In the following week, plans were set in motion: while Molly helped Sherlock through his withdrawals and got him back on his feet, Mycroft scoured London for a suitable flatmate for his brother. Molly clearly could not control her husband (and it certainly was not her job to, nor was it her fault that Sherlock was imbecilic at times). A flatmate, however, one that suited Sherlock's personality, his need for excitement and prove a willing distraction, however, might be just the thing to keep Mycroft's brother from using. Molly was of course, kept abreast of the plan, and was in agreement, though she had some reservations of a stranger coming to Baker Street, supposedly with the intent to mind her husband. Who on earth would agree to be a flatmate for a married drug-addict who liked to solve crimes for Scotland Yard?

Doctor John Watson, Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was not having a very good day. The old wound in his shoulder was aching massively, probably due to the cold, damp weather, and he was fairly certain he'd just been kidnapped. Kidnapped to a rather well-furnished salon, as it happened, but kidnapped none-the-less, as this was not the address he had delivered to the cabbie. Hat in his hands, he studied the room, wondering if perhaps the army was trying to get in contact with him again.

The door across the room opened, and a lithely built man with a thin nose and glittering eyes entered with a folio. "Have a seat, Doctor Watson," the man said.

"I'll stand, thank you, sir," Watson replied, clipped.

The man raised an eyebrow. "Very well then," he crossed the room, taking up the chair behind the desk. "You must be wondering why you've been brought here."

"It is a question that begs asking," Watson agreed.

"I understand you were injured during the war, and are having a difficult time finding a suitable flat on the pension the army has left you with."

"Fighting for Queen and Country wasn't enough to secure my living, it seems," Watson answered with a nod, then quickly apologized, "I don't regret my service, sir, please don't mistake, but it seems to me that a man who was injured defending his country ought to be given more than barely a working wage."

"Indeed," the gentleman agreed. "That is why I have sent for you, to give my assistance."

"Your assistance, sir?" Watson frowned.

"Yes. There is a place, a townhouse, the resident there is looking for a flatmate, it's a respectable house, a housekeeper, cook, a maid and a hall boy."

"Begging your pardon, but if the gentleman can afford a housekeeper as well as staff, what does he need a flatmate for?"

The gentleman's smile was secretive. "What indeed, Doctor Watson?" his hand delved into his inside coat pocket, removing a calling card and placed it before Watson. "There is the address, should you decide to inspect the premises for yourself."

Watson studied the card. He did need a place to live. The garret he currently occupied was hardly a fit place for anyone to live. Watson desperately wanted to leave the leaking, stinking walk-up he was residing in. A London townhouse with staff was too good to be true.

"You will find your share of the rent written on the back," the gentleman added after a moment.

"This…cannot be correct."

"My…friend…is in dire need of a flatmate."

"I take it money is not the trouble."

"No," the gentleman agreed. "Money is hardly a problem. He needs…minding, if that makes any sort of sense."

"Is he in danger?"

"A danger to himself. It would not be much trouble for you, he is bored easily. You could certainly operate your practice from the house as well, there is plenty of room."

"And your friend, as you put it, what sort of danger is he in?"

"Nothing that will do you any harm," the man answered carefully. "I do hope you will take up the generous offer though. It does seem like a fair exchange, your living in a fine home in London, in exchange for a very generous rent as well as popping in to check on my friend every now and again."

"I shall have to think about it," Watson said at last. "I shan't take very long to decide, but I will go and see the house."

"Today, if possible, Doctor Watson," the man urged gently. "The housekeeper is expecting someone to call shortly."

"Very well," Watson nodded. He glanced around the room. "Am I free to go now?"

"Certainly," the gentleman answered agreeably. "Do feel free to call if you have any questions at all."

Watson was on the sidewalk hailing a cab when he realized he'd not the faintest idea the address or how even to reach this gentleman, nor indeed what his name was.


221b Baker Street
When Watson departed from the cab, he was surprised to see an old friend of his about to ring the bell of the very residence he was going to inspect.

"Stamford!" Watson called.

"Doctor Watson, how are you sir?" Doctor Stamford shook his hand. "Come to see Mr. Holmes I expect?"

"Er, yes, I expect. I've come to see about lodgings,"

"Oh I see, well you'll not find better lodgings, that is for certain."

"I ought to call a different day," Watson said. "If they are expecting you,"

"Nonsense, nonsense, I've only come to deliver a parcel, paperwork, really, they'll be pleased!" with that Stamford took him by the arm, pulling him up the steps and ringing the bell to the house.

The housekeeper, a pleasant looking woman ushered them in, greeting them happily. They were shown into the parlor where a woman was seated. Upon seeing them, she stood, setting aside her mending and extended her hand to each of them.

"Doctor Stamford, I had not realized you would be bringing me the paperwork," the woman smiled pleasantly. "I hope that it does not appear as favoritism."

"Nonsense," Stamford handed her the parcel. "I assured Lord Thorne Thorne that I would bring them myself, he did not like to risk the Royal Mail with such important documents."

"Thank you, just the same, I know it was out of your way," the woman set the package aside, then turned to Doctor Watson (who was feeling somewhat confused at this point). "You must be the man looking for lodgings."

"Er, yes," Watson fiddled with his hat.

"Forgive me," Stamford touched his friend's arm. "Mrs. Holmes, this is Doctor John Watson, he was a captain in my regiment, you'll not find a better man, nor a finer shot in all of England." Stamford grinned at his friend. "This is Mrs. Holmes, she'll be attending St. Bartholomew's for a medical course this coming semester."

"How do you do," Watson shook her hand. "I hope you enjoy your nursing studies."

Both Stamford and Mrs. Holmes exchanged smiles. The woman lifted her chin somewhat.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, but I shan't be studying nursing."

Watson glanced between the pair of them, frowning. "Midwifery?"

"No," her smile was positively catching, and Watson could not help himself.

"What then?"

"Pathology," Mrs. Holmes was positively beaming.

"Oh." Watson did not know what to make of this information. "Well that's…er…

"Careful Doctor Watson," Stamford said, low, but loud enough for Mrs. Holmes to hear. "Mrs. Holmes has friends in high places."

"Don't tease him, it is a shock," Mrs. Holmes admonished. "I don't expect to have an easy go of it, not only for the difficulty of the subject, but the fact that my sex is apparently a massive problem to the general population."

"Nevertheless, we are pleased to have you," Stamford said. "Now then, I have delivered the paperwork, I must be off, I'll leave you to sort out your new lodger," with that he tipped his hat and showed himself out.

Watson was left standing in the parlor of Baker Street, hat in hands, thoroughly confused as to what just happened.

"That's how things are, usually, I'm afraid," Mrs. Holmes said. "I'm sorry if it's a bit mad."

"No it's…fine," Watson blinked. "I was not expecting…well any of this, to be honest. I was told that a gentleman residing here was looking for a flatmate, but if you also reside here-"

"I am his wife," Mrs. Holmes soothed. "Mr. Holmes is my husband, and yes, he is looking for a flatmate."

"But…I- em-what?"

"My husband is a peculiar gentleman, Doctor Watson, he is not by any means ordinary. I should like, if you are interested in living here, for you to pretend as if I am not at all here. My husband hardly notices my comings or goings, nor is he aware of my studies." She stood up suddenly. "Will you see the rest of the house?"

Watson, unable to form a sentence at this point, stood up, nodding that he would.

Baker Street was set up very well, it was a comfortable house, and while the bric-a-brac was odd, Watson found himself, despite reservations and the very strange requests of Mrs. Holmes, wanting to live at Baker Street.

"The rear parlor will be your practice, that is if you would still like to operate from Baker Street,"

"Thank you, ehm, I should like that very much," Watson answered. He looked at the room, crossing it in a few strides.

"There is excellent light," Molly opened the drapes. "So you needn't fear on that account, and there is an oversized cubby where you could keep your desk and papers," she went to a tapestry that hung on the far wall, and pulling it aside, opened the door hidden behind it.

Watson poked his head into the small room that had been set up more like a butler's pantry than a cubby, with counters on either side of the small room.

"This could do very well," he agreed.

"I would offer you the cellar, but my husband keeps his laboratory down there."

"A laboratory!" Watson exclaimed, surprised.

"Yes he is fastidious about his experiments and does not like to be disturbed."

"Is that where is he is now?"

"Yes, he'll be up some time near dinner time, if all goes well," Mrs. Holmes nodded. "Now, about rent-"

"Please," Watson held up his hand. "It is more than fair, it is positively generous, I shall be pleased to pay more than that, especially considering that I shall be able to practice from here as well."

"It is my pleasure, and honestly, you'll be doing be a tremendous service."

They chatted for a bit longer, Watson growing more and more comfortable by the moment. Surely this was all too good to be true! Certainly, it was a queer circumstance to be moving into the home of a married couple, and on so little information, but Watson could not help but go along with it. Mrs. Holmes was so obliging and honest, he felt quite comfortable in her presence. He could not imagine her husband to be at all any trouble. He was about to say that very thing when suddenly a door at the end of the hall banged open. Watson was on his feet immediately.

"Do forgive my husband," Mrs. Holmes said, rising as well. "He's on a case at the moment."

"A case?"

"Yes, Scotland Yard calls upon him now and again when they are…stuck."

"Stuck?" he parroted. Scotland Yard oughtn't be getting 'stuck' on cases, in his opinion. He was about to ask something else when there was suddenly a figure in the doorway.

"Molly," the man said, to which Mrs. Holmes lifted her head. "Why didn't you tell me we had company? Never mind, you'll have to do the entertaining."

"A breakthrough?" She asked, looking rather excited, much to Watson's surprise.

"Yes! I must go down to Poplar."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes held out her hand for him to stay. "This is Doctor John Watson, Doctor Watson, this is my husband, Mr. Holmes,"

Watson held out his hand for Holmes to shake, which he did not.

"Doctor Watson will be lodging with us," Mrs. Holmes continued. "He'll be renting the spare room at the end of the hall, and he'll have his practice here, in the back parlor."

Sherlock paused, studying the good doctor.

"Any good? At your profession, I mean."

"Yes, very good," Watson nodded confidently.

"I see," Sherlock stood half in the doorway, still scrutinizing him.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes cautioned, seeming to know what he was doing.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Holmes interrupted.

Watson frowned, quite surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"Were you stationed in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," Watson replied. He glanced between Mrs. Holmes and her husband, who seemed fixated on putting his coat on.

"I'll be back late, Molly," Holmes said, his back to them. Without a second thought, he reached behind the door and flung a walking stick towards them. Watson caught it immediately, now aghast. Holmes whirled around, grinning.

"You'll do."

"Sorry?" Watson again looked helplessly to Mrs. Holmes. "Do for what?"

"Flatmate of course," Holmes said. "Do keep up. Know anything about a man called Enoch Drebber?"

Watson shook his head, thoroughly confused.

"Thought not. He's been murdered."

"Oh! That is…ehm…what?!"

"I'm helping Scotland Yard, and I could do with an extra pair of hands. Are you interested?"

"In solving a murder?" Watson thought for a moment. Well he had been tasked with looking after this (perhaps unbalanced) gentleman. "I suppose so…"

"Good!" Holmes finished buttoning his coat, approached his wife and kissed her cheek as if it were strictly habit. "Goodbye Molly, we'll be back late, oh! And you may inform my brother I have found work."

"Really?" Mrs. Holmes looked pleased. "What as?"

"A Consulting Detective."

"A what?" Both Watson and Mrs. Holmes said at once.

"A Consulting Detective," Holmes repeated. "The only one in the world. It makes perfect sense! Come Watson, we'll be late. Inspector Lestrade is already waiting for us!" He jogged out of the parlor, straight to the front door.

"I might have known," Mrs. Holmes said with a shrug and a weary smile. "Well never mind, you'd best do as he says. If you'll give me your address, I'll make the arrangements for your things to be brought here."

"Oh there is no need, I can manage, you needn't trouble yourself," Watson assured her.

"Nonsense, I'll need something to do now, I'll see that no damage is done."

"Thank you," Watson delivered his address, glancing at the door as Holmes bellowed for him to hurry up. "Is he always like this?"

"Most times," she smiled. "And you may as well call me Molly, we'll be seeing plenty of each other."

Watson nodded, promising he would before he shook her hand once more and hurried after Holmes.

Once certain Doctor Watson and her husband were gone, Molly sent for some of the Irregulars. "Go and see about fetching Doctor Watson's things, be careful with them, here is money for a cart, and a little something for your trouble. Mrs. Devon will have a plate of something hot for you all when you get back." The four boys, with promise of good dinner and money in their pockets, scurried off to do Mrs. Holmes bidding.

The Baker Street Irregulars were a group of rowdy children ranging in age from eight to eighteen, boy and girl alike. They had been shocked to learn that Sherlock Holmes, the odd gentleman who looked after them, had gotten married, but loyalty to Holmes meant loyalty to the missus, and they had decided they liked her very much, especially the younger ones. Mrs. Holmes, who insisted they call her Molly (which none of them ever dared, they had far too much respect for her) often sent out her footman with cups of tea for them, and every Sunday they gathered by the rear entrance for parcels of food to be passed around. Usually it was Sunday roast. She seemed to have taken it upon herself to keep them well-fed, while her husband made sure they stayed his eyes and ears about London, giving them assistance when they needed, keeping their pockets lined with enough for them to keep shoes on their feet, and coats on their backs. He made certain too, that they not find employment in factories. The Irregulars were clever, sure-footed and knew London better than any cop on the beat. To work in a factory meant a short life, and probably being housed in an orphanage. To work for Sherlock Holmes meant safety, and they all were terribly grateful to the gentleman and his wife. Now it seemed there was a new addition to Baker Street, and word spread amongst the Irregulars that they would be looking after a man called Doctor Watson. The foursome went off to Spitalfields to collect the Doctor's effects while Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson headed off to do a bit of sleuthing.

Time would only tell how the pair of them would get on and if indeed, the good Doctor was up to the challenge.


This was an absolute bear to upload, I'm sorry it took so long. fanfiction . net is being a dork and saying I have the wrong file extension (surprise, surprise, I DON'T. So I had to email the file to myself, copy/paste it, and then delete every single line of code that copied into the text. Needless to say I'm pissed, but I'm glad the chapter FINALLY posted. I just wish it'd been worth all the trouble. Ugh. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy. There will be more coming. Thank you very much for reading!