Summary: In which the roles are reversed. Scenes of the friendship between Dr. Watson, the brilliant sociopath, and the rather more normal and common Sherlock Holmes. Their friendship continues to be extraordinary in every way.
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"Let's start with the riding crop."
John padded to a seat and set his cane aside automatically. His eyes fixed on the naked body expectantly. Molly Hooper gave a small, nervous laugh somewhere out of his line of vision. She walked closer holding the black instrument, stood next to the body for a second, and then gave a rather pitiful slap to the man's foot. John's jaw worked and his eyes closed as he breathed out once in frustration. Without opening his eyes, he stated lowly, "He is already dead, Miss Hooper. Please try to remember the reason for this experiment. We want bruises not—" flouncy love taps. He stopped himself. Though, insulting her would probably be enough to make her leave and discontinue the experiment, so he filed the idea away for later, just in case he needed a quick escape.
John's eyes opened and his face felt stony with the effort he was exerting on not striking verbally. "Again?" he said instead, trying to put enough lilt into his voice to make it not sound strangled behind his frustration. He spent too much energy being nice to people, but that was what the world required of him, it seemed. His leg started tapping of its own accord and he barely noticed. He couldn't get rid of his nerves, but he could ignore them. Bodies were made simply for the transportation of intellect, thought, ideas, advances to the human race. He felt his pride swell a little at that thought and calmed himself. That felt better.
Molly screwed up her face in concentration, ridiculously, and gave a rather more forceful hit to the man's left kneecap.
"Abdomen. More surface area for the bruises to form—easier to study in detail," John said systematically, pulling the thought out of his brain and letting it flow into speech. He stared at the man's abdomen as Molly whipped the corpse rather enthusiastically. She typically—typically—took direction well, better than most. That made her marginally less irritating to work with. He didn't hear anyone enter the morgue door, concentrating so on the body, but a spot of light reflected off of the metal around the window and the dot moved from one side of the room to the other. It was a familiar gesture that accompanied the opening of the door, so it wasn't worth bringing into his primary consciousness. He catalogued it, as it were, in "misc. notes" and continued to study the body being thrashed before him. He noted also the pink flush to Molly's skin at the exertion. He found that mildly interesting, even though he didn't find Miss Hooper interesting at all.
Someone cleared their throat standing beside John, but he ignored it. People worth listening to didn't ask for permission to talk, they simply started talking. A major rule of his, really. And he stuck by his rules. It weeded out the "unnecessaries," those people. He could also count on two fingers the number of people in the building who ever approached him willingly, and one of them he was watching beat the death out of a deceased former employee of Bart's. So, Stamford then. Mildly irritating also. How was it everyone he knew was at least slightly annoying, why couldn't he know better people?
"John, could I borrow your phone? I left mine at home and the missus will be worrying," Stamford injected kindly, needing the phone badly enough to be more direct than usual. Frankly, it was refreshing from the man, so John pulled out his phone and held it out to his right without breaking eye contact with the cadaver. The slaps of the riding crop were more noticeable now that Stamford's voice was there compliment it in tone. His focus dropped the slightest, which he couldn't control and made him scowl a little.
"Have you—" Stamford began lightly.
"No," John cut him off and checked his watch, the experiment complete. Twenty minutes would do for the wait. "Enough," he spoke to Molly, who stopped mid-thwack and breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out to grab his cane and decided to head this off early. His patience was thinner for so early in the day, and it had started out so well. Peace and quiet for his last day in the outskirts of town, helpful for clear thought streams. Moving in with the interesting bubbling of life around him. The air almost smelled crisper with anticipation for it. But, he did need someone else's contribution, unfortunately—possibly a worthy trade if able to find the right person—not irritating. "Do you have an aversion to the piano?" he spoke aloud, getting up to examine how the body was responding so far. Not much, yet. Vague signs at best. Probably would become more prominent with some time.
No one spoke until an unfamiliar voice, deeper than expected, said with surprise, "Me?"
Obviously. Not a good start.
He spoke up again, haltingly, as though afraid he'd misunderstood something. "Not if the one playing is marginally skilled with the instrument."
That made John's head turn, simply because it was an interesting response. Stamford held out his phone to return to him, presumably had texted his wife, and John accepted it with eyes on this new man. He seemed reasonably trendy but not the stereotypical, so he was in front of a lot of people fairly often, or something close to that. John saw the oddly placed pencil that stuck out of the pocket of the man's jacket. Not for sketching, simple pencil sold at any reasonably stocked shop. Writing then, probably, and the friendly smile seemed too stuck in place to be anything less than over-rehearsed. So, used to being presented to people, put up a good presentation when necessary. The side-long looks of mild discomfort at the dead body in the room rather gave him away, really. John flicked his eyes away again the next moment, losing interest as quickly as it had come.
"They say that journalists are the mice, or even rats, of all writing professions," John offered rudely to scare him off. He really didn't do journalists, too much work to keep ahead of the game.
The man's look slipped a little and he clasped his hands behind his back. He leaned forward a bit with his inquiry of, "Who says that?" rather too smartly for John's taste.
Hm, it was interesting that he bothered to stick around after his comment. No response to his deduction of his profession? Probably had no idea. John straightened up with only a mildly concealed grimace at how his leg muscle pulled in his bad leg.
Sherlock studied Dr. Watson and thought him rather standoffish, though that wasn't really a bad thing, just a character trait.
"I do," the doctor replied just as smartly, his look slightly arrogant, but Sherlock pressed on. He really did need this flat share.
"It's just as well that I'm not one any longer. Actually, I came to enquire about the prospect of—"
"Don't bother," the doctor interrupted again, more rudely this time. "And, you'll always be one," he said with finality.
Sherlock's face stayed impassive but underneath he was imagining the doctor's hair spontaneously being set aflame. This man was obviously not what he was looking for, though, to be fair, he would have taken just about anything. He wasn't going back home or enduring his brother's company for another second more. Sleeping in the homeless shelter last night had been wrong, he knew. He'd taken up someone else's chance at a relatively good night's sleep. However, he'd sooner sleep in a bin than speak to Mycroft.
Sherlock tilted his head a little to the side as he watched Dr. Watson. The man limped and had a cane, an awful scowl, and how he'd spoken was even a little rough for speaking to one of his friends and a harmless stranger like himself. How were he and Stamford friends, anyway? Putting them together was like a contradiction in terms. He glanced quickly at Stamford, as if his face or clothes would hold the answer, but of course they didn't.
The doctor in his tan jacket walked with effort to the door, avoiding him by going past on Stamford's side. Dr. Watson said "Afternoon," with a nod at Stamford, probably to reassure the man it wasn't him he had a problem with just the journalist. Heaven forbid he was a writer of information, truth, life. Yes, how awful. The man's manners were appalling. The doctor exited quietly.
"Sorry 'bout him," Stamford apologized, shaking his head and shifting awkwardly. "It was a long shot, though, I rather thought it would be you who disapproved of him. He can be a bit much to handle." Stamford put his hands in his coat pockets and rocked on his heels.
"Handle?" Sherlock repeated out loud. "His temper, you mean?"
Stamford laughed and looked at the woman fiddling with the corpse. He didn't reply.
Sherlock watched the woman working too. She seemed very unaffected by everything, the corpse, the conversation, the doctor's standoffishness. He admired that trait in people so long as it didn't mean they were completely vacant altogether. He wondered absently if she was. He asked Stamford without looking away from the woman, "If he'd already said no, I'm a bit mystified as to why we came by in the first place. Did you think he'd change his mind?"
Stamford seemed confused and shared a look with the woman there. She spoke up, directly to him and he liked the tone of her voice. "Forgive me for intruding, but that was the first time he'd met you, I think." Stamford nodded, face jovial as always. "He's a bit of an impression-maker," she said and giggled a little at the obvious, though awkward joke.
Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets also and looked between the two of them. He must be missing something. He knew he was going to sound stupid, so he just got it over with. He nodded to Stamford. "You told him about me," he said matter-of-factly. "About wanting to be flat mates," he said more specifically.
Stamford shook his head said with a laugh, "Not a word."
Sherlock's face contorted in very obvious confusion. He glanced back at the closed door that the doctor had left out of and back to Stamford and the woman who had gazes of equal mirth on their faces that he didn't understand, and that irritated him. He tried not to sound short when he said, "Then how did he..?"
"He has a peculiar talent for deduction," Stamford told him.
Sherlock was missing something still. "You mean he just—"
"Figured all that out just by looking at you, yes," Stamford finished for him. He said a goodbye to the woman, calling her Molly.
Sherlock followed him out the door, saying goodbye also to the woman. He asked Stamford in the hall, "How did he do that?"
Stamford shrugged and led the way out of the building. Sherlock was momentarily side-tracked from thoughts of where he would sleep tonight by the interesting conundrum, Dr. Watson. He was thankful for the distraction, honestly.