When he's sent back to England, John finds out that everything has gone downhill. Dad is dead. Harry and Clara have divorced – well, Harry left her. "She wasn't my soulmate, Johnny. I knew from the start, but...she was a Clara, and you know how dad could get. She didn't stand me, lately," his sister whines. John lets her. He doesn't have answers to that. But he knew Clara, and he has a feeling that what she couldn't stand wasn't Harry but her drinking habit (Harry's not just drunk right now – John's a doctor, he knows the signs). Knowing that his sister used poor, gentle Clara to keep dad at least half-content and ditched her when she complained about her drinking...it might be his sister, but he doesn't like Harry very much. She pushes the mobile phone into his hands. She wants to stay in contact. She'd like him to stay, full stop, but she needs help, and he can't be the one to provide it right now. He needs help too. He's broken. Together, they'd be a disaster waiting to happen.
John almost walks past Mike Stamford. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want people who knew him before to see the thing he's become now. The cripple. The surgeon with trembling hands. (Not a surgeon anymore. Not a soldier. What is he, exactly?) But he can't accelerate and walk past Mike. His leg rebels to it. So, a few clipped words it is. Mike and his pretence to know him (he doesn't know himself anymore). His sensible, helpful suggestions. Like he could fix John's life for him. John hates that. But then – there is mirth at some secret joke John isn't sharing, and he wants to. He agrees to see the man. He wouldn't get a flatmate. Of course not. But it couldn't hurt, could it?
And then John meets him. His first thought it's that he's an actor. Maybe one who needs to play some sort of medical role and is here harassing true medical practitioners as a result. He's surely pretty enough to be one. John is helpful on reflex, almost before he catches himself doing it, offering his mobile phone. Without even looking at him, as if he's not interested, this man asks, "Afghanistan or Iraq," and given that Mike hasn't gone past his name introducing him how does he know? And Mike is smiling his knowing smile all the while. John is unpleasantly surprised – not what he wants to discuss now – but then the stranger repeats the question, and John has no reason to withhold information, so he doesn't. He asks where that question came from, though.
But it doesn't seem that he ranks very high, because his question goes blatantly ignored. And it's not just the pretty girl's interruption and the most weird lines of...that doesn't even qualify as flirting that John has ever heard. Maybe this man will accept pointers? He is, after all, Three-Continents Watson.
The matter is that this man likes throwing John for a loop, because he's talking about violins. And then finally John starts catching up and understanding, because they're talking of flat sharing which is why he's there. So Mike must have warned him, but he swears he hasn't, and if he didn't have his mobile phone, met John outside and brought him with him he's probably right too.
"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asks because what is this man, a psychic?
Apparently it was bloody self-evident, as the man explains. John supposes it is, when told like it. But there's one thing that's bugging him still.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" he asks again.
And again, he's ignored (and isn't that absolutely rude?). Instead, he's told that the man already is considering one specific place and that he'll do. Then, with one last outrageous remark about a riding crop, of all things, the stranger is about to run away.
"Is that it?" John queries sternly. Because it doesn't make any sense. He doesn't even know the name of this man. Just that he's rude and evasive...no, enigmatic. Hardly conducive to wanting to room with him, as the stranger seems to assume he'll consider doing.
It brings the man back to him, at least. And when John says – implies, really – how surreal all this is, his potential flatmate has the gall to challenge him with a, "Problem?"
Honestly, this man is incredible. And Mike is still smiling. Enjoying the show, as it were. Damn. John points out everything he doesn't know – everything he should know, to even start to take in consideration flat sharing – and for the first time, this man looks at him. Really, really looks at him. Like he's a specimen of some sort and the other a scientist, maybe, and it's slightly unnerving, but he's a soldier. He won't get scared being stared at.
Then his flatmate to be is spouting details of his life (and of Harry's life, though he gets the sex wrong) that he has absolutely no business knowing. Things he hasn't told Mike. Things he hasn't told anyone since he's back but his therapist, and he's pretty sure Ella hasn't leaked it to this impossible man. So how does he know?
The git has the gall to goad him, because what else is saying, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Yes, this man knows John better than most. Better than he has any right to, in fact, but it doesn't resolve the problem of John's ignorance.
The bastard does his exit, but then apparently seems to remember that John can't meet him because he doesn't know bloody where. He comes back and underturns John's world with a few words. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He winks – actually winks – and leaves, courteously leaving John to have a panic attack in peace.
Mike is all sympathy. "He's always like that," he says, as if John had just been overwhelmed by this man...Sherlock's...outrageous attitude. But now his words are on loop inside John's head. "The name's Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock..." It's the first time John is sure this is an actual name. And there's an impossible man bearing it. Oh Christ. What is he supposed to do? Beside go to look at that flat. That's a given.
For a fleeting moment, John is happy that his dad is already dead, because telling him that he's finally found his male soulmate would have given him a coronary anyway. He leaves Bart's quickly. Retire and regroup. How can he start a romantic relationship with a man if he's never been attracted to one? Yes, Sherlock is not a normal man by any stretch of the imagination, he's known him ten minutes and he's already sure. If he has to have an exception to the rule, at least it's an exceptional individual in all the senses. But it means he's ill prepared to deal with this. Why had he ever assumed Sherlock would be a female, beyond pleasing dad? That was so silly of him. Is it even possible to botch up the relationship with one's soulmate? John doesn't want to find out.
Curious about Sherlock, he types "Sherlock Holmes" and finds The Science of Deduction. The claims on the site are simply absurd, because identifying a pilot from his left thumb is clearly preposterous. But he still doesn't know how Sherlock knew about Afghanistan, or Harry's drinking. And who classifies 243 types of tobacco ash? What purpose can it possibly serve? ...And why wasn't this site up before he signed up for the army? He'd have called. Met him before. Maybe settled, skipping all the mindless relationships and the getting shot.
Perhaps it's the mention of deduction in the site name, or the fact that he'd assumed wrongly before, but now that he's imagining getting comfortably settled with Sherlock and maybe married later on he reminds himself suddenly and sharply that this is a Sherlock, not necessarily his Sherlock. That time in Italy when a girl had accosted him, interceding for a date with her shy friend Andrea and John had agreed, only to discover that in Italy Andrea was a male name returns unbidden to his memory. Sherlock could be an English male name and a Korean female name. He'll have to see, won't he?
Sherlock hates it. He shouldn't react like this. He should have given it up as a bad job decades ago. Still, hearing Mike say, "It's an old friend of mine, John Watson," causes a racket inside the mind palace. Teenager Sherlock, who accidentally got locked in with his emotions in the attic long ago, tries to lockpick the deadbolt and let himself out. Let all the feelings out. Luckily his hands shake with all the emotional turmoil he's permanently going through, and he doesn't manage. Sherlock still hears him, though. "Oh please, let this be the one. Let him be my John. John? John? Please, John!"
Sherlock barely looks at this John. He keeps himself occupied – with the case, with anything at all – even while he talks with him. And to shut his teen self up, he deduces John. He expects an immediate, strong adverse reaction as usual – proof that John is not his John. Instead, John is apparently too shocked to react properly. Sherlock runs away before he can make John change idea about taking a look at 221B by being himself – he does need a flatmate, even a temporary one. Teen!Sherlock, trapped as he is, manages to hijack control of transport for a second, for the first time in years. The wink is a lamentable instinct Sherlock should have never acted upon, but he has and there's no rewriting time. And now he's going to meet John at 221B and hopefully persuade him to share the flat, and if he's lucky he won't be making a fool of himself in the process.
That isn't so probable, because John and he haven't exchanged more than two lines and he's already rambling – about Mrs. Hudson's case, but anything would do, honestly.
John likes the place, likes even the flat, but he doesn't like Sherlock. Or his byproducts. Soldier, why didn't Sherlock deduce that he wouldn't stand his mess and tidy up in advance. He makes a half-hearted attempt, but it's too little too late. And he notices the skull next, and what if it's all too freaky for him to stay? But his finances are tight enough that he won't pass this chance up. He'll stay – a little bit. It scares Sherlock how bad he wants John to stay. It's not the name. He's just too lonely these days, he tells himself – not that he'll ever admit it to a living soul.
And Mrs. Hudson is asking whether they'll need two rooms. (She doesn't know his name, does he? He covers it up all the time – it's only proper, and it's about the only proper thing he does.) And John replies, "Of course," quite poignantly too. Of course. He's not Sherlock's John. No point daydreaming. When their landlady continues about the matter and John looks at him for support, he can't make himself say they're nothing. Even if they are. It's silly. He doesn't care what others think of him. It's true, and that's what he'll tell if John asks an explanation of such behaviour. But the truth is – something clicked inside Sherlock when he met the army doctor (and it scares him half to death) and he's behaving like every ordinary fool out there, pretending if only to himself someone is his soulmate even if he's wrong. He should want John to be out of his life before he can ruin it any further – and he doesn't. He fiercely doesn't.
But then John mentions looking him up, and it pleases him. John is interested in him. It's nice. He mentions the blog, and Sherlock preens. His blog is good. His blog isn't freakish, it has helpful informations that would allow people to deduce things too, if only they bothered to read it. But John doubts his deductive abilities, his tone clearly disbelieving. Why would he? Sherlock, defensive, points out that he's deduced him – and his brother too, from that mobile phone.
John asks how, he's interested. He could be outraged remembering that Sherlock stripped him of his privacy with nonchalance. Instead he wants to know. It does not conform to known patterns. It's so much better. He smiles – he can't help to – and he would explain, but then Mrs. Hudson interjects. It's like they were in their own bubble, and she destroyed it. He won't get it back, because Lestrade is coming up. And isn't it great? Finally a case. A serial killer case. It's brilliant. It's Christmas. And yet, there's a part of him that finds leaving John to deal with the likes of Anderson positively distasteful. But there's nothing to be done for that, right? This is a case he won't absolutely pass up. The police are floundering without him, and there's a serial killer to catch. John and his deviations from the norm will be still at 221B for him to study when he gets back.
Sherlock already has a foot out of 221B's door, when he realizes that he doesn't necessarily have to deal with Anderson. His flatmate has a scientific preparation that could prove useful. He's back into the flat in a rush. He approaches the problem in a roundabout way, by reiterating his deduction about his flatmate's profession. Army doctor. John needlessly confirms it. Next, he goads him with, "Any Good?".
When John replies, "Very good," Sherlock believes him. This is not a defensive or boastful claim. John is very good at his job. All the better.
Again, Sherlock is indirect, needing to gauge the situation. There's the PTSD and that awful psychosomatic limp (which irks him for reasons unknown) to take into account. "Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," he adds conversationally. As if he had all the time to stand here and make small talk when there's a serial killer to catch.
"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," John replies, and it should dampen all his hopes, but these lines – they're honest, in a sense, but there's a tiredness in them, like they're lines he had to repeat too much lately. And they say what it's only proper to say. People do the silliest things because it's the proper thing to do.
Sherlock takes his gamble. "Wanna see some more?" he offers.
John's "God, yes!" is like that of a man who's finally been offered what he was searching for all his life. Sherlock leads him away, with the certainty of being followed, and the presence behind him makes him giddy.
There's a minor hurdle, caused by their landlady, but he's on fever both because of the case and because John's with him, willingly, as Teen!Sherlock continues to point out. So maybe his enthusiasm compounds and he's positively exuberant. But he can't be hindered now. When he tells her, "Who cares about decent?" he hopes John will hear him out too. No more proper answers, please. Let's enjoy this. Together.
When they're in a taxi, he pulls out his mobile phone for want of something – anything – to concentrate on beyond the wonderful, terrifying prospect of having someone by his side. He can't stand the silence, though, (it makes Teen!Sherlock esponentially louder) and he's been evading John's questions since yesterday, so he might as well indulge his flatmate.
The first question, "Where are we going?" is pretty dull, so his answer is laconic. Though he's yet again warmed inside by the evidence that John will follow him without having the faintest idea of where he's leading. Profound, entirely undeserved – at the moment – trust.
"Who are you? What do you do?" John queries next. Sherlock can't help it. He questions back, asking John's hypothesis on the matter. The man has seen his website, after all; he's seen Lestrade. He should be able to make an informed inference.
John's conjecture is private detective, but he's so hesitant about it that it's evident even he doesn't believe it entirely. Sherlock prompts him to expound his objections too.
"The police don't go to private detectives," John points out.
Sherlock then reveals what his actual job is, and explains it for John who, understandably, isn't sure about what it entails. Since Sherlock has created his own career, it's forgiveable.
But then John mortifies him, by objecting, "The police don't consult amateurs".
Hurt, Sherlock glowers at him. Instead of giving him up like any other idiot, or insulting back, he feels the odd urge to prove himself. He does what he never does spontaneously (Lestrade needs much prodding and pleading to make him explain). He doesn't say, "I deduced you just yesterday," he expounds on how he managed to do so. Even knowing it's all so simple when one reveals the trick, knowing John will finally get angry at him for revealing all his life's details in a cab, where the cabbie who necessarily overhears them isn't even a friend like Stamford was. Or maybe he'll say that so, Sherlock just obsesses over meaningless details. The result can never be positive, but he'll be damned if Sherlock doesn't demonstrate to his flatmate that he's no simple amateur.
Even with the mess his feelings are at the moment, he smiles at John during his explanation. His mouth is doing it all on its own, he swears. It's just, looking at John, he can't help himself.
He ends on a half-teasing,half-arrogant note, "You were right – the police don't consult amateurs," but he's nervous. He looks out of the window, waiting for John's awaited outburst, biting his lips to stop himself from adding anything else to fill the uncomfortable silence and indubitably making a bigger fool of himself.
Not for the first time, John proves himself an unique individual. He breathes, "That was amazing."
But he can't mean that, can he? Sherlock turns to look at him, searching signs of sarcasm, but he finds none. Unable to believe what he's told, after a short speechless spell he asks John if he really thinks so. He fully expects a scathing reply.
John, instead, adds only more praise. And he says, "Of course." There's nothing that warrants an of course when the reaction to his deductions isn't negative. Unable to help himself, he points it out. "That's not what people normally say."
When – asked to do so – he reveals the usual reaction to the use of his abilities, carefully choosing it between the most polite and less hurtful things he's heard, he offers another small smile. Turning this into a joke. Understating how terribly momentous it is not to be scorned for his compulsive deducting. Then, the doctor does something as unexpected and as weighty as his praise. He smiles back. At Sherlock. When Sherlock hasn't carefully manipulated him into doing so. "My John," teen Sherlock states with utter conviction from his exile in the attic. When he discovers that his deductions were partially wrong, his teen self gets worried. "Must do better; John won't appreciate us anymore if we get things wrong. I want more of his praise!" he whines. He'd do a great many things for that. He's doomed isn't he?