filth – but it was what a normal person would call a mess. It was almost possible to follow his thought process from looking at how he ordered the stack of books on the table.
He imagined it was something like inside his own head. Inside, it was an explosion of information coming together, falling apart, dancing and weaving. He had trouble concentrating.
The only thing that he kept in pristine condition, other than his wardrobe, was his violin. His vintage Mittenwald violin. He had to replace the broken horse hair on the wooden bow recently and buy more resin after he had shattered it on the wall in a fit when the ennui became too unbearable, but he was always gentle with the violin. Like a ritual, he cleaned the resin powder off the body after playing, tucked it in every night inside its snug and protective case, and replaced the strings with fresh ones before they became warped and unable to stay in-tune.
Despite his maintenance of the instrument, his Bach always sounded a little weak. Fortissimo, the sheet music commanded! Legato, it pleaded. The strings failing to produce the vibrations he wanted. It didn't matter if he wanted the texture smooth or coarse, something was a little off. There's always something.
There was a reason he liked Baroque. Unlike the Classical and Romantic era, he resonated with the music composed during this period. It was bold, powerful, complex and – dare he say it? – a little dark.
Like his black suit.
Like how he always kept the lights in the lab dim.
Never mind that the fluorescent dyes he used in there were light-sensitive, he really did prefer the low lighting. He also never wore gloves, safety glasses or protective clothing inside the lab. It was defiance and it was risk-taking. He knew how Molly fretted needlessly over his apparent lack of precaution. He thought her concern absurd, as if he, the one with the precise violinist's fingers, would slip or knock over that purple carcinogenic stain, break the thin glass slides, spill that high pH buffer, and cross-contaminate the microliter volume pipettes with that neurotoxic reagent. Please! He was no amateur.
He had lived day to day like this. Searching for the next case, the next excitement-thrill-adventure-challenge … something! He welcomed opposition, any threats to his safety and wellbeing, because for some reason he felt the most alive when he gambled with his life.
There was a steady trickle of cases but not enough to keep his wild mind occupied, none of them compelling enough. He was getting bored. Bored, bored, bored!
The boredom settled, crushed heavily over him and one day, he decided he wanted to live in London. Escaped, more like. It was time to call in that favor from Mrs. Hudson. He had always liked the rooms at 221B Baker Street. He had dropped very obvious hints, impossible to miss – at least he thought so – about his interest. After Mrs. Hudson missed the first two hints, Sherlock just flat out said it. It was gracious of him, really. He excused her slow uptake; it was probably due to her old age, he reasoned.
Now to find a flatmate.
The first one was a joke. That was his profession: a comedian. He wasn't very good and when Sherlock challenged him to some verbal sparring, the man eventually lost his sense of humor and his wit. It hadn't taken Sherlock five minutes before the man left in a huff. Useless.
The next one was a musician. A guitarist. Sherlock could tell just by the pattern of callouses on the man's fingers. The two hadn't lasted more than ten minutes, arguing over what was considered good music. Sherlock was petty and when he failed to convince the man of the deplorable state of modern music, he dug deep. Through practiced use of abductive reasoning, Sherlock unearthed every secret the man displayed on his person. It wasn't difficult and the sight of the man flinching and fleeing pleased him.
The third one was the most interesting. Not good for a flatmate, but good for temporarily relieving Sherlock of his boredom. This one was a murderer. Sherlock could see the man was a little unnerved when he had given him his full attention: Sherlock had smiled at him.
This man didn't slouch, constantly tense. He had some stubble and he dressed casually with loose blue denim jeans and a checkered flannel shirt. Sherlock had held out his hand for a handshake. The man hesitated a little before accepting. From this, Sherlock knew that the man was right-handed and had recently been injured. What was inconsistent was the man's clean hands. The rest of him looked like it was put together in ten minutes that morning, maybe less. The smudge on the bottom of the left leg of his jeans more than indicated his general disinterest in his appearance. The roughness of his hands did not match any art or skill; it was just rough and strong. The maintenance of his hands was a new development then. Perhaps a reaction to something unpleasant that he had done with his hands?
Oh this was fun!
That was just the beginning of Sherlock's assessment of him. By the end of the day, he had lost a potential flatmate but had gained another successfully completed case.
There were other candidates after that, but none of them had the qualities Sherlock was looking for. It was a little dramatic but he had told Stamford, "Who would want me as a flatmate?" He was more than aware that he had been the one to drive the others away.
He had almost given up.
Then John limped in – and Sherlock knew. He knew. They were alike.
Here, here was a man just as thirsty as he was.
From blood and screams, Sherlock was born this way, but John … well John survived the fires of war. Oh and yes, let us not forget the blood and screams.
Sherlock Holmes finally found a flatmate in John Watson.
The day he acquired a flatmate was the first day his apartment was a little tidier. The first day his violin's vibrato sounded a little sweeter. The first day the world became a little more focused.
AN: I've put a little of myself in this story. I played the violin for seven years and I work in a research laboratory. I've seen no TV show that had gotten lab work right and I can tell the actor who plays Sherlock does not play the violin. Still, it is a very enjoyable show. XD