DISCLAIMER: Dialogue and characters belong to Sherlock BBC, not me! The prompt for this piece was inspired by a question posted on Tumblr by illness-and-instruments.
Damn this silly band on my wrist, always getting in my way. Soul mates, what a ridiculous notion. I am perfectly capable of living my life alone, just my work and me.
I glanced at my arm and watched as the numbers decreased—1 minute and 25 seconds. I could hear two pairs of feet on the stairs down the hall. And something else…an emphasis on one particular foot, heavier than the others. A metallic click. Most likely a cane. It didn't matter anyway, whoever walked through this door in 1 minute and 6 seconds. Ordinary people can be so fickle; they will get over the disappointment and find another soul mate. I scoffed again at the phrase.
30 seconds. The footsteps are getting closer.
15 seconds.
10 seconds.
3 seconds.
I glanced up from my work to see Mike Stamford walk into the room, whom I had been speaking to earlier about flatmates. Evidently he found one for me, for right behind him was a blonde man with a limp. A quick glance over him told me that he was a military doctor, recently discharged due to the injury in his leg. I glanced down again.
0000 days, 00 hours, 00 minutes, 00 seconds.
After all this time, this is what that silly band has been leading up to. Soul mates seemed a bit ridiculous, but flat mates on the other hand…I could work around that.
"Mike can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." I asked, not even glancing up.
"What's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text"
"Sorry, it's in my coat."
I sighed. Don't people usually carry their phones everywhere with them?
"Uh...Here. Use mine." I looked up finally at the blonde man. He had his arm extended, phone in hand.
"Oh…thank you." I at last managed to say, surprised. I'm not often surprised, it's an unusual feeling. Fascinating…and helpful. Two characteristics I would need in a future flatmate. Mike introduced him as an old friend, John Watson. John Watson. I smiled the tiniest bit as I walked towards him and took his phone.
It wasn't long until I got lost in my uncontrollable need to deduce everything I could about him. I have to admit, however, I gained more pleasure in his surprise than I have in anyone else. The look of wonderment and awe in his clear eyes urged me on. I could hear the irritating accusations of Mycroft in my head,
"Showing off again, are we, my dear brother?"
As I mentioned his limp, I couldn't help but look toward his arm, just barely covered by his sleeve. I knew what I would see, the line of zeros, just like on my own arm.
Another surprise, one that stopped me short. According to his band, he still had a few years left. I didn't understand, weren't they supposed to match up? Mine hit zero the very SECOND John Watson walked (or limped) into my life, and yet his continued to tick?
Gaining my composure quickly, I head for the door—only to realize I failed to mention my name. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street". Shutting the door behind me, I claw at the band on my wrist, desperately trying to take it off.
It's just as well. Soul mates…I laugh again. Ordinary people may perhaps need the companionship of another human being, but not I. I have lived my life very well without friends, and I plan to remain that way.
A flatmate. That's all he will ever be to me.
But as I glance down at my wrist once more, I felt a strange but small pain deep inside me, and for the first time in my life, I had no explanation.