A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update, but I had a very busy summer. I spent the first part trying to watch every movie Benedict Cumberbatch has ever been in. And the second half I spent trying to find new friends. I also discovered "Supernatural", so I was busy crying over Sam and Dean.

I know, the characters aren't strictly speaking "in character", but it's all gonna make sense in the end. Trust me.

Also, I promise that I'm gonna try and update sooner next time.


Chapter 3 – The One With The Cheekbones

Laboratory 7 is a dark room with no windows, dimly lit with fluorescent light. It is filled with even more expensive looking equipment. There is one long table which is covered in papers, pens, test tubes, scalpels, cables, little bottles, big bottles, empty bottles, pipettes, coffee mugs, and plastic bags.

John looks around the room. "It looks a bit different from my day," he says.

Only then he realises that he and Mike are not alone. There is a man standing at the other end of the room, looking into a microscope. John hadn't noticed him before because the room is rather dark. He assumes that this must be Mike's friend

"This is Sherlock Holmes," Mike tells John. "Sherlock, this is a friend of mine, John Watson."

The man looks up from his microscope. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he asks.

John notices that his voice is quite deep. Well, really deep. He imagines that if a Jaguar could talk, it would sound like this.

Mike looks at his mobile. "I haven't got a signal on mine, sorry," he answers.

John puts a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out his phone. "Here. Use mine."

Sherlock starts walking towards John, so that John is finally able to see him properly. And his heart skips a beat.

First of all, Sherlock is considerably taller than John, which isn't surprising, because John isn't very tall. He's wearing a dark blue suit, but no tie. His light blue silk shirt is so tight that John wonders how the buttons manage to stay connected to the fabric. But he can't really worry about that because his eyes are fixated on Sherlock's face. He couldn't say what colour his eyes are, even if his life depended on it. They are blue like the sea on a clear, sunny summer's day, but also grey like the sea after a winter storm, and there are green and brown spots in them, which remind John of boats that are helplessly floating around. Sherlock's hair is black and curly – John has to pull himself together, so as not to reach up and run his fingers through those curls, because, for a short moment, there's nothing he wants to do more. But then his eyes settle on the cheekbones. And his mind goes blank. Because there are no words in the English language to describe those cheekbones.

John registers all these things in a few seconds. Then Sherlock is standing right in front of him and he is reaching out his hand, a hand with surprisingly long, spidery fingers. When John hands him the phone, their hands touch for the fraction of a second, but still the spot where Sherlock touched him becomes very warm und his skin starts to tingle.

Sherlock flips open the phone and starts typing so fast that his long fingers are mere blurs. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinks. "Sorry, what?" he asks, confused.

"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeats.

"Afghanistan," John answers. "But how-"

Sherlock hands him back the phone. His hand touches John's hand a little bit longer than necessary. "Thanks", he says and smiles.

John suddenly feels all warm inside. But then Sherlock walks back to his microscope. There he turns around and stares directly into John's eyes. John notices that his cheekbones look completely different in the altered light.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asks. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. And sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you?"

Again, John is confused. He feels as if he's missed an important part of the conversation.

Sherlock apparently notices the confusion on John's face, because he adds: "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John turns to Mike. "So you told him about me?" Everything's starting to make sense now.

But Mike only smiles in a sort of secretive way and shakes his head. "Not a word."

John turns back to Sherlock. "Then who said anything about flatmates?" he asks.

"I did," Sherlock says, smiling slightly. "I told Mike only this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for and here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan."

John has no idea how Sherlock could possibly know about his military background. Still confused, he stares at Sherlock, not saying anything.

"I am right then, I presume," Sherlock says, turning back to his microscope.

How could he possibly know all these things? John asks himself. Again, he turns to Mike, but he's still smiling his secretive smile, being busy looking pleased with himself. John is very irritated by Mike's behaviour.

"Yes, you were right," John says after some time. "I just don't understand how you could possibly know so much about me."

"This is what I do for a living, Doctor Watson," Sherlock answers.

And John isn't even surprised that Sherlock knows that he is a doctor. He just asks: "What is it that you do for a living, then?"

Sherlock looks at his watch, then smiles at John again. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta dash," he says. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He puts on a dark, expensive looking coat and wraps a blue scarf around his long, slender neck.

John doesn't want Sherlock to leave. But all he can say is: "I thought you were looking for a flatmate."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to look confused. "Yes, I am."

"So?" John asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you already have a flat or do we still need to look for one?"

"So you want to move in with me?" Sherlock asks, smiling again. And every time that happens, John gets this strange feeling in his stomach. "You don't mind that I play the violin?"

John smiles back at Sherlock. "No, I don't mind," he answers.

"Wait." Sherlock reaches for a pen and paper on the desk and writes something down. He hands John the piece of paper. "That's my mobile number. Just give me a call when you have time and we can talk about the details." And with that, Sherlock is gone.

John isn't sure about what just happened. He looks down at the piece of paper in his hand. There's a number written on it and beneath that: xoxo.

And for the rest of the day John can only think about those cheekbones.