Chapter Two

When John Watson first came, I wasn't sure what to make of him, apart from the usual things.

An occasionally useful acquaintance of mine, Mike Stamford, had brought him to me, aware of my need for a flatmate. I asked Mike to borrow his phone as soon as he entered the lab, but he was without one. John, who I had noticed quietly limping in behind him, offered his own almost at once.

Quick to share, to please others, to play fair. A soldier, judging by his gait, haircut, height, eyes and shoelaces. A decent man. Probably a good one.

He was short, around five foot seven, though not small – his presence was large. He held himself well, despite his injuries; he tried not to lean on his cane for support, to stand in front of me and appraise me as I was him. He had wide blue eyes and close-cropped, sandy hair (which was beginning to grow into a wave across his forehead – obviously he had neglected to do anything about it since he had been injured; he didn't care – and streaked at the temples with grey). He dressed smartly for one so shaken. His eyes flickered over my face, my clothing – and held my gaze for a moment. I had not known anyone to look into my eyes – not properly – in a long time. His eyes were clear and warm and unflinching.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" I asked him, after taking the proffered phone from his hand.

He stood there, mouth hanging agape, with that dumbfounded look of one who's just been told a very startling, unpleasant piece of news. I could tell his life was indeed news to him – though when I eyed his expression, he closed his mouth promptly.

"Sorry?" Mike looked bemusedly from me to him as a look of incomprehension flitted across John's face.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" He was struck dumb at that, and I couldn't help but smile internally at the look on his face.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

"Sorry, what?" I was still amused at his lack of understanding, his bafflement at me.

"I like to 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." I smiled as he became locked in some kind of internal deduction of his own for a brief moment.

"Are you – you told him about me?" said John to Mike, who merely shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" said John to my turned back, his voice level despite his incredulity.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan," I said quickly as I shrugged into my coat and wrapped my scarf around my neck. "Wasn't a difficult leap."

John looked at the floor, then me. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

"I've got a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. Meet there tomorrow evening, seven o' clock."

"Is that it?" he asked, somewhat affronted.

"Is that what?"

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

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

"My mind moved into its highest gear and I drew in a breath, looking at John again. "I know you're an army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's concerned 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 your therapist thinks your limp's at least partially psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid. Enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!"

Something began then. For once in my life, I wasn't entirely sure of what was happening. It confused me, frustrated me, suffocated me as only a good puzzle could – but it was a new something. A new stimulus, a new problem – John Watson.