He'd taken the banknote from the ticket machine at the station and folded it carefully into his wallet, snug behind his military ID. Five quid. It had to last for the next three days. That was why he was walking up to Baker Street, even though icicles of pain were already stabbing at the back of his right leg, digging deeper into the muscle every time his foot bore down on the frigid concrete.
It was a five minute walk that had taken him thirteen.
And what was it all for? His heart sank as he arrived at his destination.
What the hell were you thinking? You can't afford to live in the middle of the city with a man with an accent like that.
He should have said it yesterday, right there and then: I'm sorry, I don't think I can afford this. How much money did this Sherlock Holmes guy think he had? He couldn't afford a place like this split eight ways, let alone two.
Well... maybe he'd at least have a look, then. Maybe it was a really terrible, tiny flat. Infested with rats or something. Though he couldn't imagine the sharp-dressed Mr. Holmes having his eye on digs like that.
Looking at nice things he couldn't afford to buy was a low-level torture that John couldn't help but indulge in sometimes.
Balancing awkwardly on the step, he clutched the ornate brass knocker in one hand and knocked - noticing at that very moment that he should have just used the doorbell sitting neatly to the right side of the door. Dammit.
"Hello."
He turned. Sherlock Holmes was getting out of a cab. Of course he was getting out of a - was that a fifty pound note he handed the driver?
"Ah... Mr. Holmes..." he faltered, suddenly self-conscious about his own accent and diction.
"Sherlock, please."
John shifted his cane from his right hand to his left, somewhat flustered. Handshakes always drew attention to the cane. And 'Sherlock' was such an... awkward... name.
But then I won't be using it for very long, will I?
"Well, this is a prime spot... must be expensive..." He heard himself and flinched. He'd only meant to comment on the nice location, not make crass comments hinting that he was broke. But Sherlock smiled tersely.
"The landlady, Mrs Hudson. She's given me a special deal..."
It was years later when John finally understood what the 'special deal' was: whatever Dr. Watson can afford. Tell him he's paying half. Mycroft and I will make up the rest.