Hello there! This is the beginning of a new fanfic I have been dying to write due to reading far too many Johnlock headcannons. The first chapter is always the chapter that makes an impression but I will admit that this falls below even my standards, since I normally write 5000+ word chapters. Nonetheless, I will steadily improve my word count and the fanfic altogether!

This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I hope it appeals to your liking in some way?

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock whatsoever. BBC and all that.


Observing people, deducing their little brains, was all I was doing when I happened to cross him. At first, I thought nothing of it, another unlucky man whom was doomed to the streets of London until his death came, swiftly and abruptly. He wouldn't last long; nobody ever does. People change on the streets when starvation and the cold ways touch their hearts. People can be quite contradictory to their personalities when desperation is involved, yet that didn't seem to phase the man in front of me. He appeared like he wanted it to come, his quick end, which was surprisingly odd to even my statures I suppose.

He was no different than most people I have seen around these parts, an ordinary man with nothing special about him in the slightest. His clothes spoke volumes with the quality and the bad taste in general. A torn jumper splattered with remnants of perhaps his own blood and filth along a pair of denims, tattered at the hems. His shoes appeared to be almost like loafers, stained from mud and living in alleyways. He was plain to put it nicely, just somebody else to read like an open book.

"Give me love like her,

'Cause lately I've been waking up alone,

Pain splattered teardrops on my shirt,

Told you I'd let them go..."

Ah, yes. It was his voice I think that refrained my indifference stride from taking place. The voice of those whom have seen more than they let on; those were always the most intriguing to deduce. His voice was a key to it all, but he did well to hide his emotions from being too obvious from...well, those who are not nearly as intelligent to realize the meaning under his words. They were filled with emotion, more than should be placed into the song he was currently singing. Sadness, depression, forlorn, and lastly, regret. The regret was the most potent; it was a bitter, tangible resentment towards none other than himself. He was repentant of something of his past, possibly war considering the way he stood with his guitar. He was formal, but relaxed from the song of his and the emotions that refused to let him go. Interesting.

Tilting my head, I slowly inched towards the guitarist and observed his strumming fingers.

"And that I'll fight my corner,

Maybe tonight I'll call ya

After my blood turns to alcohol,

No, I just wanna hold ya.

"Give a little time to me or burn this out,

We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,

All I want is the taste that your lips allow,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my , my, give me love..."

He plucked each string with professional talent, almost like he had been playing his entire life (perhaps he had). Each finger was slender and feather-light judging by how quickly they were willing to move to his little beat. They were almost a resemblance to doctors hands, no wait, those were doctors hands, surgeons fingers in fact. They moved like so as well, almost like they were prodding a patient for an illness. The faded wristband on his wrist with his name (I believe) and St. Claire's hospital was only more evidence to prove the talent.

He leaned on one side when he played, his right side, and avoided the use of his left shoulder at all. Injury more than likely. Scrutinizing his clothing, I noticed two dull dog tags hanging from his neck. One held the same name as the wrist band so it must be his own, but the other one was somebody else entire. Probably someone important to him or a close friend that died during a accident resulting in the gain of the tag. So he was a military man.

A military doctor seemed more likely than anything judging by his degree, but nothing added up. If he was a military soldier, or a doctor, he would have some sort of pension to last him for a while, at least enough for a cheap flat. Yet, here he stood on the streets playing his guitar.

"Give me love like never before,

'Cause lately I've been craving more,

And it's been a while but I still feel the same,

Maybe I should let you go,

You know I'll fight my corner,

And that tonight I'll call ya,

After my blood is drowning in alcohol,

No, I just want to hold ya.

Give a little time to me or burn this out,

We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,

All I want is the taste that your lips allow,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

Give a little time to me or burn this out,

We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,

All I want is the taste that your lips allow,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love,

My, my, my, my, oh give me love."

I began to examine his face. It's odd how he hasn't noticed my... observing yet. Normally somebody would have looked up by now to find me, well, not looking at them obviously. Nevertheless, he continued to play, oblivious to the rest of the world and its horrendous torments. His face was furrowed at the brow, concentration, and his eyes were closed off, so he concentrates better when he is just by himself as most ordinary human beings. His mouth was set in a thin line, anger or frustration, and a tear hung on the tips of his lashes, sadness. This song brought back painful memories but he feels it's his fault and continues to play to punish himself. He's a loyal soldier then; understands loss, but knows also when he's at charge for it.

As the minutes wore on, the only phrase he repeated constantly was "my, my, my, my, oh give me love" which is quite boring and obviously childish, but I didn't want to stop him. He was like a new toy, interesting until you realize its limitations. It was only a matter of time until his entire life story was laid out before me to judge on a balance scale of boring and dull. Right now, that time hasn't appeared yet.

"I can see you looking at me," I heard him whisper just loud enough for me to hear. I just stared back with indifference, "Yes, your playing his quite above mediocre it appears, so is it not normal to stop and enjoy the...setting?"

He chuckled and shook his head. I saw him take a breath and expected a response when all I got were more vocals.

"Of all the money that e'er I had,

I've spent it in good company

And all the harm that e'er I've done

Alas it was to none but me

And all I've done for want of wit

To memory now I can't recall

So fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all..."

I wanted to speak out against him for not responding to my question, but the raw emotion in his words rendered me speechless. It was a sensation I don't ever want to feel. It made me feel weak and human.

"Of all the comrades that e'er I had

They are sorry for my going away

And all the sweethearts that e'er I had

They would wish me one more day to stay

But since it falls unto my lot

That I should rise and you should not

I'll gently rise and I'll softly call

Good night and joy be with you all..."

Ah, I understood now. This part was specifically for the people he lost during war it seems. The hidden allusions and the meaning behind most of his words were worthy of interest, but it still was nothing more than human sadness. It was common for people to feel sad for death even though it's quite trivial in terms that everybody eventually comes to the same end. He must of lost the person in a unnatural way. If he's a doctor, maybe he lost him at the table or gurney in the desperate process of trying to save him. That makes sense.

"A man may drink and not be drunk

A man may fight an not be slain

A man may court a pretty girl

And perhaps be welcomed back again

But since it had so ought to be

By a time to rise and a time to fall

Come fill to me the parting glass

Good night and joy be with you all..."

A final strum of the vibrant strings, "Good night and joy be with you all..."

He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his feet idly before shaking himself out of whatever stupor he was in. He looked as if he was about to play another song when I noticed his calloused fingers starting to crack and bleed. So he doesn't play everyday. He just played when he was younger and hasn't grown used to it again. The unseasonably cold weather didn't seem to be helping either as he tried to keep his hands warm. Idiot, that isn't going to do much unless you have gloves, which might I add, he does not.

"Your hands are starting to bleed," I informed the guitarist and he froze a little before shoving his fingers in his pockets, his acoustic guitar hanging on only by the strap around his neck.

"Yeah, they are, but that is of no business to you," he replied cautiously. So he didn't trust people as easily as thought. He probably earned that from the war background and the constant change of sides.

"Ah, I suppose not," I mused before questioning, "How are you liking London doctor?"

I saw him stiffen out of the corner of my eye and smirked.

"H-How did you know I was a doctor? And that I haven't been in London for long?" He was obviously shocked from my deducing.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to him and walked a step closer. People always asked the same thing, just different parts of their past.

"Your fingers."

He stuttered, "M-My fingers?"

"Your fingers are slender and fleet around quickly. They also always to be clean and sanitized, judging from the state of you nails, probably a five minute wash which is typical for a doctor before he even enters a hospital setting."

"Perhaps I just like cleaning my hands," He spoke defensively.

"Oh please. The way your fingers moved is obviously not the normal way for fingers to flit across the strings of a guitar. They flew like when you prod a patient, testing the vitals for specific symptoms. Also, may I add that you have recent indentations from possibly a syringe or stethoscope meaning that you were, past tense since you were obviously fired with the lack of an ID, scrubs, or medical supplies, recently seen by somebody who required such. Unless you are a drug user, which you are not, I don't see much else of an explanation to see why you can't be a doctor."

His jaw opened with a pop and I wanted to chuckle but decided against it, "As for the London part, don't bother saying you weren't going to ask since I could see the question fleeting to the front of your mind, you are a soldier, correct? The dog tags on your neck are recent, though you obviously don't take as much care of them as you did before. One is yours, the one at front I would presume since it matches the wristband around your carpals. The other is more reflective of light, better taken care of, so it's a good friend, no? Anywho, you are still walking like a soldier does and judging by how you respond and stand, you just got back recently. If I am correct, the most recent ship of soldiers that returned home were from overseas, and your tan concludes that you were in that area, and therefore, that ship."

As I gave this information to him, I saw him shake his head with utter astonishment. Hmm, usually people would be pissed off about now.

"Brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary."

I cocked my head to the side, "Extraordinary?"

He smiled a little with a light chuckle, "Yes. That was just... utterly phenomenal."

I gave a small smile of my own, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

My smile widened a little more as I remembered everybody who gave me a glare or a terrified pause, "ah... piss off."

The doctor blinked before giggling. It didn't take long for me to join in as well. The atmosphere seemed to have gotten significantly lighter with the little mentioning.

All was interrupted when the sound of my stomach was heard. Ah yes, food, that's what I was doing before being intrigued by the man next to me. I didn't want to eat, didn't need to since work was more important and, might I add, exciting. Breathing is boring. Eating is boring. Sleeping is boring. Cases and homicides were... rushing.

"I suppose that is your queue to leave then Mr...?" He inquired.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded, "The names John Watson, formally Dr. Watson, but John will do. Well, it was nice meeting you, mate. Hopefully I'll see you around here," with that he turned slowly to walk down the alley he came from. He looked sad with the heavy steps he planned and planted. It was a sad sight yes, but I felt no sentiment for the man. He understood what situation he was in.

Nonetheless, that didn't stop me from trying to find out more about him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson?" I shouted out to the slumping form. John turned around to look at me with mild surprise and relief.

He walked back to me and stood a few feet away, obviously unaccustomed to being close to people, "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

I groaned at the formalities. It was the same thing they called my brother and I'd like to refrain from being known the same as that individual.

"You can just call me Sherlock. I don't necessarily do well with formalities. With that said, isn't it normally a reaction to give the entertainer money or a tip for his performance?"

John blinked and didn't say anything.

I rolled my eyes, "Oh come on John. It's obviously you don't have anywhere to go at this time, right? Right. You had heavy steps, not the brisk stride of a doctor, meaning you were going to wander aimlessly, correct?"

He nodded slowly, "Yes...?"

I smirked a little at his response, "So, would you care to join me for brunch? I don't plan on eating anything, but if I'm seen eating with someone, perhaps... somebody will stop pestering me about my habits."

His hesitation was so thick it was almost visible.

I gave an exasperated sigh, "Oh come on John. It's my treat."

With a sigh of his own, more so resentment I suppose, he nodded, "Fine. Lead the way Sherlock. Thank you by the way... prat."

I chuckled softly at the insult and made my way to the cafe of my choice.

"Perhaps we could even bandage those virtuous fingers of yours while we are at it."


Yeah...I cannot write Sherlock to save the life of me, but I promise to get better! I have been reading roughly 5 50+ fanfics as of late as well as rewatching seasons 1-3 of the series (going onto my 4th time) so I will eventually get to a good accuracy with him.

John...I have a serious headcannon that he plays acoustic guitar. I have had it so yeah. It just seems... correct in one way or another in my screwed up mind.

Oh! The song was Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran. Prepare for a lot of that guy since I'm a fan of his music and I'd like to imagine John singing those songs (I also have a specific Taylor Swift song set aside, but you won't hear that one just yet~)

But that's it! The next chapter may be up in a day or two due to my addiction. It's a drug that I can't get rid of.

Ciao~ Reviews and criticism is always loved~~