A/N Touching back to the beginning, here.

Thanks to Song of Grey Lemons, 666BloodyHell666, starrysummernights, johnsarmylady, Hummingbird1759, It's-Somebody, ThisDayWillPass, Motaku1235, and linguisticRenegade

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

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Managed to find myself a flatmate. No need to keep looking.

Sherlock's finger hovers over his mobile phone's send button, his tongue playing at the edge of his teeth. The room is silent, the ticking of a hidden clock the only noise to penetrate the warm darkness. Lights dance along the black of the windows, pooling in yellow and red reflections, their color glinting along the raindrops streaking the glass, but their source is soundless. Possibly the last night that he'll have 221b to himself, he supposes, glancing over the mess of books and boxes that fill the small place—it's already managed to establish itself as homely, even though he only officially moved in two nights ago.

He likes it here. That's why he was reluctant to send the message out to his associates in the first place, the news that he was searching for someone to share his quarters with, that he couldn't afford paying for them on his own—he'd prefer solitude, of course, but Mycroft kept close tabs on his money, insisted that he needed to try working with a normal budget rather than the fortune inherited from their parents. ("And you're setting a perfect example of such," Sherlock had pointed out in a growl, the reply being a delicate eye roll and disdainful umbrella flick.) It didn't help that his brother was most likely the only person in the world who could truly lock his money away from him, render it completely inaccessible.

No matter, though. Because Sherlock isn't all that disappointed in his soon-to-be flatmate. John Watson, as Stamford's cheerful tones had introduced him. An old friend of mine. Stamford, of course, is an idiot—but a rather likable idiot, as they go, much more so than someone like Anderson. A friend of his is likely to be a good man, and what Sherlock's seen of Dr. Watson is good enough for him. An ex-soldier is sure to be colorful company, he figures. Useful, even. He noticed that psychosomatic limp, and it's clear to him as it will be to Mycroft, when he brings John to the empty warehouse the next night, that Dr. Watson craves the war more than dreads it.

Sherlock sets his phone down for a moment, screen still glowing with the unsent message, and presses his fingertips to his chin, hunched forward with his elbows balanced on his knees. The spinning light of a police cruiser strobes through the room, briefly illuminating its contents before whirling away into the wet night. Not stopping at Baker Street—whatever crime its siren signifies has no relevance to Sherlock Holmes.

But many do, and that's why he's hopeful. If Dr. Watson wants the war so badly, then the war he shall receive. If anyone's up for providing something like that, it's doubtlessly Sherlock.

Just because he labels himself a sociopath doesn't mean he can't do some good once in a while.

Smirking at nothing, he reaches forward and hits the send button of the phone, and the swooping noise of a delivered text drops into the air. There. Now it's confirmed among his contacts, as well, that he has the flatmate he's been waiting for, that he no longer needs them to be on the lookout for one.

It will be interesting to see just how he and John Watson work together.