Authors note: Welcometo the second chapter! I'm updating early cuz' I couldn't wait. As always, thank you for reading! Please feel free to tell me if this story is the bee's knees or if it's a complete failure; I'm dying to know!

Thanks to the singularly sensational beta Breathingisoverrated for her continued support and expertise.

Also thanks to starrysumernights, she is fantastic and if you haven't read her work… what're you doing with your life?! Thanks for the support, it fills my heart with glee :)

This will now follow the pilot episode BUT in a cool way I hope you will like!

Warning: Language! Avert thine eyes, young ones… or don't. Regardless, you have been warned.

Disclaimer: I still do not own anything. The wish I made on that shooting star has yet to come true…

"There's a hole, in my soul.

Can you fill it, can you fill it? "

-Flawsby Bastille

Chapter II: A First Encounter; Surprise

John POV

During the few days following that night at the support meeting, Harry had improved in health, thanks to my strict orders to drink the tea (not the alcohol) and take the medicine (not the recreational sort), and was back on her feet. Which was more than I could say for myself. The nightmares were getting worse, every night it was the same; the burning sand, a blazing sun, a gunshot. I'd always wake up in a cold sweat after that, my shoulder twinging painfully. Each time I tried to sleep I was shot over and over again… my sleep schedule was taking a severe beating and I had grown tired beyond belief.

The therapist I was forced to visit by the army had me start a blog, 'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson,' which she had insisted would help me cope with the 'coming back' to civilization. Could be a great idea, I suppose, except nothing ever happens to me. Or at least that's what I had thought this morning.

The morning went by without anything unusual occurring. I followed my normal routine; a bit of exercising followed by a spot of breakfast (an apple and tea). When I had checked the fridge for something to eat most of what I found contained alcohol, hard liquor, fruity mixes, etc. I blinked at the vast stores of alcohol, shocked by its sheer amount. I had honestly thought that I had gotten through to Harry, that she was on the mend. Now I could see that I was wrong. Clearly the meetings weren't helping my sister, nor was my insistent pestering. Something snapped inside me and I knew that I had to leave.

I swore that within the week I would find a sodding flat.

After a crowded train journey into London and a difficult hike of the big cities streets, I limped through a park I used to visit often back in my university years. I walked stiffly, leaning against the aluminium cane firmly held in my right hand. As I reached a bench about half way around the park which I used to sit on in the evenings of my youth to watch the world go by, a plump, slightly familiar man hollered after me. It took a moment for me to sift through my old memories to realise that I was staring at the face of an old mate from university, Mike Stamford.

We got on chatting over a coffee at The Criterion. Sitting at the bench in the park, he mentioned living conditions and I reminded him I was currently living with Harry but am in need of a flat. Though I didn't describe the need as 'dire', it truly was becoming so. He told me I should simply find a flat mate, seeing as how I can't pay rent on an army pension (my lack of a job was becoming a nagging, annoying reality). When I half-joked and said "who would want me as a flat mate?" with a thin-lipped smirk, he scoffed.

Then he looked at me smiling, stating that I was, coincidentally, the second person to tell him that today. I thought it was a certainly lucky coincidence. I asked who the first was and if he wouldn't mind introducing us. He agreed wholeheartedly.

He suggested visiting this colleague of his right now, and as we got up and began walking, I thought things were finally coming together, finally beginning to get 'better'. I should have been suspicious when instead of telling me the name of this potential flat mate or really anything about the bloke, Mike simply said, "You'll see."

Sherlock POV

It wasn't like that killer of alcoholic woman was a genius, or anything of the sort really. Certainly not a proper genius. It took only two days after that tedious support group meeting I had unwittingly attended to solve that case, and now it was nearly a week later. Since then no cases had caught my fancy, though there was a series of suicides (supposed suicides) which Detective Inspector Lestrade had told the press he had his 'best men' on. Wrong. As usual. And I had no problem making my opinion known to him about that… and everyone else in the press conference.

But those 'suicides'… Those were interesting, to be sure. However; Lestrade had made his thoughts on my involvement in this particular case quite clear. He was not happy about my little 'stunt' with the phones and as such had decided to bar me from the entire operation. Of course, I could solve the case without the police realising, being rather skilled on the 'breaking and entering' front, however that would defeat the point entirely. Which meant that I was left with two options: to apologise and beg to be allowed onto the case or wait till the stubborn DI came to his senses and admitted that he needed my expertise. The former was never going to happen (the authorities were the ones to beg, not I) so I decided to busy myself with experiments while Scotland Yard fumbled about, no doubt making a mess of every crime scene.

In the past few days I had spent most of my time at either 'Barts or my home lab, doing the exact same work at both. Though the morgue gave me considerably more to work with. Recently the effects of bruising on corpses post mortem has been quite an intriguing study (also quite satisfying to my… frustrations due to boredom). Yesterday I had used the wrench, the rifle and the book end. Today I would start with the riding crop then study the tissue damage of all four.

Thus far my day had been tediously boring. I had had a surprisingly pleasant run-in this morning from an associate of mine, though I suppose he would call himself an acquaintance, Mike Stamford. He was pleasant enough, asking me questions about my work (most boring, some not) then moving to what I supposed could be categorized as 'small-talk'. He asked about my living conditions, mainly because he had just moved house and so was currently fixated on the topic. I had replied that I lived alone in a small flat, Mike was practically bursting with sentimentality and seemed to believe that singularity was no good for anyone. He asked why I hadn't sought out a flatmate, under the guise that it would help with the rent. Stupid question really, everyone who spent more than five minutes with me grew to treat me with disgust.

Though I had indeed interviewed a few men in hopes of finding someone to help me afford the living space they were all immensely boring. Terrifyingly boring. I told Mike that I must be a hard person to find a flat mate for, to which he replied I just needed to find the one that 'fit-the-bill,' as he so eloquently put it.

He was quite amiable but I had work to do, work I'd much rather get on with than socialize. We exchanged a few more pleasantries before he started taking my ignoring him in stride. He and I shook hands and with that he said his farewells, leaving me to my work. Finally.

After doing my experiment with the riding crop (Molly tried making jokes and asking me to coffee, working around her has become increasingly trying to my patience) I hurried to the lab to study the samples and run the appropriate tests. The experiments had yielded results which were, in most cases, identical or very close to what I had expected to fine. As I was rechecking the samples and recording my observations, I noticed to my surprise-not that I let it show-that Mike Stamford was walking back into the lab.

Even more surprising was who he walked in with.

John.

John POV

Sherlock Holmes.

He seemed to be a complete and utter arse. And bloody fascinating, too.

But before actually meeting him, I was completely unsuspecting. As Mike and I walked into 's Hospital I was beginning to think this potential flat mate was a fellow doctor, which could have been interesting. I was slightly afraid it would turn out to be a psychologist. Mike had taken me up past both the hospital and psychology wings to a floor lined with labs, rooms full of things I had honestly no idea how to use. Give me a scalpel and an open body and I'm at ease. Chemicals were never of any interest to me.

Mike was looking into the labs for the man I had no clue about. I had succeeded in badgering some information out of him, and he made what sounded like a warning that I was being introduced to a very… individual person. He called him a man who had a 'passion for definite and exact knowledge,' whatever that meant. I figured that meant this person was someone smart, an intellectual. Good, brilliant! That's always a good quality. Little did I know…

As he looked into one of the windows Mike gave a triumphant "Ah," and with a short knock he went in. I followed, steeling myself for my first glimpse of this prospect flatmate. While Mike held the door open for me I glanced in the window and nearly stopped.

The only man in the room, hunched over a petri dish at the moment, was the same statuesque man, the same mysteriously dressed man who had been present at the support meeting just days earlier. Though he was now dressed down to only the tight fitting suit-coat and slick white shirt. Wearing both like an annoying sexy God.

He quickly glanced my way and I saw his eyes moving in that speedy manner, and while I had no doubt he recognized me as much as I him, he made no indication of it.

I was still trying to get over the shock and utter coincidence of it. Avoiding eye contact with the tall pale man seemed to be my best option while I got a grip on myself. Realising too late that I had been stood in the doorway a bit too long, I started walking slowly into the rooming, making some joke to Mike (whom I had just remembered was also in the room) about how things had changed since our day. It wasn't hard, for the first few seconds, to ignore the man at the lab bench since he just went on with his work. Suddenly and without warning the tall man asked for- or rather demanded- Mike's mobile. I glance at him, his face almost glowing in the lab table lights, like a sculpture whose artist had an obsession with cheekbones and angles and shadows. As soon as I realised the thoughts I was having I grabbed them by the scruff and pushed them down. Deep, deep down.

Mike tells the man he has left his mobile in his coat and with that the taller man goes back to his work. But I am really bloody tired of being ignored like this. It takes me a few seconds to speak, God knows why, but eventually I get the simple words out. "Uh, here, take mine," I say to him, holding out my phone.

He looks at me for a second with an unreadable expression. "Oh… thank you," he says as he walks over to me. He is close and his eyes are on me as he takes the phone gently from my hand. I can see their colour now, an icy light blue tinted green, like… like nothing I had ever seen, really. I'd say mint ice cream, but the childish description of those distractively intense eyes was laughable.

Turning from me with a lingering side-long glance and unlocked the phone with one flick of his thumb, he began typing quickly as soon as he had the text interface open. Mike introduced me but the man made no acknowledgment of it. Then he asked something completely out of the blue, something that had me setting my jaw tightly and narrowing my eyes…

Quick fun disclaimer: Mike's description for Sherlock which reads, 'passion for definite and exact knowledge' is actually written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, an observation made by John within the mystery A Scandal in Bohemia. I am a huge fan of the original mysteries and may use more lines in the future (though all credit will be given where it is due!).

Please review!

Forever yours,

A/V