John followed Sherlock up the stairs to his apartment, only pausing when he got another message from his sister. "Dammit Harry. Stop texting me," he hissed to no-one in particular. He sent her an annoyed message, telling her to leave him alone.
Sherlock slammed the door open and thundered inside, making his way into the kitchen. John was taken aback by the state of the apartment. The place was a mess, with random scraps of paper pinned to the walls as well as plates and bowls stacked in the sink and piled around the room. There was laundry strewn about the room that had probably not been washed in weeks. The place reeked.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked Sherlock seeming out of nowhere.
"How could you.." John began.
"You have a limp. I could tell by your walking pattern. It could have been an accident but that's unlikely. Your type of injury generally indicates a military involvement. You're new to London and you need a place to stay. You're desperate too, why else would you respond to my brothers likely creepy job offering,"
"Your brother has offered to let you live with him but you declined. Likely because of your strained relationship. Don't think I missed your little comment at his text. If you had any friends nearby, one of them would have taken you in but they didn't, further cementing my assumption that you've been out of the country for some time and therefore don't know anyone on London. Only possible explanation is deployment in another country. That brings me back to my original question. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock rambled clattered around the kitchen nearly knocking over a pile of plates as he did.
"Afghanistan. I was deployed there when a shell exploded near me. Had to take one for the team, you know? I'm surprised you got all that right. Well almost all of it," John muttered.
"Almost?"
"Harry's my sister, not my brother. It's short for Harriet." He approached Sherlock, watching him as he performed the clumsily executed movement of putting the kettle onto boil, washing up a mug from the sink and spooning in some instant coffee.
"How do you get around so well?"
"I have a sort of map of my apartment in my mind. As long as I know roughly were I am in the room, I can get around pretty easily. It only works for places that I'm familiar with though," The kettle finished boiling, and Sherlock went to pick it up. John stopped him.
"Let me. I don't want you to scald yourself," he said, making Sherlock frown.
"I can do it myself," said Sherlock through gritted teeth.
"You'll get hurt. Give it to me," ordered John, breaking out his army voice. Sherlock's scowl deepened but he reluctantly handed it over. John poured it into the mug and handed it to Sherlock. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
Sherlock wordlessly made his way into the living room and sat down, drinking his coffee. John was shocked that he didn't trip over all the clothes strewn about the floor. "This place is a mess," John continued. "When did you last clean up?"
"I don't know. Maybe a month or two ago," said Sherlock as he finished up his drink. "I'm going to work on something in my room. If you insist on staying here, please don't be loud. I need to focus on my work,"
"What do you do?" asked John.
"I'm a consulting detective," answered Sherlock with a cocky smirk. "I work with Scotland Yard when they're in over their head,"
Sherlock left and locked himself in his bedroom, leaving John by himself in the otherwise empty apartment. He decided to put on some laundry and wash some dishes. The place really was a tip.