Meeting

Words: 966

Rating: K

Spoilers: S1:E1

When Mike Stamford walked into the lab with a man Sherlock had never seen before, he was immediately suspicious. Sherlock stole a glance up out of habit. Haircut and the way he held himself said military. Not to mention that limp of his, which was immediately apparent. Invalided then.

God, Sherlock never should have mentioned a word about flatmates. Now he brings in a soldier, the dullest creature imaginable. Unbelievable.

Then he heard the new man say, "Well, bit different from my day."

Inwardly, Sherlock raised a brow. Alright, doctor. That was something, at least. Probably had half a brain cell then.

Sherlock then realised that the arrival was well timed. He was just resenting the fact that his phone had no signal at the mo' and in walked a mobile he could use. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Stamford said something. Sherlock deleted exactly what. "I prefer to text," he said shortly before Stamford gave some form of refusal that Sherlock didn't bother to recall. The part that mattered was he needed—

"Er, here. Use mine."

Sherlock's head popped up the moment the man spoke. Sherlock was not often surprised, but in this moment he was. It showed an amount of kindness that was tediously boring… but somehow intriguing in the fact that it was so rare a trait. Sherlock found himself interested.

Not to mention he needed the mobile.

"Oh. Thank you."

He glanced at Stamford, who finally thought to make an introduction.

John Watson. Hm.

Sherlock took the phone. Ah, owned previously by an alcoholic brother. Who just left his wife, no less.

Sherlock bothered with another glance at this John Watson.

Tanned face, but no tan above wrists. Abroad, but not sunbathing. Obvious already from the military background.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

If brother has green ladder, arrest brother - SH

"Sorry?"

God, did Sherlock loathe to repeat himself. He managed not to sound hostile when saying, "Which was it—Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He glanced up a third time—and three whole glances from Sherlock Holmes when you weren't a corpse was avid interest.

He was still standing on that leg. Limp was psychosomatic then.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know...?"

Sherlock was momentarily distracted. Coffee appeared in his hand. Molly. It tasted all wrong. Too much sugar.

Sherlock didn't know why… but he liked this John Watson. He would've blown off Stamford's obvious offer, usually, but he needed a flatshare and John Watson… was interesting. If only a little.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

A long silence. Oh no, don't be slow. Don't annoy me already.

"I'm sorry, what?" asked John.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He tried for a smile in John's direction, but it didn't seem to come off correctly from the look on John's face. He'd get that right someday, he supposed.

Unimportant conversation between John and Stamford during which Sherlock glanced around for his riding crop.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" asked Dr. Watson.

Ah, explanations. Tedious. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Words Sherlock ignored ensued, after which he informed John, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry—gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?"

Sherlock was almost surprised John said anything. English reserve, after all. But he turned back to the man, interested again. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

Oh. Attitude. That could be fun. Sherlock could play too.

"Problem?"

After an incredulous smile, John said, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting—I don't even know your name."

Sherlock gave John one last glance to make sure he caught all he could for now and then spouted off: "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Sherlock half expected John to stop him midway through, but he didn't—only looked on in something like horror as Sherlock spewed his own life story at him. Sherlock felt sick pleasure at the sensation of making a person feel so disarmed.

In fact, he decided that was an alright moment to leave on. He opened the door to make his way through, leaving a still silent John behind…

Then he stuck his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker Street." It was melodramatic to say the least, but he favoured John a wink before saying "Afternoon" and making his way out.

And Sherlock was surprised to find he really did sort of like the man. There was something about him. Kind, but with fire. A doctor, but also a soldier. Many contradictions just waiting to be unraveled.

Not that John would show up.

And then, at seven o' clock, he did.

Well. Maybe this really was an interesting man.

"Ah, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock, please."

And he meant it.