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.
John walked once again through the empty halls.
"Wow. It looks the same." The same marble floors. The same oak doors. The same smell of old, decaying paper.
Mike pushed open a door that led to the theater. Mike had already showed John his tiny office. Now they walked down the long,(and new) red-carpeted aisle.
"A bit different from my day." John said to himself.
The only other person in the hall was a tall dark haired bloke on stage. He seemed to be reading a script or something. His hands glided through the air, a maestro. Emotion danced across his face like a young ballerina. Fear, shame, pride. All those feelings vanished as his face became a mask of terror. He held his hand to his heart, delicately brushing it over the fabric of his suit. His eyes were grey and huge. Staring at an unseen beast. John was glued to the floor of the first row. What was that man so afraid of?
"And scene." Stamford gave a small applause as the gentleman put down the script.
"Ah. Stamford do you have your mobile?"
"Sorry, left it in my office. Good work, though. If only you could do that in front of those prats in accounting. They wouldn't be so huffy about funding then. Why don't you use the landline?" Mike offered.
"No prefer to text." Now, John could have sworn he had seen the young man before. He looked familiar. A talk show? A news report? An ex's brother?
"Use mine." John held out his phone. A gift from Harry. He didn't like it. But, he needed it. "John Watson," John said, introducing himself.
"Published or unpublished?" John barely stopped himself from answering.
"Pub... How did you know that?" Mike grinned like an idiot when he caught sight of John' thunder stuck face. A girl bustled in and proffered a cup of coffee to the actor.
"Molly. The coffee." He took a sip and blinked at the girl. "What happened to the lipstick?"
"Oh umm..." She blushed profusely. "It wasn't working for me."
"Oh, really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth is too small now." He made a slight gesture to the mouth as he said so. John found the fellow's comment to be a bit harsh. Especially, when the girl, Molly, liked him. But, the girl only blinked in surprise and ran off.
"Do you like the violin?" He put down the coffee before continuing. "I tend to play when I think. I might act out scenes in the middle of the night. And sometimes I won't speak for days on end, would that bother you? " The young man clicked away on John's cell.
"Why would the violin…?"
He was cut off by the gentleman's snappish reply, "I think flat mates should know the worst about each other." John tried to keep from gasping as the young man handed back the cellular.
"Who said anything about a flat?"
The young man grabbed his long over coat from a seat. "I did," he replied airily, "I told Stamford this morning that I must be a hard man to find a flat mate for. And here he is back from lunch with a friend recently published and rejected. I know this little place in central London. The media is least likely to look there. We could share the space easily. I'll meet you there at seven tomorrow." He fixed his navy blue scarf and walked up the aisle. The actor was almost at the door when John found the courage to speak.
"Is that all?" The figure stiffened.
"Is what all?" His face seemed piqued with interest. At least, John hoped it was interest. The only other thing it could have been was murderous blood lust. That would be a bad way to start off a relationship. He summoned as much courage that could fit his tiny, blond frame.
"We just met and we're looking for a flat? We don't know the first thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." The other man fixed John with his firm, steady gaze.
"I know you are a writer recently published. You have also been rejected by your editor so you are tight on money. You have a brother, but you won't go to him for help. Probably, because he is a drinker, more likely, because he just walked out on his wife. Your editor also thinks your trust issues affect your writing. Quite right I'm afraid. Is that all? Good." He was almost out the theater entrance when he peeked around the door. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." Sherlock winked with a click of the tongue. He was gone.
John's eyes must have conveyed the question he wanted to ask.
Mike nodded and said, "Yes, he's always like that."