Saturday. And here we have him, John Watson, walking by the park with earphones on, bopping his head as he listens to good music he loves so much. When he feels like no one is watching, the occasional poses and dances takes over. He feels the music, snapping his fingers and he gives a pose where he opens his arms freely.

Which makes him pale when he felt skin touch the back of his hand.

He quickly turns around to see curly-brown hair in front of him muttering, "No! No! My work!" Familiar voice.

He immediately crouches down to help this brown-haired stranger and picking up some books, folders and papers - although there are still flying papers around them. "Oh my god, I am so sor-"

He stops short when a pair of blue-green-gold eyes stare right at him. Holmes. 'It's Holmes!' his mind screams in panic. He quickly gets all the stuff and clears his throat as silence washes all over them. "There goes my data," Holmes's deep voice says. "It's flying everywhere," he sighs and picks up the things that did not get wet from the puddles surrounding them.

He sees Sherlock rub his cheek and finally see fading bruises on his face. "I'm sorry, I should have been more careful," he says.

Sherlock looks at him as if he's gone bonkers, "What? No. You need not to apologise. You've been busy listening to - probably - boring music and have been carried away with the stupidity of the message it brings." Holmes scoffs.

He frowns. He's listening to the Beatles. 'The Beatles!' "I'm listening to good music. Deal with it," he snaps.

"I didn't ask if it was good music. I simply said it's probably boring," Holmes raises his brow. Oh he wants to strangle him alright. He gives Holmes a murderous glare which even makes Moran uncomfortable. But it seems that it doesn't have an effect on Holmes.

"Listen here, Holmes," he spits his name and Holmes even gives a victorious smirk. He points at him angrily, "You better keep that bloody wild mouth of yours shut before I lose my sanity."

"And why should I stop if it benefits you instead of me?"

"Because when I become insane, I become insane," he means it. Holmes raises his head for a second - probably realising the anger he is feeling right now.

Holmes tuts, "Well that's unfortunate for someone who aspires to be a doctor, don't you think?"

He blinks at this. He is aware that Sherlock is good at his trick but 'How did this bastard know I wanna be a doctor?' He thinks. "Wha-? How d'you-" he starts to ask.

"How did I know that you want to be a doctor?" He gives a small nod. "Well it is clear that you have an extensive knowledge of Medicine – I often notice you reading books upon the matter. You love helping others – that much is said from the way you treat those who are injured in a Rugby match – quickly and without hesitation, sometimes even getting a bit aggressive when your ways are blocked by idiots. You have the patience and composure of a doctor – calm and you have an idea of what is okay and not okay to say. Even if you aspire to be a doctor, there is this part of you that still loves the adrenaline rush of a good fight, or at least, a good match.

"Plus may I add that your mother is a doctor and you see her as an inspiration instead of your father – who is an alcoholic, not an aggressive or violent one, but annoyingly an alcoholic, judging from the fact that he even gave you that phone. It's been in the pockets along with keys and coins – a gift then. Plus the fashion is about a year ago and the kind of model that a man of age would use. Kind father but alcoholic since the plug for the charger has scratches around it – you never see that amount of scratches in a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them.

"The same goes to your brother whose girlfriend he left – seeing the coat you are wearing with the small embroidery saying 'To Harry Watson. From Clara xxx.' Obviously Clara gave this to Harry. Three kisses means attachment. Now Harry gave this to you – he wouldn't just let you borrow it if the sentiment is still connected. If she left him, he would have kept that but no he gave it to you, so he left her."

He asks, "How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark, good one though. The zipper of your coat is clearly been zipped up and down clumsily with shaking fingers – judging by the amount of times that the zipper is clearly reattached – about more than ten times. The amount of times indicates that this has been an ongoing problem. Now, it may just be emotional breakdowns but he wouldn't break this coat since it has sentimental value to it and he wouldn't get angry seeing as he left her, if that was the case then it would be probably but the amount of the zipper breaking is too much for emotional breakdowns – so shaking hands, clumsy, bit aggressive, plus the scent of alcohol is still there – simple."

He blinks once, twice, thrice. "Ahuh..." He can't help but be impressed by how much Holmes's mind can do. 'What the hell? This guy must be psychic. I mean, whoa. That's bloody brilliant.' "That is.. That is just..."

He looks down at the embroidery on his coat. He raises the phone in front of his eyes and indeed sees the marks on the phone. He looks back at Holmes and sees him in a strange stance.

He may not be as brilliantly observant as Sherlock Holmes but he does have a brain of his own. He's pretty sure that Holmes's closed fists, stiff posture and clenched jaw means something. His face tilted a bit to one side, looking down a bit. His hair makes it impossible to see if his eyes are closed or not. "That... was amazing," he manages to say.

He almost gets startled at the quick movement of Holmes's head which was looking down and is now looking at him. His eyes are focused and lost at the same time. Holmes relaxes in posture and stands up with his hands in the pockets of his black Belstaff coat. He doesn't even want to think how much that coat must cost.

Holmes hesitates, "You think so?"

"Yes of course it was. It was extraordinary," he looks down at his phone again, "It was quite extraordinary..."

"That's not what people always say," Holmes says looking at the empty road.

"What do people always say?"

Holmes looks at him, "Piss off!" and Sherlock gives him a smile. He feels good for managing to make the well-known cold Sherlock Holmes smile. But a shiver runs through his spine when he sees the expression after the smile. Holmes looks down in though. Holmes's face is quite impassive but he can see right through that - he doesn't know how but he does.

"Wait... How'd you know my mother's a doctor?" He asks.

Holmes looks up again at him and his eyes are cold. Holmes shrugs in reply - which John finds odd. 'Seriously? A minute ago, you want to show-off and now you're not going to answer to a question worth showing off to?'

"Come on, Holmes," he playfully punches Holmes's arm. Holmes steps back - almost unnoticeable - and looks at him, confused. He looks back at Sherlock just as confused. "Was it something I said?" he asks all of a sudden.

"No... No... It's nothing..." Holmes answers. Holmes blinks a few times. Sherlock puts his head down and closes his eyes.

'Is he tearing up?' He thinks to himself and suddenly says, "Whoa whoa whoa... Sorry... What did I say?... Sorry..." He leans down.

Holmes gives a shaky breath and then suddenly stands up tall with a proud posture. He jumps up startled. 'Good. He didn't tear up, then.' He thinks. 'What the heck just happened? Maybe I just imagined it all.'

"Was there anything wrong?"

"Just one"

"What?"

"Harry's short for Harriet." He swears Holmes became stone.

"Harry's your sister? SISTER! Always something."

"Okay..." He can't help but ask what happened to Holmes when he asked about his mother. "But what just-? Holmes?"

"Sherlock, please," Holme- Sherlock offers his hand and he thinks this is all too ridiculous since they already met and spoke too long and such. Anyway, he grabs his hand and shakes it.

"Hello. John Watson, again. Sorry about bumping you earlier. Now there's flying data everywhere."

Holmes snorts. "Flying data, that's one way of saying it."