Most of the script is taken word for word. Feel free to use the transcription. I do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would not be typing up a disclaimer.
The park was quiet. The park was peaceful. The park was nice. If you ignored the angry gentleman speed walking through it. John noticed as he passed some people gave him strange looks. Of course. He was a mess. An angry, and frustrated, and dissatisfied, and angry (Did he mention that already?) mess. He looked at the sky. Grey, dammit. Grey. It could at least be blue. He kept walking.
"John. John Watson." John turned on his heels startling the fellow. Short. Slightly shorter than John and John was five, six. He was pudgy, in a one-too-many-sweets sort of way.
First to catch John's eyes was the tie. It was a red, gold, and white tie. John couldn't help but find it ugly. Well, extravagant at least. He wore a pair of brown metal rimmed glasses, which made his eyes appear smaller and did him no favor. He had a tan overcoat and a tweed jacket underneath. Last was the briefcase. Not new, but recently cleaned and serviced judging by the new polished clasp.
John's subconscious screamed that the man looked familiar. But it couldn't place him.
"Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Manchester together." The name drew up a picture in John's mind. The same fellow was in Harfield's English class. Not as chubby. But, still, the same childlike smile. John took the hand extended and shook it firmly.
"Sorry, Yes. Fine. Hello." John was surprised. He had barely spoken to Mike in the semester they shared a class.
"Yeah I know." Mike smiled and carried on mumbling something.
"Hello." John looked away. Why was he so friendly?
"Last I heard, you were out trying to get published somewhere. Well?" Mike leaned in. Eager. Interested.
"I got published."
They sat on a park bench. Awkward. So awkward. John sipped his coffee. Black. Black like the ash of his burnt manuscripts.
"So you still at Manchester then?" John tried to break the silence he created. It was just too stifling.
"Teaching now." Mike didn't meet John's eyes. "Bright young things like we used to be." He finally met John's eyes. "God, I hate them." Both laughed. "What about you? Are you staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"
"You know I can't afford London on a writer's advance."
"Ah. You couldn't bear to be anywhere else. Not the John Watson I know."
"I'm not that John Watson." Mike took a long sip of his coffee.
"Couldn't Harry help?" John 's face took a dark turn. Mike was just trying to be nice.
"Yeah, like that's going to happen." He and Harry had been down a rough path. It kept getting worse. Then they parted ways.
"I don't know; get a flat share or something." Mike trying to be helpful, again.
"Come on. Who'd want me for a flat mate?" John joked. Stamford chuckled as if he realized something hilarious to John's chagrin.
"What?" John was a bit confused. It was funny, sure; hilarious, no.
"You're the second person to say that to me today." Stamford looked amused by the whole notion.
Curious, John asked, "Who was the first?"