At precisely seven o'clock that evening, John crossed the street to meet Sherlock as he strode up to the door of 221B Baker Street. He was dressed nicely enough in dark slacks and a blue scarf tucked neatly into a long, black wool coat that made him look even taller and more slender than he did in his work clothes… that was, if one could even call his outfits 'clothes' to begin with.

"John," Sherlock greeted him. His voice was light, almost pleasant.

"Ah, nice little café here," John responded, not quite daring to ask him how the rest of his day went. "Nice neighborhood, seems a little expensive."

But he didn't appear to be listening. He rang the buzzer. "The landlady is Mrs. Hudson. She owes me a favour, so I think with the two of us we should more than be able to afford the rent. Central location, close to work."

"She owes you a favour?" The words leapt out of John's mouth before he could stop them.

A smile played on Sherlock's lips. "Her husband was implicated in a sex trafficking scandal that I'd also been working on."

"So you set her husband free?"

Sherlock's grin widened as his eyes danced. "I got him life." When John's only response was a stare, Sherlock clarified, "Overseas, too. No chance of parole."

Before John had a chance to reply, the green door opened, and an older woman was hugging Sherlock tightly. He felt like his legs had turned to stone at the sight of Sherlock willingly, and perhaps even more shockingly, happily embracing Mrs. Hudson threw his perception of the man even more into question. This Sherlock seemed almost human, save the part where only seconds ago he implied having sent a man of dubious guilt to prison for life.

"Well, come on in, show your… your friend around," she was saying in a sweet voice. Sherlock led the way, skipping up the stairs with undue excitement, and Mrs. Hudson in her purple dress followed behind them at a distance.

John stepped into the flat and couldn't help his eyebrows raising in approval. It really was a lovely place, quiet enough, large windows and lots of sunlight. He blinked spots out of his eyes from the transition from dark stairwell to bright living room, and that's when he saw the stuff. At first, he thought it might have been left over from a previous tenant, but as Sherlock busied himself moving a few things around to his liking (all whilst keeping a keen eye on John), he realised that he had already effectively moved in. Out of the corner of open boxes peeked the edges of some of the props Sherlock kept in his dressing room at the club, though John refused to imagine why. A few riding crops were displayed on the wall, and all flat surfaces were covered in newspapers and journal clippings. And books. Walls of shelves and stacks of books made the walking space more like a maze than not.

Mrs. Hudson shuffled in. "What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

He nodded, his eye caught on a box that seemed to be filled with nothing but rope and scarves, wrinkling his brow at the sight. "It's very, erm, very good. Seems like it will do quite nicely."

Her gaze followed his until she saw the open box as well. "Well, there is a second bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two, that is."

John thought he heard Sherlock stifle a laugh, but he frowned deeply at the insinuation. "Of course we'll be needing two."

Her lips, purple to match her dress perfectly, twisted into a knowing smile. "That's all right, just try to keep it down past midnight." She nodded sweetly, and John felt queasy at her nonjudgmental assumption. She went on about some neighbours, but he didn't listen.

Sherlock swooped in from the kitchen to stand between them with a reckless smile. "We'll take it," he said as though he hadn't already made the decision and moved in before John arrived. Her face scrunched up in delight.

"Ooh, I'll just let you boys settle in now," she said, giving Sherlock's arm a squeeze as she passed by him and into another room. "You really must do something about these books, Sherlock." He didn't answer her.

"Well, are you-" Sherlock began, pausing when he noticed his new assistant was staring at the wall of whips. He cleared his throat. "Ah, feel free to make use of any of these as you feel fit," he said, pointedly fixing his gaze away from John.

"What? No! God, no! I don't… I'm not… I don't want to use those!" he objected in a panic. He hoped desperately that the whips would have been for show, not for personal use. God only knew what would be happening in the flat-what if Sherlock brought clients home?

But Sherlock didn't acknowledge him. He turned his back to John then, picking up a pile of photos and police criminal reports and shuffling through them.

John sank into an armchair that was far softer than he had expected. "You've already moved in," he noted in an attempt to dissipate the awkwardness in the room. Sherlock turned to him with a bored expression.

"How astute of you."

John huffed. There was no way Sherlock could have missed the real meaning of what he said. "I hadn't even seen the place, much less said, 'Yes,' to it, and you've moved in," he said again.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "You don't like it?"

"I do."

"Then where's the problem?" Sherlock replied too quickly, returning his attention to the papers.

"The problem is that you didn't ask. You just… you just decided! Decided which flat, what location, hell, even decorating," John said in a louder voice. "I mean, if I'm meant to be living here, shouldn't I have a say?" Sherlock was either oblivious, or he was challenging him.

"But you said you liked the flat."

"I do like the flat, that's not th-" John tried to say, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Then there's no problem."

John stood with a sigh, fighting back the urge to yell. "Yes. Fine. Just… can you ask before you make decisions for me in the future?" When Sherlock didn't respond, instead idly staring at a photograph of a fierce-looking man, John shook his head. "I'm going back to my place now. I'll need to get my things to move in," he announced. Sherlock didn't move or even look up at him.

"Alright, then," he murmured to himself. He made his way to the staircase and down to the street. Sherlock watched him go out of the corner of his eye.