As I made my way through the park, in my head still the marching pace Left right left right. Always stressing the 'left'. I could still hear the commands. The shouting voices of other men, then higher ranked. Not all too long ago I had received the title of captain. Third rank in the army. Years and years of service in Afghanistan. And now I was walking through Russel Square Gardens, stressing the alternative step. Left right left right. My cane held the tempo and my left leg hopped along. Damn injury. "John, John Watson" a man called behind me. I stopped, turned, unsure whom to expect, and saw a plump short man walking up to me. "Stamford," he said, while gesturing to himself, "Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together." Then it hit me. We had studied together, years ago, at St Bart's Hospital. "Ah yes, sorry, yes, hi" I managed to answer. I wasn't really prepared for human interaction and before I knew it we were sipping take-away coffee on a bench. Trying to break the awkward silence I asked if he was still at Bart's. Turns out he's teaching now. "What about you?" he asked, "staying in town, trying to get yourself sorted?" "Well, I can't afford London on an army pension." I saw him thinking. He suggested I looked for a flatmate. I snorted. "Is this a joke? Who'd want me for a flatmate?" I took the last sip from my coffee. Ah, that's gross. I squinted at the feeling of the cold, bitter liquid running down my esophagus. Mike chuckled. What now? "You're the second person to say that to me today" he said with a tiny smirk on his round face. "Yeah? Who was the first?" I replied. I wasn't exactly sure what to think at the point where we were walking towards the hospital. Was it a colleague of Mike's or just a friend? I had no clue what to expect.
The room we walked into was filled with all sorts of lab-equipment. "Bit different from my day" I said while looking around. Mike gave a soft hum as a reply, which made me realise I'd said it out loud. On the rightmost table, several microscopes were lined up. Behind one of them sat a slender, tall-looking man with silky dark brown curls. "Mike," his deep voice echoed through the air, "can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." He didn't even look up from his work, while stretching out a bony hand, palm facing upwards. "What's wrong with the landline?" The man looked up, but bowed down to his work again, not any more than a side glance to me. "I prefer to text." The undertone in his voice was sharp. Mike tapped on his pockets to feel if his phone was in there somewhere. He apologised that his phone was in his jacket. I hesitated, but eventually reached into my own pocket. "Here, use mine" I proposed. The man looked up. The light reflected wonderfully in his deep blue eyes. His visage softened and he grew a small, gentle smile. "Ah thank you" he said, as he took the device from my stretched out hand. He activated it and started typing. In between, he glanced over a few times. After a short moment he suddenly spoke again: "Afghanistan or Irak?" I was very confused. Why would he ask such a question? I looked over my shoulder, to Stamford, who, in reply, simply smiled. In the meantime, the tall man looked up at me again with a questioning hum. "Sorry?" I spoke my thoughts out loud. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Irak?" He went on typing. "Afghanistan," I replied, "sorry, how-" I was interrupted by the opening of the door. "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you" the man said delighted. I got my phone back on that moment. A young woman, I'd say in her twenties, walked in, face down, with a cup in her hand. She handed it over. As he took the it from her, he looked at her with a frown. "What happened to the lipstick?" "It wasn't working for me" she said softly. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's… too small now." He turned around, walking back, and moved his fingers before his mouth when saying 'small' before taking a sip of his drink. The woman, whose name was apparently Molly, turned a little insecure. She looked to the ground as the man put his mug down and stared into the microscope, while still standing. "How do you feel about the violin?" Molly walked out, so I got to the conclusion the question was directed at me, but to be sure I asked him to repeat it for me. "I play the violin when I'm thinking… and sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he said in reply, "would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked at me with an adoring gaze. Innocent and open. I let it all sink in and turned to Mike. "You- you told him about me?" "Not a word" he answered while shaking his head softly. I thought for a moment. Altering my weight from one leg to another, I looked up at the stranger: "Then who said anything about flatmates?" Without missing a beat he answered that he had done so. While grabbing a long, dark blue coat with a large collar, he explained he had spoken to Stamford that morning about how difficult it must be for him to find a flatmate for. "And now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend, clearly just returned from military service in Afghanistan. Was no difficult leap" he ranted on without taking excessive, noticeable breaths. He ended his explanation while turning around to me and putting on a blue scarf. Strangely enough he left his collar turned up. It made him look… rather mysterious. I still had a question for him: how did he know about Afghanistan? He ignored my comment and started his own new sentence: "I've got my eye on a 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." Was this a joke? This man tells me who I am, but didn't say a word about himself. I wasn't gonna let that happen. "It that it?" I asked him as he opened the door. He let go and turned around. "Is that what?" He sounded sincerely confused. Following his turn, the man walked up to me with a slow pace, the heels of his shoes clacking, and put his hands in his pockets. "We've only just met and we're gonna go look for a flat?" I said. He looked at Mike as if he'd done something wrong without knowing what and then back at me. "Problem?" Now I looked at Mike, and back. I decided to spell it out for him. Apparently he had no idea what I was talking about. "We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name…" He didn't respond immediately. He just looked at me. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he began talking incredibly fast, hardly moving his lips and occasionally moving his head a little, "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 is psychosomatic," he looked down at my leg with a raised brow, " - quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He moved in place before walking towards the door to open it once more. Before walking out, he peeked around the door with his head and said: "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." He winked and saluted before walking away. How on earth- I couldn't believe it. What? Apparently I had that look on my face, because Stamford answered. "Yeah… he's always like that.