~*~Let's all give a big round of applause to my beta, who was the one who nagged, bribed, and ultimately resorted to kidnapping in order for me to finish this chapter. I'm first to admit it took too long, but school and other plotbunnies and my "job" took over my life for a while. Also, Sherlock is damn hard to write. Maybe its because I am John Watson at heart, but Sherlock was tricky to get in to. Kudos to writers that write in his voice all the time.
This is the chapter where my two favorite tall, dark, mysterious, and snarky British Boys meet. Some answers are given, but many more are raised.
Warnings: nada
Musical Muse: Sherlock and Avengers playlists
Disclaimer: I'm nobody important and in no way related to any of the people behind Sherlock or Marvel.
Beta-Babe Kat deserves homemade pizza, which is equivalent to true love in our world.

~*~Mystery~*~

Sherlock didn't know what to make of the strange man downstairs.

Originally, he paid him no mind, of course. Just another of Mrs. Hudson's charity cases, some incomprehensible moron picked up off the street, to be cleaned up and sent on his way. John obviously didn't register him as a threat because he didn't go to check his gun when he returned from the brief medical test he performed. John did inform him that the visitor would be staying, and moving into the empty basement flat, it was barely enough to spark Sherlock's interest. It would just be another ordinary idiot to be scared off, but hopefully not before Sherlock coerced a few experiments from him. John was becoming increasingly aware of Sherlock's attempts to test on him, and despite Sherlock's assurances that any poison were in such small amounts that he wouldn't be able to taste it under the marmalade, he was outright refusing to accept any food from Sherlock.

That all was before the young man came upstairs, allegedly to borrow some proper clothes. Sherlock had felt a twinge of annoyance when he was informed because no doubt John would rifle through his drawers and mess everything up, and there'd be a new smell to the flat that would bother his senses for hours. Hopefully, the man would come, would go, and that would be the end of it for today. There would be time later to investigate him, but not during such a crucial stage of testing. He didn't even look up from his research, so convinced was he that this man was beneath his notice.

John's chattering to the stranger was familiar to Sherlock, and he barely paid attention to what he was saying. He did note that John was doing the most of the talking, but that was no surprise. John had that sort of skill. Aside from a few murmurs, the new stranger was avoiding John's questions entirely. Not unusual in normal circumstances, but a bit odd that he was not responding well to John. In fact, the first inclination Sherlock had that the new flatmate was not who or what he implied he was came when he finally answered one of John's "harmless" questions.

"No, my family is not from around here." A simple phrase, a modest answer, and yet Sherlock stiffened as though he'd been slapped. Something was wrong - incredibly wrong - with the man's accent. That was enough for Sherlock to turn to observe, and that almost made things worse. Because nothing, nothing, was right about this character.

The way he held himself (wary, tense, expecting attack - severe back pain, holding himself gingerly - closed in, unwilling to open to John), the looseness of his hand (ready to grasp a short-range stabbing weapon, yet there were clearly none on his form), his facial structure (not European, not Asian, not any indigenous island tribe or indeed anything Sherlock had seen before), his expressions (tightly under control, searching for the right expression for the situation at hand - something Sherlock recognized from himself), and his eyes…

If the eyes were indeed the window to the soul, Sherlock would assume this man did not have one. Ridiculous poetics aside, they were dangerous, flitting, and weary, surrounded by dark circles. They looked like John's after the rare nightmare.

Most disconcerting of all was how none of the indications flooding Sherlock's brain were adding up. This man was utterly defying everything Sherlock had learned over the years and was somehow doing it in a way that didn't alert the medical expert beside him. That was dangerous, if John didn't know what exactly he was getting into by befriending the man. Sherlock didn't like that one bit.

In short, a man with a million mysteries was going to be living downstairs for the foreseeable future. How thrilling.

John noticed Sherlock's gaze, of course. "Sherlock, this is Phil." Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh. That man was not a Phil. "Phil" glanced at him, away, then back again. Meeting Sherlock's ardent stare, he glared right back, a challenge in his harsh green eyes. Sherlock, being the mild expert that he was, detected a hint of questioning as well. Of course. He must have suspected his cover was detected in some way. Whatever and whoever "Phil" was, he was obviously unused to someone of Sherlock's genius.

On the peripheral, Sherlock could see John giving him a look. It was his "please don't cause trouble right now I'm begging you to behave" look. Normally Sherlock would ignore it, of course, but this time he had to admit that it would be dangerous to proceed without further information. He would wait and observe. There would certainly be much of that.

The impromptu staring contest was interrupted by John stepping between the two and proclaiming loudly, "That's just Sherlock, don't mind him. I'm sure he has a shirt or two you can borrow." Firmly grasping "Phil" by the arm, - Sherlock noticed they both flinched, interesting - he dragged him down the hall towards Sherlock's room. Sherlock pushed away the slight miffed emotion that John didn't even bother to ask for a shirt, and focused instead on what he had observed. Quite alarmingly, nothing was adding up.

Facial structure and accent aside, the way the man was behaving was of someone who had just been thrust into a new and alarming situation, and was unsure as to how to proceed. A simple change of scenery and mugging (Sherlock would bet his microscope that was his cover story) wasn't nearly enough to elicit that response. There was also the large amount of distrust that covered the man like a blanket of thorns, though Sherlock suspected that would go away soon enough with enough of John's influence. John could do that.

There was something else, tickling on the edge of Sherlock's mind. Something very familiar to him, not just from observation, but from personal experience. He couldn't pin down what it was just yet, but with enough time he would know...assuming the man stuck around. Sherlock dismissed any thought that the man would leave. Every signal that he could pin down pointed to the likelihood that the man would stay in 221C, where it was safe and welcoming. Sherlock would have plenty of time to learn this man because, unless he was utterly mistaken, he was just as curious about Sherlock as Sherlock was about him.

The familiar sound of steps brought John back to the kitchen. He was alone, and looking troubled. So, it seemed his companion was picking up the indications as well. Good.

John paused at the other end of the table. He tensed his arms and hands, looked over his shoulder, furrowed his brow. A lecture was coming.

"Look, Sherlock," he began, "I know you're not happy about this, but Phil's...had a bit of a rough time. I know you can tell." Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. Whatever "Phil" had gone through, it wasn't just a "rough time." "Just don't bother him overmuch, that's all I'm asking. All right?" John wasn't pleading, he knew better than to do that. A simple request got better results, but this time, Sherlock wouldn't obey no matter how John phrased it.

"You know I can't do that John." Sherlock strained his ears, listening for an approach and wondering how much he should tell John. He didn't have all the information yet, and not only was that dangerous, it made him uneasy. "He's not who he says he is and you know it." John opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock cut him off. "You're a doctor, so tell me: do all of his injuries match his story? You're a soldier, you know when you meet someone like yourself. You instincts are telling you that he is more than what he appears, and you're not listening to them. Think, John. You. Know." John's eyes widened, and Sherlock became aware of how he was leaning over the table towards him, as he grew unusually agitated. Perhaps that would press John to re-examine what he had observed.

Sherlock was aware that he had perhaps said too much, and his presupposition was confirmed when the near-hallway squeaky step sang out an alarm. John didn't appear to notice, but Sherlock caught the barely-there sound of his own bedroom door closing soon after. He cocked an eyebrow. So it seemed "Phil" was rather sneaky. This would make finding more information much more difficult and much more enjoyable at the same time.

John took a deep breath and let it out. "Do you think he's dangerous?" he asked seriously, pinning his strong gaze on Sherlock. Sherlock was pleased to note that he wasn't questioning his call, or berating him for guessing his nagging feelings correctly. John was being very clever today, when he wasn't being his usual thick self.

"At the moment, no. He is aware of my suspicions, so be on your guard." If this man tried to do anything to John, to exploit the weakness Sherlock shouldn't feel about his doctor...He couldn't be too careful these days. He didn't think Moriarty would introduce a new player to the game, or one of his many enemies be able to send someone so unusual as a distraction, but he wasn't willing to take that risk, or risk this man being a threat in his own power. He was a skilled actor, that was obvious, but what he was hiding was unclear as of yet. But not for long.

John didn't get a chance to question him further, as deliberately loud steps echoed down the hall towards them. "Phil" appeared behind John, a small smile on his face and some of Sherlock's long-sleeved tees in his arms. "None of the trousers fit very well." The words were soft but his stare, firmly fixed on Sherlock, was hard. He knew Sherlock was on to him, and wanted to know how and why. Sherlock responded to his look with one of his own. He wouldn't tell, not today.

"That's all right." Whether John was now suspicious or not, he was still the open one, ready to help. Couldn't tell a lie worth a damn, but was good enough at avoiding the need to tell one. Sherlock noticed though, when "Phil" snapped his gaze to John, he still held the distrustful and questioning look. Maybe having John break down the walls with gentle questions wouldn't work after all. "At least you're a bit more set than you were."

As John led "Phil" to the stairs, Sherlock rose from the table. Taking up his violin, he began to play a simple melody he learned as a child, something simple he didn't need to pay attention to. He had other things to focus on. Like picking John's brain for details about "Phil's" injuries (doctor-patient confidentiality code be damned), ideas about how to leak more information from the quiet man, and once he discovered who the hell this man was, what was he going to do with him. There was an answer to who this man really was - there had to be, there was always an answer - and Sherlock would find it, no matter how impossible it was shaping up to be.

Clearly, he wouldn't be bored anymore.

~*~ So, I had Kat research Tom and Benny's sizes, just to be sure that Sherlock's pants wouldn't fit Loki. *sigh* It was a hard task, but someone had to do it.
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