Invalid. Shot in the shoulder. Sent home. 'So why does my leg hurt?'
I was limping through the park, heading to nowhere in particular…just needed to get out of that dastardly apartment.
Ugh. How I miss Afghanistan! I feel so use—
"John!" A voice broke through my thoughts. "John Watson!"
I didn't think seeing Mike again would have such an effect on my life…
He invited me to coffee and we talked about many different subjects: our lives, jobs, where I was living…
"I can't afford London on an army pension."
"And the John Watson I knew couldn't bear to live anywhere else."
"That was a different John Watson." My hand started to shake. Ugh. I hate this. The weakness!
"How about getting a flat share or something?"
I scoffed, though the mere thought of having a flat mate terrified me. I have a secret to hide after all… "Who'd want me for a flat mate?"
Mike chuckled, a strange gleam entering his eyes.
"What?"
"You're the second person to say that to me today."
I was stunned. Really? "Who was the first?"
I didn't really know what to expect of this new "potential flat mate." Mike wouldn't give any details as we took the cab to our location.
Actually, he blatantly refused to say anything about this mysterious person, regardless of my asking.
After a time, I decided to just let the matter lie. I was going to find out one way or another anyway.
We soon arrived at Bart's. I hid a smile at the sight of the old training hospital. Somehow, I had managed to be trained here as a doctor right under the nose of men… a dangerous move on my part, but I had to do it.
For Mum, for Dad, for Harry.
Mike led me to the old lab room, which I soon discovered had been newly furnished with more modern equipment. I chuckled as I looked around.
"A bit different from my day," I joked.
"You have no idea," Mike replied good-naturedly.
"Mike," A new voice said, grabbing my attention. "Can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
The man who spoke was a dark haired man in a rather nice looking suit, looking into a microscope. I assumed this was the "potential flat mate" Mike spoke of.
"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked.
"I prefer to text."
"Sorry, left it in my other coat."
I wasn't sure why, but that statement had that ring of a long running joke to it…
The dark haired man's shoulders slumped slightly, but it very likely could have been from him looking back into his microscope. And… well, being the "nice guy" that I am, I dug out my cell, the one that Harry gave to me.
"Here." I said, holding the device up. "Use mine."
The man looked up, as if this was the first time he was taking notice of me (which was likely, considering that he seemed very intent on studying the specimen on his microscope). And this didn't bother me. I'm used to being looked over. It is how I've been able to survive in this man dominated world…
"Oh." He said, standing. "Thank you." He walked over to me and took the phone.
For a moment, our eyes met…and I wondered why I felt that this was a turning point…that, if I make the right choice, my life will change forever…
…For some reason, a rush very similar to the one I felt back in Afghanistan rushed though me…like I was needed…
"Afghanistan or Iraq."
My heart froze.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He was looking at me with an amused expression. I wasn't quite sure how to react…
I shifted my feet, straightening up into my "soldier poise." Can he read minds? "Afghanistan. I'm sorry, how did you—"
Suddenly, a young woman came in with a cup of hot liquid.
"Ah! Molly! Coffee! Thank you." The dark haired man took the cup and the woman skittered quickly out, reminding me of how, if Joan still existed, I would have to act.
"How do you feel about the violin?"
I looked at Mike, unsure if the dark haired man was talking to me or him.
Mike gave me the "answer him" look.
"I'm sorry, what?" I said, turning to face the dark haired man again.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end…would that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." He smiled at that.
My gaze shifted to Mike. "You told him about me?"
"Not a word."
"Then who said anything about flat mates?"
"I did."
And suddenly I was very worried.
I had never heard of a man that could read so much from a situation without so much being spoken…
How much about me did he know?
"Is that it then?" I asked, as calmly as I could. "We just met and we are already going to look at a flat?"
"Problem?" He looked genuinely confused.
"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we are meeting; I don't even know you name."
He straightened and his storm colored eyes bore into me. "I know you are an army doctor, recently invalid from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help. I know you've got a therapist who thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite right, I'm afraid…."
I wasn't sure what to think…Who, no better yet, what is this man?
I soon got my answer.
"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked at me. "Afternoon!"
And he was gone, leaving me in his wake.
"Yeah. He does that a lot." Mike said.
And, I had no response.
Sherlock Holmes…
Against my better judgment, I met with him the next day. . .