Morning dawned, heralded by a heavy hammering on the windows as the rain battered at it. John woke with a start; the nightmare provoking a wordless shout from his lips. He had been there again; back behind the wall. Bullets flying everywhere, mingling with the grit and sharp smell of gunpowder. He was cradling a comrade in his arms. Willing him to live; but he was gone. He woke just as those eyes had opened and a scream crashed around him. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, clearing away the sleep from the corners. He ran a hand through his hair and grunted as he heaved himself out of bed. John's phone buzzed loudly on the small nightstand by his bed. It was a text from Mike. 'Found your flatmate! Meet me at Bart's at 11am.' John keyed in a reply and checked the time. He had two hours. Two hours to wait and see if his life was about to change once more.
The rain had stopped by the time John had reached St Bartholomew's Hospital. He smartened up his old canvas jacket ass much as he could before limping over to Mike. They greeted eachother and started to head down towards the labs.
"He's a strange sort of chap is Sherlock, but I think he'll like you." Mike spoke as they walked.
John raised his eyebrow at that. "I still don't know why anyone with all their sanity would like me."
"You put yourself down too much, John." Mike sighed. "You're a good man."
"Careful; the last person to tell me that got killed." He hadn't meant to sound so curt, but he'd said it now. They walked the rest of the way in silence.
"Ah, here he is." Mike pushed open the door and held it whilst John shuffled across the sterile threshold.
"Bit different from the last time I was down here." John mused aloud as he looked around the room. Computers lined one side, whilst long white worktops bordered the others in a horseshoe shape. Cupboards sat below labelled with the various instruments they contained. Tables were arranged in the middle to provide more workspace. A man stood with his back to them, concentrating on a microscope. He was tall and tentpole-thin, with thick, curly, raven black hair. He was dressed smartly in a pair of black dress-trousers and a burgundy-purple, pressed shirt.
"Sherlock, this is John." Mile leaned on one of the tables as the man, presumably called Sherlock turned to face them.
Sherlock was beautiful, John couldn't deny it. He had ivory pale skin and liquid blue-green eyes that seemed to read him like a book. His face was long, with cheekbones that could pierce the heavens and a stern looking mouth. The shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a slender neck. "Can I use your phone?" He spoke with a baritone purr and seemed to ignore John entirely.
"Sure here-oh, it's dead. Sorry." Mike took his phone out of his pocket and replaced it with a slight frown.
"Here, use mine." John held his phone out and Sherlock took it, cradling it in his long, slender-fingered hands.
"Thanks." Sherlock looked John up and down, eyes seeming to flick across his face down to his shoulders and back and legs. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"What?"
"You heard. Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Mike, what have you told him?"
Mike held up his hands in mock surrender. "Nothing!"
John returned his gaze to Sherlock, who was typing away a text on John's phone. "Aghanistan."
"Thought so." Sherlock handed John his phone back and shrugged on a long dark navy trenchcoat and strode to the door, wrapping a lighter blue scarf around his neck, pausing in the doorframe. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Meet me there in an hour. Now I must go; I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." And with that, he was gone.
"Is he always like that?" John slipped his phone, still warm from Sherlock's touch back into his pocket.
"'Fraid so." Mike turned to leave and John sighed. "You going to meet him then?"
John's mouth twitched into a smile. "Yeah. I think my luck might be changing."
The rain had eased by the time John pulled up outside 221b. He stepped out of the cab and looked up at the burgundy awning of 'Speedy's sandwich shop and café', wondering if he'd got the right address.
"John." Sherlock appeared into his field of vision, mouth pulled up into a one-sided smile.
"Mr Holmes," he extended his hand.
"Please, call me Sherlock." Sherlock brushed past him and buzzed the doorbell on the door adjacent to Speedy's.
"Sherlock!" The door opened to reveal a short, older looking woman with an apron on and a smile that stretched across her lined face. "Come in!"
"This is Mrs Hudson" Sherlock gestured to Mrs Hudson, who had retreated further down the narrow hallway to make space for them both.
"John Watson, hi." John nodded with a smile.
"I suppose you want to see the flat?" Mrs Hudson started up the stairs, Sherlock and John following.
The flat was larger than John had expected. The stairs led up onto a narrow landing that opened out at the end into a large living space. A smaller flight of steps led up to what John presumed was a bedroom, with another leading through the ajar door beside it. As he shuffled into the cluttered living space he noticed the large kitchen, with what resembled a makeshift science lab set up on the central table; microscope, titration burettes, conical flasks of unknown substances and stacks of Petri dishes amongst piles of notebooks and pieces of paper. Dishes sat in the sink and all around the living space were more sheets of paper. On the wall hung the skull of what he guessed to be a bison. The lace was chaos, but it felt homely and cosy, and not at all dirty.
"Sherlock, look at the mess you've made!" Mrs Hudson tutted, looking around the room.
"So, what do you think?" Sherlock moved around picking up several sheets of paper and shoving things aside on the desk to make room for the tea.
"There's a room upstairs if you'll be needing two."
"Of course we'll be needing two." John spoke maybe a little too harshly, leaning on his trusted cane.
"Oh, no, don't worry! We've got all sorts 'round here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones! I'll leave you two to get settled. Oh! Sherlock, Lestrade called in earlier. He's got something for you that looks right up your street. He left you that note on the table there, and says you should check your phone more often."
Sherlock laughed at that, a low hearty chuckle as he picked up the note and read it. Mrs Hudson bustled back off downstairs, leaving the two alone.
"Oh, now this does look interesting." He settled himself into the black leather chair opposite the one John had sat himself down in. Sherlock folded his legs underneath him, almost squatting on the seat, the sheet of paper held between his hands and a faint smile playing on his lips. "This is right up my street, very much so indeed."
"What exactly is your street?" John got to his feet and limped over to one of the tall windows that sat either side of the broad mahogany desk at the end of the room. "Hello" he muttered softly as a police car drew up outside. "Er, Sherlock? We've got visitors."
"Oh, that'll be Lestrade. Don't worry, Mrs Hudson will let him up. Looks like I've got work tonight."
"Sherlock?" A voice called down the hallway, followed a few seconds later by a tall, grey haired man dressed smartly in a shirt and plain black trousers. A badge on his jacket marked him as a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police.
"Ah, John, this is DI Lestrade. Lestrade, this is John Watson."
Lestrade nodded at John and John nodded back. "Sherlock, we need you. Will you come?"
"Not in the car. I'll follow behind." Lestrade nodded and left swiftly.
"What do you have to do with the police?" John watched the car pull out and disappear from view.
"I'll explain later. Do you want to come?"
"Come where?"
"Well, you're a soldier aren't you? Seen a lot of violence, seen a lot of death?"
"Yes" John sighed. "Far too much. Enough to last me a lifetime."
"Well, soldier, would you like to see some more?"
John's mouth involuntarily twitched into a smile. "Oh god, yes."