The room was much larger than John had thought it would be, though he had to admit that he really hadn't known what to expect. He'd known his parents had connections he couldn't quite begin to fathom, but when his father had stuffed the brochure into his hand at the hospital, he knew there had been some string-pulling. Everything before the room had looked opulent and extravagant - he'd felt more than a little intimidated by it all.
The shared bedroom was far more intimate but no less lovely and spacious. Two beds, each with a bedside table on one side and a small dresser on the other, two small desks. One0 television set, tucked into a little alcove in the room. There was a stereo system, and a DVD player, and not a lot in the way of furnishings otherwise. A large bathroom was tucked in the back of the room, kitty-corner from the door to the hallway. Grand windows encompassing almost the entire rear wall had curtains flung wide, all of them opened a crack to bring in some fresh air. If it weren't for the orderlies and doctors and having a roommate, John might have been able to believe he was simply on holiday.
"So why the heart?" John turned, looking at his roommate. He was an odd sort of man - dark curls with eyes John couldn't exactly name a shade for. Tall, lanky, but underneath that designer suit John could sense something strong, powerful. A fighter. The evidence was still there on his face, fading away from the ugly purple and black it had to have been a week ago. If John hadn't seen all of his face, he might have thought it was a very mild case of jaundice.
"Sorry?"
Sherlock nodded at his left shoulder. "Why the heart? Why not put the gun in your mouth?" John's mouth opened - he tried to find the words that would explain it. He closed his mouth again and looked away for a minute.
"I sat there, thinking about it, all I could hear was my mother's voice in my head. John Hamish Watson, don't you dare leave your brain all over that wall for me to come clean up! And so I thought, 'Fuck you then. Heart it is.' And... well, obviously that didn't work out so well." He looked at Sherlock, his face blank. Sherlock watched him for a moment - a bird trying to figure out if this worm he saw was worth eating. John couldn't take it anymore. He laughed. Sherlock chuckled along, and before they knew it the both of them were sitting on one bed, laughing next to each other.
"So what about you, then?" John looked at his curious roommate. "What was all the..." He didn't finish the sentence - Sherlock tensed next to him. Gaze on his shoes. Hands twisted in his lap. "Sorry." John backpedaled. "I shouldn't.. I just... You're an amazing musician."
Sherlock looked up at that. Eyes wide, like he hadn't expected the compliment.
"Thank you."
"And I just figured... if anyone had a reason to live..." Sherlock looked away again. One deep breath in through his nose, out again.
"I have... impulse control problems. Boredom sets in when I don't have much to do, and I found a way to cure it." He looks back at John. Thin-lipped smile. "The truth is, I'd have given anything... to stop being bored." John nodded. Sherlock held his gaze for one more moment before standing up and striding to the other bed. His suitcases were beside it. He hauled them up, unzipping them, and set about unpacking. John wanted to say something - wanted to ask so many questions he wasn't sure he'd be able to remember them all - but the way Sherlock moved told him this conversation was over, for the moment. He turned and began unpacking his own clothes. Several old jumpers his sister had packed, probably just to spite him. A few plain t-shirts and pajama pants. Robe. At least five pairs of jeans. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally found his underwear and socks - he wouldn't have put it past Harry to be childish enough to conveniently forget those crucial items.
When he finished packing the clothes into the dresser, he turned and saw Sherlock had a laptop out at his desk, and was typing away. He hadn't thought about that - but a place like this would of course offer wifi to it's... patients? Clients? He wasn't entirely sure what they were considered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone his sister had given him. He frowned. It would be useless in a day or so, without a charger, and that was if he only used it as needed for telling the time or something.
Blip. He started as the phone made a noise - new text. He opened it up. The number was not one he recognized.
[Power cord's in the front pocket of your suitcase - I figure by now you're probably wondering about it. Planned ahead for you. Hate to say it but I miss you already. -Harry] John smiled at the message.
[Miss you too, somehow. Thanks. It'll be nice to have some outside connection. -John]
He set about finding the power cord - it was stuffed into the front pocket, just as Harry had said, along with several pamphlets about addiction and depression. John shoved those back into his bag before going over to the small table nightstand. He looked under the small drawer and saw an outlet. Perfect.
He set the phone down on the table while it was recharging, and walked over to the little alcove where the TV was housed. It was a nice TV, mounted on the wall at just the right angle when one sat on the window-seat. He wondered how they were ever supposed to watch anything without sitting on top of each other. A small breeze blew in, bringing the scent of flowers, freshly mown grass, and new mulch.
The place may be ungodly in price, but they did a damn good job of making it worth it.
Blip. He looked back over and saw Sherlock holding his phone, reading the message.
"Hey!" He got up and rushed over, limping lightly along the way. Sherlock looked up at him, surprised.
"What?"
John glared. "Really? You're reading my text messages, and you can't figure out what I might be upset about?"
Sherlock frowned. "I wasn't reading your messages, I borrowed your phone to send a text, and the reply came back. That's all." John looked at him confused.
"Where's your phone, then?"
"In my jacket." John looked at Sherlock's bed. His jacket lay on top of it, looking for all the world like the only guest at a dinner party.
"And you couldn't be bothered to use your own phone why?"
"Yours was closer." John's mouth twisted at that. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, counting to ten. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still watching him.
"What?" It was John's turn to ask the question, his voice low.
Sherlock shrugged. "I'd recommend German."
"German?" John frowned as Sherlock nodded again.
"Next time try counting in German. It helps calm you better by forcing you to focus on a different language." John took another deep breath and held it this time. Sherlock said nothing else.
"In the future," John began, letting the air out of his lungs slowly, shifting his weight a bit - his leg was screaming all of a sudden, "you ask before you take my things or use my phone."
Sherlock looked away. "Fine."
John smiled. That one word was a victory. John took his phone and walked back to the window.
