Author's Note: Slowly, John is working out a plan... And I find myself having way too much fun with this story. Apparently I enjoy turning one of my favourite characters in a psychopath... Let's ignore the implications of this.
As always, don't own anything and would appreciate reviews.
John starts collecting information about Sherlock Holmes. The first thing he tries is Google.
He finds his website, "The Science of Deduction". Aside from the fact that there are several indicators that Sherlock may have Narcissistic Personality Disorder ("Interesting cases only please", "I observe everything" – then again, John can't very well tell someone they're too self-obsessed, to be honest), it doesn't disappoint.
If this man turns out to be as good as he claims – and, as he has so far solved three murders, four robberies and one case about a stolen pearl hidden inside one of six busts, all of them arranged by John and – as far as he was concerned – unsolvable to another human being, he seems to be, he could be the best distraction John Watson has yet encountered. Better than crime. Better than sex. Better than being more clever than everyone else, perhaps.
The internet is, of course, only one source, and it's just the beginning. He's spent his whole life in London, after all, and knows that the words on the streets can be far more valuable than any other information.
Of course he gets as much information as he wants (it's certainly good to know that Sherlock has a homeless network – it would certainly have spoilt his fun if one of them had found out someone was after the "great detective"), but in a way, he's sorry for it. He's sorry he doesn't get to draw the information out scream by scream, tear by tear, blood drop by blood drop, like he used to do. He rather enjoyed the torture. But since everyone knows his name – or rather his alias – by now, the sing like a bird as soon as he calls. Thank God he has his new distraction, otherwise he would have had to start killing randomly – and he never does things at random. It leaves him feeling out of control.
So Sherlock Holmes is not only the brother of Mycroft Holmes – he should've known, what are the odds of two so interesting individuals not being related? – but has also had problems with drugs. Never completed a course at university either, it would seem, just dropped out of life, more or less, for five whole years which he spent mostly high on cocaine. Until his brother got him clean, something Sherlock despises him for. Apparently the good Mr. Holmes gets bored easily too.
Now, Mr Holmes is 35 years old, has been clean for about eight years, and set himself up as a "consulting detective". From what John can glean, this means that the police turn to him "when they're out of their depth, which is always", his contact in Scotland Yard (of course he has a source there, every good spider needs to know what the flies are up to) tells him.
Actually, he has to admit it is a good title. Maybe he should start calling himself a "consulting criminal". It certainly has a nice ring to it.
Another thing they agree on; John is fairly sure not one police man knows anything about him, not even DI Greg Lestrade, who he'd considered to be a possible danger for a short time (the only police man who ever had that honour). Coincidentally, Lestrade is the one who consults Sherlock the most (as before mentioned, the man has some brains – not much, but certainly more than his little helpers at Scotland Yard). They've known each other for about five years, ever since he arrested Sherlock when he found him prancing around a crime scene, telling him how the victim was killed. For a moment, Lestrade seems to have thought Holmes committed the crime – but then he realized his potential or something like that (John, who has never had a similar revelation about a human being, can't really understand this) and now he calls him in quite frequently.
Aside from him, and an old lady called Mrs. Hudson whose husband was executed because of his help in Florida three years ago and who he visits regularly (must have been a great marriage), Sherlock Holmes is alone.
He doesn't have any friends.
And that is when John Watson has the best idea he's had in years, probably the best idea he's ever had.
Sherlock might be better at deducing people's life stories – this was never a thing that particularly interested John, therefore he hasn't really practiced or tried, but he supposes he could soon be just as good as his new little playmate – but John looks at people and knows what they want.
And as he looks at Sherlock Holmes – he has finally started to follow him around, now and then, and his appearance, tall, slim, with a mop of unruly dark curls, doesn't make this very hard, though he's careful not to be seen (not by the consulting detective and not by the security cameras his brother keeps pointed at wherever it is Sherlock is headed) – he sees loneliness. He sees someone who never had a friend in his life, like John, but unlike him, bothered by this fact.
Sherlock Holmes wants a friend.
Perhaps he should give him one.
He could, naturally, just play another psychopath-versus-genius-game with Sherlock and kill him in the end, like in so many movies and books people apparently love to watch and read. He would probably enjoy it too. But, after all, what would it be but old news? A repetition? No, he wants something novel. Something that will occupy him for weeks and months, something that will destroy Sherlock Holmes completely (he had been rather proud of the case with the pearl and the busts, he wants his revenge), but only after he's had his fun with him.
He will be Sherlock's only and best friend and worst enemy all in one.
He has to build up a persona that will allow him to befriend Sherlock Holmes, of course. But this turns out surprisingly easy – he is a doctor, after all, and everything says he's a soldier (not even Mycroft Holmes would know he never saw a battlefield – except the one in London), and what better companion for someone who solves crimes for a living?
But he needs something more, something that will catch the man's attention and maybe bring out a little pity (he doesn't believe the man's a sociopath. Sociopaths don't help little old ladies and give homeless people far more money than their information deserves. There's a heart in there somewhere, just well hidden). What about a war injury? Brilliant. So, he invents another tour in Afghanistan – just takes a phone call, these days, isn't it sad – and is "invalided home" because of a wound in his left shoulder. He takes a small, uncomfortable apartment – one can't afford London on an army pension – and, because he's right in the middle of inventing a new life and has a lot of fun, he decides he has a psychosomatic limp that he needs to see a therapist about.
He lives this life for two months (apart from the occasional phone call, of course, he can't just leave his web alone, not even for someone interesting). His therapist, Ella, is a nice enough woman, he supposes, but definitely not good in her job. He thinks you should recognize a psychopath who has killed 73 people single-handedly, even if he is good at pretending. But he doesn't really complain. All a part of the game.
Then he has to have something to pretend Harry is still alive; he killed her two years ago, after she'd tried to borrow money again. He'd been particularly annoyed that day, but in the end, he hadn't been sorry. Plus, he'd shot her clean between the yes, so she hadn't suffered. She had it coming anyway.
He thinks her wife Clara – thank God, he'd been on another tour when they married, at least for once he hadn't had to act like he cared about his sister – was even relieved when she never showed up again. Didn't even file a missing person report, now that he thinks of it.
Nevertheless, he buys a phone, scratches it with coins, makes sure his hands are shaking when he plugs it in, has "To Harry Watson" inscribed on the back. Might as well give Sherlock something to deduce.
What remains is the difficulty of casually making Sherlock's acquaintance. He ponders this for some days, then a stroke of luck happens.
By this time, he has hacked into the security system of Bart's, simply because Sherlock spends a lot of time doing experiments in the lab and charming the grey mouse of pathologist to get access to bodies. Luckily, John is good in the art of lip-reading, and he soon notices that Mr. Holmes seems to tolerate his old friend, Mike Stamford, who's teaching at Bart's now, if he remembers correctly (he's kept in touch with him loosely over the years in order to hold up his cover story). He wonders if this could be a good opening for him; get Stamford to introduce him.
And then Sherlock tells Stamford about a flat Mrs. Hudson would allow him to move into, but still can't afford, even with a special deal. It's when he asks "Who'd want me for a flatmate?" that John has another epiphany.
He will not only be Sherlock's best friend, he'll be his live-in one too.
He loses no time and bumps into Stamford the next day. The man has a routine like clockwork, goes for a coffee through the park near St. Bart's everyday at 10.30 am. John had only registered this because he'd told Sherlock at least five times on different days "I'm going for a coffee" at 10.25 and returned at 10.40 with a Starbucks coffee. And the way to the nearest Starbucks is through the park. Now John is rather glad he noticed. It makes things much easier.
He pretends not to recognize Stamford at first, to make it look real. It works perfectly. The guy is so sad that John got shot, he even buys him a coffee. And he immediately responds to his "Who'd want me for a flatmate?".
"You're the second person to say this to me today."
And not ten minutes later, he's in the lab and makes sure Sherlock hears his declaration how everything has changed. He can even show him his phone. It seems fate is on John Watson's side today.
He sees the deducing look, and when Sherlock asks "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he responds appropriately confused.
He hasn't had that much fun in ages.
The Game is On.