A/N: I'm really sorry I haven't updated in so long, but thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, or reviewed. I've just been having a lot of changes in my life lately, and so haven't had much time to write anything recently. Anyways, I hope you all like this chapter. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," I say, but I doubt I need to cling to such formalities when he's already told me my whole life story. He flashes a short, small smile as I knock on the door labeled 221B.
"Sherlock, please," he requests, holding out a gloved hand. I shake it firmly, feeling strangely more at ease with him than I felt with my fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. The pleasant warmth disperses as he pulls his hand away all too quickly.
Trying to fill the silence, I fumble for the right words. "So...what breed of dog do you have?" I try, glancing at his faraway eyes.
"Hmm," he hums, almost as if he's lost himself, but then he's back with a glint to his eyes. "English bulldog," he responds, and I catch him rubbing his hands down his well-tailored trousers, almost nervously. Weird.
"Wow." I smile slightly, squinting at the sunlight that's rare in London. "I always wanted a bulldog when I was little. What's his name? Or her name," I add.
"Gladstone," he responds with an odd fondness in his voice. Before I can question it, he continues,"Named after William Ewart Gladstone, an old prime minister."
Smiling, I hum,"I like it." I've only known Sherlock for a time, but it sounds so incredibly...Sherlockian. "How'd you come up with that?" I ask, leaning against the door frame.
"One Detective Inspector, who would also be my brother-in-law," he informs, checking his watch, seemingly irritated by the lack of answer from the building. I'm perplexed by his answer, which really doesn't constitute as an answer, but shake it off and continue.
"So you have a sister?" I gather, rubbing at my hand. Holding a cane everyday really messes with your palms.
He cracks a wry smile, outwardly amused at some thought foreign to me before he chuckles,"No, a brother. But thank you for the mental image of Mycroft in a dress and cooking with a frilly apron."
His bluntness is refreshing and startling as I gawk. But before I can sputter something embarrassingly stupid like "A brother?" or "Who the hell names their child Mycroft?", an elderly woman appears inside the now open doorway.
"Ah, Sherlock," she greets gently. I find myself faintly surprised as Sherlock actually hugs her when she beckons him. "Where've you been? And who's this?"
"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." The lady-Mrs. Hudson-glances...sadly at Sherlock? Knowingly? Hopefully? But then the look is gone, and she turns to me with such a genuine, easy smile. I can't help but appreciate it.
"Hello, come in, come in," she ushers, gesturing to the stairs with a flourish. Sherlock practically rushes in, and I try desperately to catch up to him, but damn his long legs. He breaks through the doorway at the top of the staircase as I follow at half the speed.
I take in the absolute clutter burying the furniture, piled almost every where. Smoothing my hand over the desk with stacked files, it seems that no one has dusted in a while. Otherwise, looking at the kitchen and the sitting room, it seems rather cozy, homey even, and affordable with a flatshare.
"Where's your dog?" I suddenly realize that I haven't seen him any where, and even though the flat is untidy with documents, there's no way he could possibly be hidden beneath it all.
Sherlock pivots to look into the kitchen, gaze sweeping over the linoleum tiles before shifting to the living room. He almost looks frantic as he stumbles through the papers, relocating some and looking beneath others, which, to me at least, is quite a laughable attempt at trying to find his pet.
"Oh, are you looking for Glads, dear?" I turn to see Mrs. Hudson sauntering so calmly through the doorway that she has to be used to Sherlock's antics. Carrying a tray of tea and setting it down on the kitchen table, she informs,"I put him in your bedroom. He was running amok, trappling all over your papers, trying to find his chew toy, I assume, amongst all this clutter. You really need to-"
"Yes, yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he chimes impatiently, passing me to presumably let the dog out of his room.
As Sherlock retrieves Gladstone, I take a moment to survey the flat again, examining the patterned wallpaper and rug, wondering about the beakers of oddly colored (what look to be) acids lined up on the kitchen table beside the mugs of tea. I grimace at seeing an actual human skull residing on the fireplace mantle.
I hear quite a commotion coming from down the hall, nails clicking against the floor and laughs permeating the walls of the kitchen. The landlady hands me a mug, which I thank her profusely for; the drink is such a life saver, and I need a stress reliever, currently.
"If you were wondering," Mrs. Hudson mutters past her tea,"there's a second bedroom upstairs, if you boys'll be needing two rooms." I almost choke on my tea, splaying a restraining hand over my chest.
Incredulously, I cough,"Of course we will. Why wouldn't we?" I guess old habits die hard because I still defend myself as not being gay just as vehemently as I did when I was a teenager. Mrs. Hudson just looks confused, though, and sad.
"Oh," she breathes, suddenly looking very awkward. "It's just that Sherlock's soul-" She freezes, the epitome of horror as she shakes her head and gingerly takes another sip of her tea.
"What do you mean-"
"Mrs. Hudson, would you mind getting milk for my latest experiment?" Sherlock's deep baritone interrupts. I see Gladstone clumsily biting at his heels as I turn around.
"Oh, ah, yes, dear. I'll go now, if you don't mind, Dr. Watson." It's more of a statement then a question as she practically scampers out of the room, closing the flat door as the dog yaps at her exit.
"She and I will have to have a bit of a chat later," he grumbles as I try to dismiss how obviously disgruntled he is, and tend to the bulldog prancing around my chair. Smiling at his stubby, wagging tail, I scratch circles under his belly, laughing at the way he shakes his head afterwards.
"So, what do you think of the flat?" I hear the detective ask from behind me. His voice holds an unbridled agitation, very different from the way he sounded when we talked about Gladstone outside.
"Well, it could be very nice, as soon as we tidy up a bit...," I trail off, observing the way his expression morphs from irritated to pleasantly surprised to slightly nervous.
"Oh, well," he mumbles, striding to his desk and sweeping a stack of papers into his arms,"I can just move all this and-" He fumbles to stab a knife into the fireplace mantle, securing a pile of documents. Rushing to gather some things off of the floor, I see him suddenly freeze, then bolt towards the window.
"Sherlock?" It's almost like talking to a wall, his face incredibly blank for a moment as I walk behind him to see a long black car pulled up to the curb.
"A fourth, there's been a fourth," the detective exclaims lowly, turning around at the sound of footsteps clamoring up the staircase. Panting in the doorway is a man with gray hair, almost looking desperate as he stumbles to look into the room.
"You wouldn't come if it wasn't different," Sherlock says, obviously well-acquainted with the bloke. The breathless man clutches at his chest before straightening against the wall.
"You know they've never left notes," he states, eyes shifting towards me. "But this one did." Sherlock folds his arms, an odd hint of excitement in his eyes. "At Lauriston Gardens; will you come?"
I stare at my almost-flatmate, wondering at the blank expression on his face, what he's thinking, why he's hesitating. Abruptly, he whips his head around to stare out the window, grimacing slightly.
"Anderson's on forensics, isn't he?" he snarls. The man that I presume is with the police nods his head hesitantly before Sherlock growls,"Anderson won't work with me, and I need an assistant!"
"Will you come?" the gray-haired man repeats, looking nervous. Sherlock goes silent beside me again, looking like a sulky child, much to my amusement, before giving a whispered groan.
"Not with you and my brother dear," he scowls, looking back out the window. "I'll be in a cab behind you." The man that I can now only guess is the Detective Inspector nods again, throwing me one last curious glance before setting off down the stairs. We watch him as he goes, and then, Sherlock startles me so badly that I almost jump.
"Brilliant!" he scrambles to say, twirling around like a right loon, invading my personal space as he continues,"Oh, it's Christmas!" With a lopsided grin, he pulls at the lapels of my jacket incessantly.
"Wait, what are you doing?" I question, placing my hands over his. He settles down slightly at the contact, pulling his hands off of me with a much more subdued smile.
"You were a doctor, an army doctor, and I assume a good one," he says, cocking his head in a faint inquiry. I examine the intensity of his eyes for a moment, wondering how I can learn so much about them without any color. I nod.
"Yes," I inform, stepping closer to the body heat that he emanates. "Very good," I assure, looking intently at his approving face, quietly liking the way I have to look up to meet his gaze. He flashes another smile that reaches the corners of his eyes.
"Seen a lot of violent deaths?" he continues, leaning in further, practically towering over my small frame. This is the first time I've every liked being short.
"Yes, yeah," I stammer, needing to look away from his eyes to regain some of my composure. He waits as I build up enough strength to nod again. "Enough for a lifetime..."
"What to see some more?" Before I can filter what leaves my mouth, my lips are already forming words that are so authentic that they startle me.
"Oh, God, yes..."
A/N: The dialogue in this was hard to come up with because I didn't want it to be completely the same as the show, but I wanted it to be similar enough still to not change the course of A Study in Pink.