Hello there world. Sorry for the time it took to upload this, both me and my wonderful beta (breathing is over-rated) have been on holiday and I am now attending a summer writers institute to develop my poetry. Updates will remain weekly, but not consistently specific one day. My deepest apologies, but life must go on.

Please review, I am but a young writer and I would like to improve myself in any way! Feel free to follow and favorite if it tickles your fancy, I also like to feel confident about my writing and support definitely fills that requirement!

Disclaimer: Let me think… Do I own Sherlock? No. No, I don't. Sadly.

"How come the sun don't shine on me?
I need more.

You know, you know…"

-We Only Attack Ourselves by Funeral Suits

Chapter IV: Fire Ants; Vibrating Wings

John POV

Waking up was becoming almost as difficult as falling asleep. Blinking fast and hard, I chased away the build up with my lashes, sweeping it all to the corners of my eyes. The dust floated and danced in front of me, putting on a sort of mockingly happy ballet in the small slit of sunrise which peaked out of the small window. Slowly I am reminded of my body via a stiff leg and an even stiffer shoulder, no doubt the result of a night spent tossing and turning from the dreams infested with sand, shot and sun. I took several deep breaths-chest rising deeply and falling again- trying to maybe steady the rapid beats of my heart. I sat up and rubbed my dusty eyes, with the thin green blanket covering my legs. Legs which had been feeling heavier by the day. Or maybe it was just me not wanting to get up at all. Finally I ordered myself up, thinking, 'okay, here we go,' throwing my right leg over the bed with my left.

Resting both my feet on the floor before me, I became aware I was wearing nothing but my pajama bottoms. I must have lost the shirt in the night, often moving unpredictably during my sleep. Sleep was the thing I dreaded most, when I couldn't control myself. I could feel the little control I had was slowly withering away, the tremor in my hand and the grinding pain in both my shoulder and leg never let me forget… But nobody knew, not even Harry. She hadn't been home much to notice, anyhow, as she was always staying over God knows whose house after occupying some bar till closing time. I don't know where she fit in enough time to eat or to sleep… this self-destructive bridge we both had been occupying needed to be burned. At least I was lighting the match on my own side. I'm moving out soon, I thought to myself with a rueful smirk.

A second later though the smirk fell into the shape of a frown and my brow followed downwards. However subconsciously, I had just decided I would move in with Sherlock Holmes; before I had seen the flat itself, before I had even decided truly whether I even liked the man or not… Still, I couldn't stand him up. Not when meeting him, however much I hated admitting it, had been the highlight of my week. A frustrating highlight, but one nonetheless.

Realizing it was already six o'clock, I gripped my cane tightly and hobbled to the bathroom for a shower. It was a quick wash, a habit from the army-any minute wasted was a minute you could be dead- and dressed. Giving myself a quick look in the mirror, I as reminded through my reflection I wasn't getting any younger. With a sigh, I left. However, I did leave a note for Harry on the refrigerator door, in the hopes she just might think of me and worry. Unlikely, but just the act of leaving a note pleased my conscience.

Harry,

Don't know when you'll get this, I'll be out this morning. Looking at a flat share in London. Might be late.

-John

With that I left the house, catching a train into London. Getting off the Baker Street station on Allsop PI, I began shuffling towards 221B Baker Street. As I passed strangers, I wondered if I was as obvious to them as I had been to Sherlock; my war history, my sibling troubles and my desperation for a flat mate written on my forehead. He seemed to do it all so quickly, with such bloody accuracy, that it seemed I must be terribly transparent to all. Then again, he already knew about both Harry and her drinking habits from that silly alcoholics meeting (why was he there?), but how had he read the war on me, how had he figured I had been stationed at Afghanistan? The man was infuriating and so magnetic, all at the same time. It made my head hurt.

Turning the corner onto the street in question I could see 221B, sitting right next to a small café which had a faded red tent-sign reading "Speedy's". Probably owned by the landlord-or lady even- hopefully the food would at least be edible… quick takeaway is always good… I let out a nervous breath and checked my watch. 6:55. Right, well, better early than late, I supposed. As I turned to try knocking, a taxi drove quickly to the curb and out popped the absurdly attractive Mr. Holmes.

"Hello," he greeted me, paying the cabbie.

"Ah, hello Mr. Holmes," I return, awkwardly.

He corrects me with a small smile, "Sherlock, please."

Still sporting the same posh outfit from yesterday, it seemed he hadn't changed the night before. His hair was windswept and unruly, the dark brown curls seemed to bounce as his legs bounded. Even with the white shirt slightly wrinkled, the suit-coat sitting awkwardly to the left, his dress was just as deceivingly charming. The long over-coat he seemed to never leave without swept low as he came up next to me at the door.

Trying my luck at small talk seemed a lost cause with this man; I complimented the location of the flat, assumed it was expensive and Sherlock went right on to say the landlady owed him a favor because he had helped when her husband was up for execution in America. Oh no, it wasn't that he got the husband off. He clarified that he had indeed "ensured it". I searched his face in confusion, but I could find no joking, just the unabashed honesty in his smile. Oh God, what am I getting into? I looked back behind me, wondering if it was too late to turn back.

And I knew it was. No, not because the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had just opened the door. It was because when Sherlock had looked me in the eyes with that icy stare, telling me he had made certain a man was put to death, it hadn't been fear that I felt trickling down my back, like fire ants on my vertebrae.

It had been excitement.

Sherlock POV

The sight of Dr. John Watson in my-soon to be our- flat was… strange. I'd liked to have simply brushed it off as insignificant or boring but it truly wasn't either; it was the opposite of both.

Even though Mrs. Hudson had opened the door to let us in, I watched John a moment more, fully aware that the good doctor was getting anxious. I knew he wouldn't leave; anyone with half a brain could tell that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him in far too long. There was no denying that knowing this-knowing that it was I that was the most exciting thing- left a strange giddiness in me, not unlike the strange and unrealistic vibrating of wings within my diaphragm. Which left me wanting to both frown in indignation and laugh in surprise.

As we climbed the stairs to the flat, myself leaping and John limping, I easily brushed past him. This psychosomatic limp was becoming less interesting by the minute, growing more and more annoying, more infuriating. Annoying because it made him slow, infuriating because I knew it was a crutch that John shouldn't have; a stigma to his life which was completely unnecessary and it was angering to me. Finding out why would require… more data.

Taking a deep breath and opened the door, I held it for my companion. The anticipation had me excited in a peculiar way, as if seeing John in my home was going to solve some grandiose problem, cure some unfathomable pandemic. He walked in and looked around, taking in my many papers and books cluttered around, though he couldn't possibly know they were mine at this moment in time. Having not come back last night, I didn't think to clean at all… not that I would have. Too time consuming; there is always something more worthy of my time than menial labor. This is probably something I should inform John of, that he will be doing the lion's share of household duties, but I believe even he is capable of deducing that from my mess.

Putting that off till later, I watched the shorter man walking towards the kitchen. As he did so he stated, "Yes, this could be very nice…"

I froze momentarily to take in this sentence. To me, it was already very nice. More importantly, it was practical. There was ample sitting space-perhaps a tad too much with two chairs and the settee- plenty of room for books on the shelves, papers on the tables, chemistry equipment in the kitchen… but obviously something was amiss with John so I watched him intently as I agreed, "Yes, well… Yes, my thoughts precisely."

With that out of the way there wasn't any question about it, John was obviously going to move in. So I began speaking as such, ready to give him permission to begin moving his belongings here. I didn't expect John to also begin speaking, this time about cleaning some rubbish up. It seemed as if I had deduced wrongly about his keenness, something which was surprising to me. It came as a bit of a shock, as I am nearly impossible to surprise. That said, it had been twice now Watson had surprised me; first being when he walked in with Mike Stamford, the second (the second I'll admit to) being now. This peculiar ability of his to catch me off guard and unawares, was novel in a refreshing way. Perhaps further study of this aspect of his was also needed…

Having spoken at the same time our eyes were of course drawn together. It was the first time we had made any sort of eye contact since coming into the flat, and I deduced, I decided, that that was the reason it had such a sharp effect. Those blasted eyes of his seemed to drill into me as if he was searching tirelessly for my core. It was disarming, and that feeling of disarmament was exasperating; it was annoying. I narrowed my eyes slightly as if trying to say, good luck exploring, many have tried and failed to understand me.

Instead my stare must have seemed challenging; Mr. Watson's eyes mirrored mine, only his shined with the unwavering stare of a champion accepting his mission.

Hmm… interesting.

Lights awaken in the corner of my mind: ordering me to give him something to go on, make an effort. Social niceties escape me often, but they're hidden in the Palace somewhere. Perhaps swept under a rug but they're there. I turn from the still staring man and throw a few things in boxes, picking up a few stray letters and a knife from the table. "Of course I can clean up-" I stab the letters securely onto the mantle of the fireplace with the knife "-a bit." I turn back to John expectantly.

He just sighs and points to the skull which sits in a corner above the fireplace, telling me what it is. Well, yes obviously. I refrain from informing him that his declaration was completely unnecessary. Then I remember that it is not a normal thing for individuals to keep human skulls lying about. I explain to him that the lone cranium was a friend. Well, I say friend. He was actually a crazed, pompous man who kept his daughter hidden away in a basement to keep her from marrying. Old case, before the time of John, but that was beside the point. My attempt at humour was obviously lost on John, and thankfully Mrs. Hudson began chatting to him. I went back to cleaning-relieving myself of my coat and scarf- and was thankful I had turned my back on the pair when Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to mention there being a second bedroom to John. She, of course, thought me to be a homosexual much like everyone else. Rightfully so, but that wasn't important. John had yet to realize she had thought him to be one as well; obviously he… well, as of yet that hard to deduce.

Suppressing the genuine chuckle when John declared huffily we would indeed be needing two bedrooms was certainly a task. Mrs. Hudson went off into the kitchen and when she reprimanded me for my mess, I looked up and saw John staring at me confusedly. I decide now is not the time to talk about sexuality. Perhaps never was more convenient.

I continue to busy myself with the aimless shuffling of things-the whole business of cleaning is just absurd, moving things from where they had a purpose to a place where they have no use just so they can be moved back to wherever they were previously again at some later date-as Mrs. Hudson moves into the kitchen. I pick up my laptop and put it on the table, trying to think of more ways to engage John in conversation. The fluctuations between pianissimo or fortissimo-the tones and the pulses- in his voiceare strangely soothing. I was about to search "how to engage in small talk," when John did the work for me.

"I looked you up on the internet last night," he states.

Looking at him, sitting in the red armchair which had come with the room it's… encouraging, normal, calming. Which were all strange. I can't help asking him, " anything interesting?" in response to this he smirked and states that he found my website. A satisfied smile graced my lips as I asked him what he thought. He narrowed his eyes, cocking his head to the side [signs of suspicion, doubt]. Well then… I could feel my smile fall as I gave him a questioning look. He reiterated the facts I had given on said site [software designers are indeed identifiable by their ties, as easily as airline pilots can be by their left thumbs] and, taking the questioning tone as a challenge, I retold the easily identifiable signs of war as well as the obvious drinking habits of his brother [sister] on his phone. Of course he asked me, "How?"

I gave the Doctor a well-deserved glare and ignored his stupid question. If he was going to question my unquestionable intelligence he won't be allowed explanation of it. At least not yet. I turned back to the computer and deleted the google search for 'small talk,' and I had the mind to replace it with a search for 'how to successfully impress a stupid man'.

Hearing Mrs. Hudson speaking at me in the background, I wasn't registering at the foremost of my attention… something about those brilliant serial murders being "right up my street,"… I moved towards the window as the familiar red and blue lights, barreled desperately down the street, casting a joyous glow on the bricks of the building besides ours… no, Mrs. Hudson. Not just three serial suicides…

"Four."