Fate is a funny thing. Mike Stamford had expected a great deal from that tuesday morning. He wasn't surprised when he woke up to a cursing neighbor (eviction notice). As he made his way outside from his flat, he wasn't shocked that the number of stairs hadn't changed. He had expected the sun to keep shining as he read his paper in the park. He expected the opportunity to throw things at sleeping students during his afternoon class a few hours later. He expected a peaceful morning with nothing extraordinary in the news. He did not expect John Watson to limp past him down the park path. He didn't expect John to have a bullet wound or a cane. Mike hadn't anticipated the new lines on John's face, or the grey in his hair. When he woke up that morning, he would have laughed in your face if you tried to tell him that John was wandering about London looking like a broken man. For Mike, it had become a morning of surprises.

He didn't bother with a glove when he reached to shake John's hand. They shook hands before the bet, just to avoid confusion if either had been marked by the contact. To this day, Mike wonders what they would have done with the money if they were both that far off. Donated it somewhere, he supposed. Just to honor the irony of the situation.

As the men walked to get coffee, Stamford brought up the bet. John genuinely smiled for the first time that morning, and shook his head. Mike hadn't expected him to find someone in the army. Watson's eyebrows shot up when he saw the initials on Mike's wrist. Mike just laughed and pointedly glanced at his wedding ring. How John had missed it was a mystery to him. They reached the front of the queue just as Mike finished a story about his daughter. John ordered his coffee black with no sugar —Some things never change— and they meandered back to their bench.

John sipped his coffee with a contented sigh. "Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now, yeah. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them," Mike quipped with a laugh. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an army pension."

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know." One of the things Mike had first noticed about the man was his wanderlust. As a young man in uni, all John wanted to do was to roam. Apparently Afghanistan was far enough.

"I'm not the John Watson you..." He cut off the retort and flexed his fingers. Stamford disagreed. He was still the same man, albeit with a cane and a bit of post traumatic stress.

"Couldn't Harry help?" The younger man scoffed.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen." An idea began to form. Would it be immoral to take advantage of his friend's vulnerable state to win a decade-old bet? Stamford decided that it wasn't. This was a win-win situation. He turned the conversation in the right direction.

"I don't know. Get a flatshare or something?"

"Come on," John flashed a self-deprecating smile. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" Stamford laughed. Oh, this was all going very nicely. "What?" John cocked an eyebrow at the giggling man.

"You're the second person to say that to me today." His soon-to-be ex-neighbor had a nearly identical conversation with him in the hall this morning. The brilliant, high-maintenance man could work quite nicely.

"Who was the first?" His friend looked intrigued.

"Believe me, John," Mike took the final sip of his coffee. "It's best to let him introduce himself."

00000

John took a glance around the lab as he walked through the door.

"Bit different from my day." He mused, choosing to ignore the man at the microscope for the moment. The technology had shrunk greatly since medical school.

"You've no idea." Mike knew that the man wouldn't be ignored for very long. Just as he opened his mouth to get his attention, the man chimed in.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text." Mike rolled his eyes, and braced himself for the coming theatrics.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Ah, here," John reached into his pocket. "Use mine." Stamford put on his best poker face to watch the meeting unfold.

"Oh. Thank you." That was new. Mike had known the beanpole since his final year teaching mythology, and he's heard him say thank you less than twenty times. So he was trying to make a good first impression.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." The man in the suit sauntered forwards to collect John's phone. Mike held his breath as their uncovered hands reached out.

Nope. No contact. Ninguno.

Without looking up from the phone, one former student made an inquiry. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Mike tried, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. He was used to the information seemingly coming out of thin air, but John would be woefully unprepared.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry. How did you know?" John eyed the phone suspiciously. At that moment, the door squeaked open, and a young woman walked in with a mug.

"Ah, Molly...coffee, thank you." The phone was returned to John's hand. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." She smiled.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," He mused, taking the cup. "Your mouth's too small now."

"Okay." The girl squeaked. John pitied the girl.

The strange man spoke again as Molly left. "How do you feel about the violin?" Mike glanced up from the test tube he was examining. He couldn't resist another smirk. His neighbor was already infatuated. That envelope would finally have its seal broken after all these years.

"Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." John shot a glare over at his former teacher.

"You told him about me?"

Mike feigned surprise. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did! Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," He shrugged on a coat. "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." A blue scarf was knotted around his long neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" The man ignored him.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," He walked towards the veteran. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven 'o clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." The enigma walked to the door.

"Is that it?" John turned towards the retreating figure.

"Is that what?" He walked a few steps back into the room. Mike smiled. He, once again, was going for the dramatic exit. Stamford should have known that he couldn't leave without showing off.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?" John glanced at Mike and smiled.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." The click of gears in the tall man's head was almost audible to Mike. The man locked his silvery eyes on John.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic— quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He swept towards the door. John looked over at Stamford expectantly.

"Just wait!" He mouthed, gesturing towards the door. The man was stopped with one hand on the door handle.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221b Baker Street." He winked and ducked out of the door. "Afternoon!"

Mike waved with a barely hidden smile. As caustic and eccentric as Sherlock is, Mike is rather fond of him. John gave him a bewildered look.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

John looked back and forth between Mike and the door in confusion. As he did so, the professor was left with the disturbing feeling that he had just witnessed Sherlock Holmes flirting.