It's been raining again.
John Watson has learned to hate the rain almost as much as he hates the cramped little bedsit he's headed back toward even now, and almost as much as he hates the aluminum cane his therapist says he shouldn't need at all. The rain just means more time to stare at those same gray walls just like the day before and more time trying to ignore the cold, black weight of his gun hiding in the desk drawer.
His wings fidget restlessly from where they rest with military neatness on his back, though if it's from the moisture still in the air or his current train of thought, he can't tell. People have always said his wings are beautiful, though to be honest, he's never really believed them. They're sturdy and practical, mottled brown like the foothills of Afghanistan except for where they pale to something that glints almost like gold when the sunlight hits it just right. During the war the coloration had been a godsend, blending easily with the desert sand whereas those with more ostentatious coloring were forced to tedious measures like dye or, in more dire situations, a good dust bath.
In Afghanistan they'd been great and bright and maybe even a little beautiful, but in London they are just as gray and lifeless as the wet roads and people doing their shopping and those cold, staring walls that grew closer with every limping, reluctant step.
John pauses just outside his building as a quiet jingle coming from his pocket announces an incoming text, trying in vain to pretend he isn't relieved to have an excuse to put off the inevitable as he fishes it out. And it's…Harry. Of course. She's the one who insisted he take the bloody thing in the first place after all, despite the fact that that he doesn't know how to work half the things it can supposedly do and doesn't really want to. And now she's drunk texting him at four o'clock in the afternoon. Jesus Christ.
John heaves a deep sigh and kneads his forehead with one hand, trying to figure out where his life all went wrong. Not that long ago he was fighting a war and saving lives, instead of debating whether or not the prospect of babysitting his alcoholic sister was worth the excuse not to go back home just yet.
Finally he opens his eyes again and…oh.
Just for a moment the world snaps back into focus and floods with color. Before he even realizes it, he's moving, sticking his cane out to where it collides almost comically with the shins of a ratty young man fleeing down the sidewalk, sending him tumbling unceremoniously to the ground. A man is trailing still a ways off, but he's flashing a badge and trying to calm the startled public so they can get the hell out of his way, so John's confident in his nearly subconscious assessment - the man on the ground was some kind of criminal and he'd been right to stop him. Good. That is…very good.
At least it would've been, if not for the tall figure that decides to bust out of the nearby alleyway, trench-coat flapping behind him like some demented bat creature. He skids to a stop, sparing the fallen criminal a single glance - whatever the young man's done can't be that bad, John decides, as he doubts a harden criminal would just lie there moaning like a baby - before fixing John with a look that can only be described as incredulous.
"What did you do that for?" The man snaps, his dark curls more than just artistically disheveled and a slight flush staining his neck.
John blinks, honestly taken aback. "What?"
"Oh, don't play dumb. Though I realize it must be something you're extraordinarily good at." He says scathingly and suddenly he's leaning too close, wantonly invading John's space without ever breaking eye contact. "I had him."
More than anything John wants to take a step back to put some space between them and his wings itch with the desire to half-unfurl in an instinctual display of a threatened animal, but the world is still sharp and full of color and just as much as he doesn't want to lose this new development, he also doesn't want to defer to this wild-eyed madman in an expensive coat. So he simply squares his shoulders and looks him in the eye, lips thin with quiet restraint. "Didn't look that way to me."
The man's eyes widen a fraction, but before he can react the other pursuer arrives, shouldering past to stand over the young criminal, who he yanks to his feet by the collar. "Leave 'im alone, Sherlock." He chastises in a gravelly voice, sparing John a quick glance and a grateful nod. "He did us a favor." Before he can say anything else the criminal starts squirming in his grasp and it's all he can do to get the handcuffs on him without taking a wingtip to the eye.
Sherlock. The name suits the dark-haired man somehow - unusual and imbued with an almost palpable sense of self-importance. John didn't even hazard a guess as to what his mother had been thinking when she chose it.
Sherlock isn't paying attention to his companion and their quarry though - he's watching John, dissecting him with his unnervingly pale gaze. "You didn't have to do that." His tone oddly thoughtful in comparison to his earlier quips, almost as if he were simply thinking out loud. "But you did. Why?"
John shifts his weight, loosening his grip on the cane that was evidently fairly useful after all. "Seemed like the right thing to do." Which sounds a lot better than 'I'm not entirely sure myself'.
The silence stretches on for too long and John wonders why Sherlock hasn't noticed - or doesn't care - that his silver-haired companion had left, if only to attempt to ignore the other man's stare burning into him. He's just considering taking his leave whether the other man is done interrogating him or not when an entirely different sort of question startles him.
"Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry, what?"
"Afghanistan or Iraq." Sherlock says with overemphasized patience, undeterred by John's confusion. "Your entire bearing screams military. Not to mention your tan. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"I- my tan?"
"Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. So, not sunbathing. Military, so you've been abroad. But not anymore, why is that? You have a cane. Wounded in action and invalided out. Obvious. But you weren't wounded in the leg, were you?"
Now it's John's turn to let the silence stretch, his mouth unabashedly ajar. "How could you…possibly know that?"
A smug smirk crawls across Sherlock's features. "Your cane. You haven't been leaning on it this entire time. At least partly psychosomatic, I suspect. Unless you simply carry it around to trip two-bit criminals in your spare time."
This startles a laugh out of him and he almost misses the faint look of surprise that flickers across Sherlock's face. "What'd he do anyways?"
Sherlock shrugs, as if he hadn't just been chasing the subject down an entire city block. "Nothing of consequence, I'm sure. He would have been off pickpocketing tourists again if he had answered my questions instead of running off like an idiot." He checks his mobile as he talks, eyes studying the screen briefly before fixing John with another thoughtful look. "You're looking for a flatshare."
John's eyebrows knit together. It's not a question. "Says who?"
"Me." He says matter-of-factly, pocketing his phone. "I can't imagine you'll be able to afford London for long on an army pension. Not to mention you live here," he spared the building behind John a vaguely disgusted look, "so obviously no family you're close enough to to ask for help."
Alright, so maybe John had considered finding a flat mate, but only about as much as he had considered asking Harry for help before dismissing the idea entirely. After all, between the nightmares and the restlessness, who would want to share a flat with him? "Is that…an offer then?"
"I should think so."
His wings unfold slightly and close again and his tongue flicks out to wet his lips - a nervous habit he's had since before he can remember. "We've only just met and you want to look at a flat together?" He asks, his expression carefully neutral, though he has a feeling Sherlock can see through the façade. "I don't even know your name."
A half-smile quirks at one corner of Sherlock's lips, less like his earlier smirk and more like one you'd give a dog who'd just learned a new trick. He extends his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."
John hesitates, but pockets the phone he'd forgotten he was even holding and reaches out to shake Sherlock's hand. "Dr. John Watson." He says, using his title in what he tells himself is the spirit of full disclosure, but really he wants to prove there's a part of him that Sherlock's impossibly keen eye hasn't picked out.
"Ahh. An army doctor." Sherlock says with the look of renewed interest and John can't help but feel vaguely like he's been put under a microscope. He releases John's hand after a moment and pulls out his phone again, sending a quick text. "If that's settled then, I'd best be going. Have some eyeballs waiting for me in the morgue and a potential lead to follow. Let's meet tomorrow at say, seven?"
"Wait! Ah- what was the address again?"
"221B Baker Street." Sherlock flashes him a tightlipped smile that feels more perfunctory than anything before turning on his heel and tossing a quick, "Afternoon!" over his shoulder before striding off in the opposite direction.
John takes a deep, steadying breath and wonders how the simple act of a Good Samaritan had somehow led to the offer of a flatshare.
It isn't until his retreating figure is almost out of sight that John realizes that Sherlock Holmes doesn't have any wings.