A/N: Consider this a present for the long wait. It's early.
"John?"
I turn slightly, registering something vaguely familiar about the voice.
"John Watson!"
Now it sounds resolved, and I rotate completely to see a man waving me down. Again, there is something familiar about him as he smiles, but I can't quite put my finger on it.
"Stamford. Mike Stamford," he says, supplying a name to his face; I remember it a little. "We were at Bart's together," he confirms, holding out his hand happily, and I suddenly remember when we could've been considered 2 normal kids. Not anymore.
"Oh," escapes my lips because what should I really say? "Hi." It's all I can come up with as I take his hand in mine, giving a light squeeze before dropping it to my side.
"I heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at." His eyebrows knit together as he continues,"What happened?"
My fingers flex at my side ever so slightly. I glance around, shifting my legs to adjust my cane as I shake my head faintly. "I got shot," I admit, trying to smile; it feels more like a grimace.
His eyes train on my cane for a moment before they return to my face, and he smiles, albeit hesitant. He remains silent as I glance around the park, hearing the chirp of happy birds and seeing the white light of our sun blotted out by the clouds.
"Coffee?" I turn back to him at the offer, examining the genuine crinkles around his eyes; he really wants me to accept.
I just nod, to which he grins and then beckons me to follow along beside him.
"I know this excellent coffee shop just around the corner-"
I went from not remembering Mike, to drinking coffee with him, to following him to this promise of a flatmate. Life is strange, isn't it?
Mike continues to walk down the corridor, and I follow closely behind, examining signs and instruments hanging along the walls. My shoes make a clunky tapping noise against the blinding white tiles, but his are even louder ahead of mine, heavily echoing inside the hallway as he finally brings me to a door.
"Now, I wouldn't suggest you meet him if I didn't think you could handle it, but I just want to warn you that he might- well, probably- will be an arse," he explains as I sidle up beside him. He gives me a small smile and looks encouraging as he presses the double doors open and begins to cross the room.
I'm left in his wake, and I rake my eyes over the room to stall for all this buildup. If he's an arse, than why would I want to be flatmates with him, anyway?
Finally, I look to the figure against the countertop, leaning over a microscope, and the first thing my brain supplies is malnourished. The man's body is so slender, but at the same time lean, and I would say that he just needs someone to make him eat more and he'll be fine.
Despite his weight, his height makes him look gangly, and his skin looks very white in this lighting. His clothing is obviously expensive, probably tailored to fit his form and hug his body perfectly.
I would even go so far as to say he is handsome, but it is a different sort of attractiveness; I'm not sure he's the definition of an attractive man because people have called me attractive, and neither of us seem very similar.
He looks oddly stoic, and he startles me as his eyes flash my way, curious, scrutinizing. The man's eyes then train on Mike, to which my friend smiles politely; he looks amused.
"Mike, what shade does this liquid look to you?" His velvety voice throws me off, but it isn't unpleasant; it's heavenly smooth and resonating. "This morning you said it was clear."
Mike rounds the counter and stands beside him, peering over his glasses. The handsome man glances at me again as Mike looks. "Looks yellow to me," he answers. He shrugs as he continues,"What've you been up to?" I'd like to know as well.
"Hmm, yellow." He sounds like he rolls it around in his mouth. "Should've known because of the shade and characteristics, but thank you for the confirmation."
He hasn't found his soulmate, I observe. I find my eyes lowering to his wrist, but his arms are buried in a fine coat and his wrists covered by a dark fabric. It's oddly disappointing.
I feel the man's eyes on me again as I look back up, him scrutinizing my cane and leg. A thoughtful hum falls from his lips as he goes back to his notepad and writes something down.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."
His head snaps up, and I almost jump at the precise gaze he holds with me, something similar to terror in his eyes. I feel an almost instinctual urge to ask what's wrong, to help, but I figure it isn't my place to ask when I barely know him.
Abruptly, the fear looks subdued and he slowly brings his eyes back to the petri dish before heaving out a heavy sigh. His face screams calm, collected, but it seems...forced somehow as his eyebrows knit together and I discern a tremor in his hand.
Suddenly, there's a ping from my pocket, and I wrench out my shabby BlackBerry to see a text notification labeled 'Harry'. Of course she decides to message me right now, when I'm actually interested in getting to know someone.
"Sorry," I apologize. It's more out of habit, but the man whose name I still don't know just nods absently and continues staring. It's slightly unnerving, but I'm not deterred as I punch in the buttons of my keypad.
"What's your sibling after, Harry, yes? The issue is money, isn't it?" he inquires, cocking his head like a cunning animal. His eyes peek down at my mouth oddly, and it's only then that I realize my jaw has literally dropped; I try to compose myself.
"How did you-?" I look to Mike, words dying in my throat and sticking to the back. "You told him about me?" I'm trying to understand because no normal person has ever done this or would ever attempt to.
"Not a word," my friend murmurs, and he still has that smirk mixed between smug and amused. My head shakes on its own accord, rotating back to face this strange man that could tell all of that by a few glances and slight observations.
The lean man looks less subdued as he walks forward almost eagerly, taking my mobile in hand. "I can tell your brother's drinking habits and sham marriage from this phone," he states, then gesturing to me, continues,"as well as I can tell you're an army doctor from your demeanor and tan."
I usually don't gape like a fish out of water, but I can confirm unwaveringly that I know I am right this instant. How could I not? He's brilliant! It's amazing!
"By the way, is it Afghanistan or Iraq? The tanline doesn't say everything." He smiles broadly, but it doesn't seem to reach his eyes all the way; there's only a pit of feeling there. It seems to morph, though, as his eyes glance to me again. The modicum of feeling suddenly looks larger, but only for a second before it's gone.
"Afghanistan," I say, breathless, shifting on my cane under his gaze. His eyes seem pleased as they crinkle at the corners, and his smile looks genuine this time, but in pride and not friendliness.
Then, the smile changes again, and it looks warm this time, like someone's just thawed his face. I'm not sure what warrants the change in expression, but I'm glad for it; his smile is beautiful, which is something I usually don't notice about mouths. I do make exceptions.
"Wow," I breathe, and the gangly man's eyes bore through me. "That was...fantastic..." Other words come to mind, filling the spaces in my head, but it would be difficult to even categorize the level of...adoration, I suppose, that I hold for his level of observation.
He looks almost pleasantly surprised, and the kernel of warmth blooms a little again. I feel glad that my praise can make someone smile like that. So far, Mike's warning of him being an ass seems unfounded.
"I also know that you're here as a potential flatmate," he explains, turning on his heel and starting back to his microscope. He takes my phone with him, typing something out that I assume is probably just his number. "So, onto a question or two."
"How do you feel about the violin? Will barking bother you?" he says, not even looking up from my phone as he continues to type away. He swivels around suddenly and throws me the phone, which I barely see in time. "There's bound to be a bit of it."
"I don't particularly mind either; the violin sounds lovely," I respond honestly, warming comfortably at his approving look. "That's if you can even play well." My jab gets a grunt of acknowledgement, but little else.
"Do you make good tea?" I give him a side-long glance, but he just shrugs. "Just a general, curious question. I can't deduce everything." He turns again to the microscope.
"I suppose I do." My fingers clench around the cane, tapping it against the tiles. I'm not even sure why this stranger would even bother with a crippled sod like me.
Abruptly, there's a ding from his pocket and he wrenches his phone out. His astouding eyes widen at the probable text message as he anxiously types out a response and practically jogs to the door.
"Wait, where are you going?" I ask, disappointed as he barely gives me a second glance. "I don't have your address or name, yet." The man seems to catch himself as he turns back around and gives me a falsely apologetic smile. This text must be important.
"Sorry, gotta dash; I think I forget to feed my dog this morning." A calculated lie, and an unbelievable one at that. "The address is 221B Baker Street, and the name is Sherlock Holmes."
"Ah, no, no, no," I tisk, pulling on his arm, to which he levels me with an almost glare. "I would like to know a bit about you first, since you almost knew my whole life in a glance."
"Tomorrow, please." He suddenly sounds pleading, his pretty eyes full of fear again, and dread, and I can't help but let him leave. My grip slackens and he takes the invitation to leave almost immediately, rushing out of the double doors as a meek looking woman carries coffee this way. She looks startled.
I turn to Mike, some silent inquiry in the contortion of my face as he nods his head at me, looking quite satisfied with himself. "Is he always so...eccentric?"
"You wouldn't believe." He shakes his head ever the slightest, but his smile looks fond. "But actually, I've never seen him quite like that..."
"What do you mean?" I find myself asking, looking at the stunned expression on the girl's face, left in Sherlock's wake. Mike makes a choked snort as I turn back around to face him.
"I said he'd be an ass, and he usually is, but he proved me wrong. He was nice. Wonder why." He shrugs his shoulders again, adjusting his glasses as he goes to the door to greet the still shocked young girl.
As he apologizes for Sherlock's behavior, my mind settles on the fact that his name isn't William. I really thought we had something, but now I know his name, and although it sounds nice in my mouth, it isn't William. I really thought I felt something.
I look again down the hall before starting out and half-heartedly waving goodbye to Mike, to which he waves back, and nodding at the woman.
Disappointed, I exit Bart's and try fitfully to hail a cab. The handsome man named Sherlock isn't my William; it hasn't really sunk in yet.
Sherlock Holmes...
He still sounds interesting.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, or read this story. It's been a pleasure to write so far, and I hope I can say the same by the end. Any questions, criticism, suggestions, or feedback is happily welcome.