I don't own Sherlock, any of the characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or BBC, etc. Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the real creators of the show. All this work is for entertainment purposes only, not for profit or gain.

I also don't own the lines from any of the series.

I got bored, and this just happened. Keep in mind that I know John doesn't have the memory of a savant, and generally in a blog you don't remember almost every detail of every encounter even if it's the day of, but I think this style is more immersive and relaxing; even if it's not really possible.

I have Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to thank for transcribing a script so I didn't have to watch the episodes dozens of times.

Please enjoy!

Case: A Study In Pink

Chapter 1: The Introduction

-SH-

My adventures began with pain. And well... quite honestly that hasn't changed much except on rare occasions now. The Royal Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers were my family and the filthy, pain-filled encampments were my home. Yes, we didn't exactly have a sanctuary type of home where stepping inside it would give you a feeling of warmth and safety. And though it may be a poor example of home to those who see it as being four walls, a roof, and a Welcome mat, it was home to many of us, we depended on each other like any other family.

It was a trade mark in every war; we all watched each others backs, covered them when enemy fired fell down on us like steel-hail and all you could hear were the screams and shouts to advance or retreat back- Though however gruesome and terrible, they served a purpose much like the ricochet of a bullet; drawing us away from the danger zones before another hit. Being a medic I always tried my best to get to the injured as fast as I could with as little casualty as I could, but I managed... at least most of the time to drag the injured behind our stone barriers to help him. I have one man in particular to deeply thank for that.

His name was Jacob, a soldier previously stationed in Iraq that had joined our regiment within the first year that I had joined. I didn't know it then, but by the end of our time serving together he had saved my life and the lives of my patients countless times. Frankly I don't know how he managed it, but when I ran out to assist the wounded I would nearly always return with barely a few scratches on the worst of days. He was, in a way... my guardian angel on the battlefield.

But this is war we're talking about... not some cleanly wrapped up movie ending where everyone lives happily ever after. No. This was messy. This was hardship. And Finally, there came a time when our companionship came to an end along with another precious life. He was a true hero... to the end. He sacrificed his life to find a direct-root through to enemy territory.

I regret that I wasn't there to save him after the countless times he was there to save me, I regret that I failed him by not aiding him sooner before I was put briefly out of commission.

But mostly I regret that I was invalided before I got a chance to stick one to those merciless sods who killed him in such a cruel way. That will always weigh heavily on me...

It has.

...But that chapter of my life was over. At least, partially over, anyway. The nightmares seemed to be a permanent addition, along with the constant therapy. I knew my 'condition' as she so said it wouldn't be cured by getting out more or writing a blog about my experiences. Only one thing cured me. But that's to be disclosed at a later date.

I had no choice but to seek out some civilian lifestyle so I came to London to see about possible living quarters that were within my army pension. I had previously turned up a few stones that would be in the range, but the rent was always the deviant, not the size or neighborhood.

Russell Square Park had been my usual quiet place to think and walk around after a stuffy day in the hospital, back in the day. But even with my handicap it still served its purpose to somewhat relax the tension before I began searching again.

The garden was nice to see again as I walked the broad perimeter, hedged to screen it from the street; a large lawn intersected by a broad walk under 2 rows of lime trees, admirably shading the pathway, the statue of Francis Russell, Duke of Bedford; on the south. The sweet perfume of roses, daffodils and lilacs, mixed with the cool morning air woth a slight nip to it, refreshed you with every inhale.

Finally, I neared the end of the journey and limped languidly through the park, leaning heavily on my bloody cane as I neared the familiar bench that always waited for me in the past. Of course, back then I would just stride on past the lump of wood; too proud of my vitality to give into a quick respite. Now I felt the nagging and slight burning of my protesting leg, fight against my will, rendering me helpless to do anything but surrender. But Hell if I wasn't still a soldier.

I creakily made my way past the bench, sights set ahead in determination to make it over to a cab; that's when I heard my name being shouted in recognition.

"John! John Watson!"

I turned back to see a man rising from the bench and hurrying the few feet over to me, smiling. "Stanford. Mike Stanford. We were at Bart's together."

If I were being honest, I didn't even recognize him at first. The man I knew was lean, with a full head of hair, and a prominent jawline. This man was… "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." I then knew of my mistake and tried to compensate, taking Mike's offered hand in a friendly shake. "Hello, hi."

He grinned and gestured to himself and right away, I knew that he had seen my hesitation. "Yeah, I know. I got fat!" He joked, but I could clearly see him stiffen in discomfort.

I tried my very best to sound convinced when I spoke, "No." But he saw through my pathetic façade, knowing I wasn't an idiot. Thankfully for the both of us, he didn't press further.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. "What happened?" He asked.

My answer was almost like a boomerang, seemingly hard-wired to deliver it after only a second. "I got shot." I regretted the response as soon as it was past my lips. Apparently so did Mike.

Later in the day, we had bought some take-away coffees and were side by side on that infernal bench again. I took a sip of coffee then looked across to my old friend who was staring at me intently. I hoped he wasn't trying to find the area of my bullet wound. I spoke up, eager to switch his attention.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?"

"Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. God, I hate them!"

We both laughed. The awkwardness was slowly fading.

"What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

It briefly crossed my mind to tell him about all the flat hunting I'd been up to during the last few days, but I doubted even he knew a place within my range of expenditure.

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." Short and simple was best.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know," he replied, cheerfully.

He didn't know me anymore. War had changed me, either for the better or worse. I wasn't the same doctor with a plastic name tag and a bright eyed curious expression eagerly walking through the doors to my first patient. It made me uncomfortable to think of those times, how inexperienced I was in the medical practice. "Yeah, I'm not the John Watson…"

I contemplated this thought again. Switching my cup to my right hand, I looked down at my left, clenching it into a fist as I tried to control the tremor that had just started. Mike looked around at me again.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

No, Harry had moved on with her own life, I couldn't interfere with that. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen!" I remarked sarcastically.

Mike shrugged. Clearly he was a bit frustrated, but still eager to help as I heard the catch in his voice. "I dunno – get a flat share or something…"

I had to admit that the idea of getting a flat mate to split the rent with had crossed my mind once or twice, but I had never been compatible with any roommates in college, always complaining that I was studying too late, got back in the dorm too late, slept loudly; the army had changed one of those things at least. And the list goes on. So what would be different about... a flatmate? "Come on - Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike chuckled thoughtfully.

I didn't understand if that was him agreeing with me, or making a wordless quip at my incompatibility. "What?"

"Well, you're the second person to say that to me today."

I couldn't believe another person had voiced those same words that day. Naturally I was curious as to who was this socially misfitted creature of society. "Who was the first?"

My curiosity only grew as he described him. What did he looked like? To be honest, after our conversation I was expecting to see a four-eyed nerd leaning over a few beakers in the Chemistry department, but that was always my washed-out visual whenever someone described an abnormally smart person.

Bart's was a bit different from when I had last seen it before the war. Of course when you leave a place for a long stretch of time and then return to it there are going to be changes, it's the natural order. The place was cleaner than I had remembered it, more efficient. The very walls seemed to be drenched in disinfectant and it produced a very strong aroma that seemed to encompass the entire hospital. When I voiced this, Mike chuckled, "You've no idea!"

At the time, I didn't think much of this to be honest. But that was until I saw Him…

When I made it to the lab, I was very much surprised to see a man of pale complexion; which surprising worked on him instead of making him look half dead, peering into the lens of a microscope, wearing no glasses at all. He was very thin, but not a toothpick and had curly dark hair, and lips that drew up into a perfect cupids bow.

His eyes were hard to see at that distance even as he lifted his gaze briefly to take in the new visitor that had just entered his space. Naturally I started to close the distance. I wanted to see the eyes of my future flat mate mostly out of curiosity but also to read a small frame of his life. Some soldiers had those eyes that held a lifetimes worth of error and pain inside them and you could always tell which one of them had literally seen hell, every experience of it was written in their eyes. I was abnormaly curious as to what would be written in his?

To my surprise though, he suddenly asked for a mobile phone. His voice was uncharacteristically deep, and it held a warm quality that made it pleasurable to hear. Mike had left his phone in his coat, so I offered up mine and he began texting away at it, didn't even bother to look beside him or introduce himself before starting.— Socially misfitted seemed an adequate description to describe the man after all. But then he spoke in this smooth rumble and asked me two questions. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

And I thought, maybe I didn't hear him correctly, maybe I was mistaken because this stranger couldn't possibly know I was an army man just from looking at me. I squinted at him and asked him to explain himself, "Sorry?"

He just repeated the question with a slight change. "Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Here was a man that I had just met and he somehow knew that I had served in the military. Not only that but he knew where I served. I had no idea at the time how that was possible so asked him how he knew, which didn't exactly go well.

Molly Hooper, a Pathologist at Bart's, entered carrying a cup of coffee, which I guess was for the stranger, potentially ruining my chance to get a response. I remember them carrying on a small conversation about small mouthed lips, something to that effect; I wasn't exactly listening at the time, and then I heard him say; "How do you feel about the violin?"

I scanned around for the pathologist but she had already left, then to Mike who was smirking smugly at me. Finally I got the hint and turned towards the other man who seemed like he was waiting for a reply. He had been talking to me, but again I wasn't sure what he meant this time and asked for clarification once more, which he responded with, "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."

He threw me the falsest of smiles, which my mind just blanked on, and for a moment I couldn't really process how he knew that until I thought of Stamford. I faced him with a look that I know must have contained the expression of 100 questions and said, "Oh, you ... you told him about me?" Yes, that must've been the reason why that strange man knew, because Mike Stamford had told him I was looking for a place. It all made sense now.

Of course a second later all that sense was muddied with three words from Mike, "Not a word."

I turned toward the stranger eager for a more in-depth explanation. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

He picked up his coat and put it on before responding in a synonymous tone. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

I wasn't about to believe that he just figured it out. Such a thing was surely either extremely difficult or impossible in my mind. I wasn't about to believe that this stranger possessed those rare skills naturally. Again I asked him the question which had not since left my mind. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Instead of an answer, again, however, he went off on a tangent, talking about a place in central London that we could afford as if we could just move in together as total strangers.

He then walked towards me and headed for the door in preparation to leave before speaking again. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Part of me heard the 'we'll meet there,' part, but the other was slightly worried about why he would use a riding crop in the mortuary. I blocked out the disturbing images. The first part of me had won over the rest and I turned on my heels to look at him. "Is that it?"

He turned back from the door and strode over to me. "Is that what?"

I couldn't believe that he didn't understand the dangers of the whole situation, him being at least what looked and seemed to be a clever man. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

All he said in reply was, "Problem?"

Definitely socially impaired.

I smiled in disbelief, and looked over to Mike for help, but he just continued to smile as he looked at the man. Turning back to the stranger I voiced the obvious to him that he apparently still hadn't got. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

He looked closely at me, his gaze piercing, and that's when I could see him. Really see him. This man had led a normal life, nothing dangerous or special at all. Average. Though, his eyes definitely didn't conform to the sense of ordinary; they were the most vibrant blue I had ever seen and when he tilted his head just slightly, they changed to a light green. They almost didn't even look human, more like they were alien.

He began to speak, and little did I know that I had just unleashed, The Calculating Machine. "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's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

I looked down at my leg. It seemed to have been causing me more of a problem in the last few weeks, making it hard to remain upright for too long without the pain. After, I took a glance at my cane or as I thought of it— my reminder that i'm no longer able to walk like a normal person, no longer fit for active duty, I shuffled my feet in an awkward manner, trying to wrap my head around the dose of quick fire speech I was just given. Maybe he was an alien after all?

He gave me a smug look, and spoke, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He turned and walked to the door again, opening it and going through, but then, to my surprise, leaned back into the room again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He shot me a combination of a click and a wink, then focused on Mike, greeting him. "Afternoon."

So that was his name. Definitely not an ordinary name, I concluded after the door slammed shut.

I turned and looked at Mike in disbelief. Mike just smiled and nodded. "Yeah. He's always like that."

What was I getting myself into?

So what do you think, would you like to see every episode done this way?