I'm sorry the wait was so long, but it took until now for me to realize where this story needs to go. Sorry about errors I no longer have a beta reader for this particular story, another set back that's been keeping it from publication.
Moments later, Watson was locking up the shop early and following Mike just a few addresses down the street, to a big, black door labeled "221B". He'd passed this door many times before, but never gave it a second thought. Stamford bolstered, "Wait until you meet Sherlock! He's fantastic!"
The door opened, and a comely, elderly woman in a flowered, purple dress appeared. "Ah, Dr. Stamford! Are you here to drop some of that science stuff off for Sherlock?"
"Ah no, I'm actually here to talk to him about something we were discussing this morning," Mike replied.
"Oh, well do come in! And bring your friend too!" The women led them up the stairwell with interesting wallpaper lining its sides.
When they emerged at the top, they entered a flat's little living room, with several miss-match armchairs and an odd-looking, green couch. The walls were covered in a strange paper, different from the one in the hall outside, yet equally abnormal. The same mysterious man who frequented John's shop was standing over the table in the center of the room, fussing with a cow's skull that was mounted on the wall. "Afternoon, Sherlock," Mike interjected.
"Oh Mike! Good evening, how may I help you?" The curly-haired bloke spun around and motioned for Mike and John to have a seat. They both continued standing. Sherlock put his hands back at his side awkwardly. Why did he even bother attempting social normalcy?
"Are you still searching for a flatmate? Because my old mate John here is looking for a flat share, and I thought you two would get on smashingly," Mike explained.
Sherlock look John up and down, "You're the man from the bookstore aren't you? I've never really had the chance to ask, but this has been bugging me for a while… was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"What?" John blinked his eyes.
"You were clearly in the military based on your posture, that haircut and your tan-line. Clearly you weren't on a vacation, everything about it says abroad with the military. You were wearing a uniform! And your limp, another dead give away… You were wounded in battle and sent home with an honorable discharge," Sherlock explained.
John was stunned. How could this man know so much about him? "Afghanistan," he quietly replied. He turned to look at Stamford, who smiled like a mother fixing her son up on a date and said, "Sherlock here is a detective. He works with the police but isn't one of them."
"So when can you be ready to move in then? That is… if you find the place suitable," Sherlock forwardly suggested as his eyes darted around his messy living room. John, too, looked all over the space. Books and papers were spread across the table and floor. A skull rested casually on the mantel place, along with more messy files and letters.
John beamed, "Oh, no it's quite suitable. It will be lovely actually. I can move in tomorrow if that's okay?"
The next day, instead of opening up his shop, John took the day off to move in at 221B Baker Street. With a single cardboard box, one suitcase, and a worn duffel bag, John had everything packed into a cab and set to move. Sherlock, who must have watched for the bookstore clerk's arrival through the window, ran down the stairs to meet him. He grabbed the duffel bag and suitcase, insisting that he would take them up the stairs. John limped behind him, holding the cardboard box in front of his chest.
Mrs. Hudson, the woman who had opened the door the day before, was standing in the living room. She motioned toward the second set of stairs and said, "There's another room upstairs. If you'll be needing two. . ."
Sherlock gave her an awkward glance, like a man whose mother just showed off pictures of him as a lad, naked with his pants on his head. John mumbled, "Why wouldn't we need two?"
"Nothing dear, let me take that box up for you," the kind elder took the box from the confused bloke and carried it up the stairs. Sherlock followed with the rest of John's things. The ex-army doctor limped up behind them.
After unpacking all of his things John walked back downstairs to get comfortable in the living room, adjusting the British flag pillow, taking his seat and flipping through a week old newspaper. A mobile resting on the table began to ring. He looked over at it awkwardly, debating whether to pick it up for his flatmate or not. Just in time, Sherlock came out of the kitchen and grabbed it up. He murmured, "Hello? Yes, I'm available. Did you say burned her in a room of books? What books? Fine, fine. I'll be right over. No, don't send a damn car, Lestrade! I'll take a cab. Be there soon."
The detective grabbed his coat off of the table, put it on, and placed his phone in his pocket. He looked to John and apologized, "Sorry to dash off right as you're settling in, but I've got a case I really need to get to!"
The quirky man darted down the stairs, but before he reached the front door he turned around and ran back up. Standing in the doorway to the flat he glanced over at John. The soldier turned to look at the detective. Then, in that romantic, knightly voice that reminded Dr. Watson of his books, Sherlock claimed, "You know, I might actually really need help from someone who has extensive knowledge on books in this case. Are you up for an adventure?"
John hopped out of his chair and shouted, "Oh god yes!"
