Switching to Sherlock this time with the meeting at St. Bart's. ! I hope this chapter was a bit better then the last one. I find Sherlock much easier to write then John as I can rely on instinct a bit more with him.
I own nothing unfortunately.

(Sherlock POV)
At this very moment, in the depths of a morgue of a hospital by the name of St. Bartholomew's, a bodybag is unzipped and voice of velvet and steel makes the inquiry: "How fresh?"
In the dim blue light, Sherlock Holmes' gaze flicks over the body of a man in his late sixties. Single, desk worker, no visible marks on the body as he had requested.
"Just in," comes the bright, cheerful reply. Molly Hooper hovers behind him in the doorway, fiddling with the white gloves that cover her hands. "Sixty-seven, natural causes."
Perfect, Sherlock thinks. He reflects that recruiting Molly into his small network of people had been one of his better moves since he had started working with the police. Although, "recruit" was perhaps the wrong word. The young woman had managed the attach herself to him almost the moment he had walked in the door. She was a definite asset at the hospital as she was bright, and far less twittery then many others on the hospital staff.
"Used to work here, donated his body. I knew him. He was nice."
Yes, definitely an asset. Not many people would have been so cavalier over providing the corpse of a coworker.
"Fine," he says aloud. "We'll start with the riding crop."

Five minutes later he's sweating, despite the sub-arctic conditions in the room. Really, it would be much more convenient when he had everything set up properly at Baker Street. He hadn't been able to sneak much more then the eyeballs out of his last flat. The landlord had been quite unreasonable in that regard.
"So, bad day, was it?"
Sherlock exhales in a huff of breath. Not at all, one case solved and with luck Lestrade will show some sense and admit incompetence any day now. Really, the only crinkle was his new found need of a flatmate.
Setting the crop to the side he ignores her superfluous inquiry and noted, "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depend on it. Text me," he adds reaching behind him for his coat. Molly could usually be relied upon to be prompt but the added incentive couldn't hurt.
He goes to pass her but she suddenly blurts out, "Listen, I was wondering, maybe later-"
Glancing down at her, only half listening, his gaze is drawn to her mouth. Odd. "Are you wearing lipstick?" he asks. "You weren't wearing lipstick before."
"I-," she stutters her expression freezing for a brief second before managing another bright, awkward smile. "I just refreshed it a bit."
Sherlock nods, not believing her in the slightest. "Sorry, you were saying?" he prompts. He wonders vaguely who the makeup was intended for. Unimportant, unless of course said relationship somehow infringed upon the work. Unlikely, moving on. He tunes back in as Molly asks him if he'd like to have coffee.
He tilts his head a bit at the apparent change in subject. "Black, two sugars please, I'll be upstairs." Offering her a bright smile, he continues on his way.

Sherlock inspects his reply to Mycroft's email with a smirk thinking, Hardly an impossible situation brother mine, merely one which requires the legwork you so abhor. Defiantly clicking send, he wonders why Mycroft bothers with email anymore. Sentiment perhaps. A leftover from University days.
He moves on to a slightly more relevant reply to Inspector Gregson regarding the church bell theft. Not a bad sort, Gregson, though even less perceptive Lestrade at times and rarely had any cases worth Sherlock's time. Speaking of Lestrade...
Sherlock's eyes narrow as he sees a message sent early this morning. It read simply,
Please call me.
Lestrade
He allows himself a smile. Nice try. But not quite good enough. He deletes the email. Lestrade will come to him when he's really desperate and by then, much more willing to listen.
As he pulls up another email he hears the door open. Two pairs of footsteps. The first much heavier, the second unsteady, walking with a cane.
He glanced over his shoulder. Well, well, he had to give the man credit. He worked fast.

Stamford was fallowed by a solid looking man a few years older then Sherlock. Military, obviously, judging by his upright, square stance as well as the short cut of his graying blond hair. The man walked with a cane, leaning heavily into it, however when he paused to look around the room his weight shifted, evening out as he stood more upright- ah, interesting.
"It's a bit different from my day." The soldier's voice is warm, holding in it a mix of wry amusement and fondness. Sherlock's attention narrows even more. Army doctor? Mike Stamford, you really have exceeded yourself.
At that moment, Stamford spoke, drawing Sherlock back to the present and he turned away. "You've no idea."
"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he called. "No signal on mine." His word's are impulsive. In all honesty, it could have waited but this might well turn out to to be the most interesting thing to happen all day.
Stamford sighed impatiently, "Well, what's wrong with the land line?"
Nothing whatsoever, but that's not the point. "I'd rather text."
He hears him shuffling through his pockets then, "Sorry, other coat." I know.
"Oh, here. Use mine."
He allows himself to turn, feigning surprise. "Oh, thank you."
Sherlock stands as the man steps closer. Handing over the phone (new iPhone, six months old, black, engraving on the back, slight scuff marks all over the device) and giving Sherlock a better look at him. A pair of blue eyes, darker then his own, meet his for the briefest moment.
"This is an old mate of mine," Stamford says giving the man a pat on the arm. "John Watson."
Sherlock sits back down, keeping his eyes fixed on the phone.
Well Doctor Watson, lets see who you are.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
A pause, then "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know?" his voice trails off as Molly walks in carrying a white mug.
"Ah coffee! Thank you, Molly." Sherlock smiles, leaning back in his chair to hand Watson his phone back. "What happened to the lipstick?" he inquires.
The smile slides off her face a bit (disappointed?). "It wasn't working for me."
"Really?" he asks, honestly surprised. "I thought it was a big improvement. Mouths too small now." he notes taking a sip of the coffee.
"Okay." Her last word wasn't a squeak exactly, but it had the same affect.
Pity that, she'd probably be gloomy and absentminded for the next day or so. Back to the matter at hand.
"How do you feel about the violin?" Best start him with something easy at first.
"-Sorry, what?" Watson asks distractedly, tearing his eyes away from the retreating Molly to stare at Sherlock.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking." he lists off, "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" he adds as an afterthought. "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
"Oh," Watson says, understanding entering his voice. "You told him about me."
This is apparently directed at Stamford because the man answers mildly with, "Not a word."
Sherlock bites back a smirk as he rises to his feet and reaches for his coat.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did-" Obviously. He sweeps the coat around his shoulders continuing, "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is after lunch with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." he finishes reaching for his gloves.
Watson is looking at the floor with an odd little smile on his face before he looks back up and asks again, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"
Again Sherlock chooses to ignore the question. Probably best to ease him into the deductions as well. With any luck Stamford will explain at least some of it to him. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we could afford it." leaning forward he shuts off the machine he's been using. Perhaps he should have been more careful with his laptop after all. Oh well.
"We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry," he apologizes, "got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
An exasperated laugh escapes Watson as he calls, "Is that it?"
"Is that what?" Sherlock asks, confused. He'd thought he'd been perfectly clear.
"We've just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"
Yes, that is rather the point, isn't it? Sherlock raises his eyebrows, "Problem?"
Watson sees his eyebrow, and raises him an incredulous look at both himself and Mike Stamford. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know your name, I don't even know where we're meeting.
Sherlock can feel his lips trying to curve into a smile. There's a strength and authority to Watson's voice now that was missing before. A hard steel beneath the warm exterior. There you are, John Watson. Was this what Stamford saw in you? Was this why he brought you? He feels a hint of adrenalin stir in him for some reason. Why? He isn't running, he isn't on a case. Alright, you want to know about me, doctor?
"I know you're an army doctor and you've recently been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother with a bit of money 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."
He pauses, wondering if he should go on. Watson is staring at with the strangest expression. There's hurt there and anger, oh quite a lot of anger, but it isn't directed at Sherlock. And was that... no. That wasn't a plea, there was too much pride and stubborn resilience in those navy eyes for pleading. But it was perhaps a question.
Gently, even more gently then he intended, Sherlock adds the final piece. "And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid."
"That's enough to be getting on with, don't you think?" he smiles slightly and turns to the door. Oh, wait. There was something else, yes.
Leaning back into the room, his gaze fixed on Watson (John?) he says, "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address id 221B Baker Street."
With a click of his tongue and a wink he nods and his afternoon at Stamford and sweeps out the door.