Chapter Text
Sherlock goes to sleep the night, well, early morning if one is truly honesty, after he meets John. He knows it is inevitable, he’s rather tired exhausted from coming off a case he’s worked on a straight 36 hours and moving his possessions, of which he has a good number due to left over instincts from Smaug, specifically hoarding. He finds himself in the mountain he inhabited when he was Smaug, and apparently at the time he was Smaug. He can see the dragon that comprises one half of his soul sleeping quite dramatically on the piles of gold abound in the chamber. He tugs his cloak—yes, he sees now that he’s wearing a cloak along with other clothes typical of a habitually travelling human in Middle Earth—around himself.
There is a tugging in the back of his mind he can’t quite place until he sees the young hobbit Bilbo dart out of a side cavern, the tugging growing stronger the closer Bilbo comes to Sherlock. Bilbo is dressed in a dark cloak, cream scarf, red jacket, dark green waistcoat, white undershirt, and dark brown trousers. There is a sword of elven make fastened to him in a manner meant to be drawn with his right hand. Sherlock notices the plain gold ring he wears on his hand. The part of him that is Sauron recognizes The One Ring. Bilbo looks mildly perplexed as he moves about the cavern, invisible to all but those connected to The Ring’s power. Shooting the cavern one more befuddled look, Bilbo exits leaving behind a fading Sherlock swiftly returning to the waking world. Sherlock wakes to see he has five hours before John comes to see the flat. He leaves for St. Barts to get some work done before John comes to move in.
Sherlock’s cab arrives just as he sees John limping towards the flat. Sherlock closes the door to the cab while John goes up to knock on the door. John’s wearing a different jacket today, a black one that has leather patches on the shoulders and elbows. Sherlock pays the cabbie and turns towards John and the flat.
“Hello.” John turns towards the sound of Sherlock’s voice.
“Ah, Mr Holmes hello.” John turns around to greet Sherlock.
“Sherlock, please, we’re flatmates.” Sherlock shakes John’s hand in greeting.
“Then feel free to call me John.” John looks at the doorway to 221B Baker Street. “This is a prime spot, must be expensive.”
Sherlock says, “Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida; I was able to help out.”
John asks, “So you stopped her husband being executed?”
Sherlock gives a slightly chilling and very self-assured smile. “Oh no, I ensured it.” John looks a little surprised by that.
“Was he guilty?” Sherlock looks at John.
“Beyond all doubt.” The door opens and Mrs Hudson greets Sherlock with a hug as Sherlock introduces John. She’s wearing a purple dress. She beckons them inside and up the stairs. Sherlock waits for John, going slowly due to his limp, at the top. Sherlock opens the door to a nice homey flat, despite the lab equipment and clutter. It is a Victorian styled living place right down to the rich wall with a stylized fleur-de-lis pattern. The kitchen is set up as a lab, leaving barely any room for its originally intended function. There is a closed door at the far end. The main living area is lined with stacks of boxes. Every surface that is not the middle of the beautiful red patterned carpet or the very comfortable looking arm-chairs and sofa is lined with an assortment of knick-knacks and clutter. The bookshelves are filled with many kinds of journals, scientific and otherwise. The beautiful fire place has various objects on the mantle including a genuine human skull. There is another set of stairs off to the side.
John looks around. “Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed.”
Sherlock smiles. “Yes, yes I think so, my thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in.”
John’s lips twitch into a small smile. “That would explain the clutter.”
Sherlock looks at John for a few seconds before going over to the nearest stack of boxes and attempting to organize the papers. “Well, obviously, I can straighten things up a bit.” He puts some of the papers on the mantle and stabs them with a knife. He hears a faint but good natured laugh. He looks up to see a John’s warm smile.
“It’s fine, Sherlock, just having you on a bit. We’re flatmates after all.” John looks at the skull on the mantel and points at it with his cane. “That’s a skull.”
Sherlock takes a quick look at the skull. “Friend of mine, well, when I say friend…” He looks at John, then the skull, then John again and stalks off towards the table where he starts taking off his usual coat and scarf to reveal a well-tailored suite and very tight white button up shirt underneath.
Mrs Hudson says, “What do you think Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’d be needing two bedrooms.”
The slight flush reappears in Johns face. “Yes, yes, we’ll be needing two.”
Ms Hudson simply responds, “Oh, don’t worry, there’s all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door’s…” her voice drops to a whisper. “…got married ones.” She walks over to the kitchen leaving a rather perplexed looking John. John watches Sherlock move about the flat while still attempting to induce some sort of order in the space.
Mrs Hudson is heard speaking in the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!” John walks over to one of the chairs and fluffs a Union Jack Flag pillow before sitting down. Sherlock is opening a laptop.
John points at the laptop. “I looked you up on the internet last night.”
Sherlock turns towards John. “Anything interesting?”
John responds, “Found your website, the Science of Deduction.” He has a small smile and a slightly interested expression.
Sherlock asks, “What did you think?”
John responds, “You said you could identify a software designer by their tie and an airplane pilot by their left thumb?” His expression is a little hard to read, but the tone suggests he may be ‘having him on’ again.
Sherlock says, “Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits on your mobile phone.”
John smiles quite enigmatically. “How?” Sherlock is considering whether or not to answer—he thinks John would appreciate his deductions but does not wish to alienate him—when Mrs Hudson walks up to him holding a newspaper.
She asks, “What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same…” Sherlock looks out the window out onto the street where he sees DI Lestrade getting out of his police car. He’s wearing a long dark coat over a white wrinkled button down shirt tucked into a pair of black trousers.
Sherlock says, “Four. There’s been a fourth, and there’s something different about this one. Something new.” He sees Lestrade coming up the stairs, running out of breath as he nears the top.
As Lestrade clears the last step, Sherlock asks, “Where?” Lestrade enters the room and puts his hands in his pockets.
He says, “Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”
Sherlock looks at him with a particularly piercing look. “What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come get me if there wasn’t something different.”
Lestrade responds, “You know how they never leave notes?”
“Yeah”
Lestrade cocks his head to the side briefly. “This one did. Will you come?”
Sherlock has a calculating look. “Who’s on forensics?”
Lestrade responds, “It’s Anderson” Sherlock looks away and scowls.
“Anderson won’t work with me.” Sherlock is looking at John who is looking on with minor interest. John doesn’t seem to be noticing anything different about Lestrade.
He either does not remember, or he can’t simply recognize other souls like I can. Possibly both.
Lestrade is slightly agitated. “Well, he won’t be your assistant.”
Sherlock looks back at Lestrade glaring slightly in annoyance. “I need an assistant.”
“Will you come?” Lestrade looks expectantly. It’s interesting and Sherlock needs a case. There’s no question.
Sherlock says, “Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”
Lestrade says, “Thank you.” He exits down the stairs. Sherlock waits until Lestrade is an acceptable distance away before showing his true reaction: jumping around the flat like a hyperactive child and smiling like the madman he is.
“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas!” Sherlock starts getting his usual long coat and scarf ensemble on. “Mrs Hudson I’ll be late. Might need some food.”
Mrs Hudson says, “I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper.”
Sherlock continues his demands unabated. “Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home.” He opens the door to exit. “Don’t wait up” He’s bounding down the stairs, excitement still visible in his expression. He’s about to exit the building when he hears John shout from inside the flat.
“Damn my leg!” Sherlock pauses at the door. John is an Army Doctor and the reincarnation of the most interesting being he has met in either of his lives in Middle Earth. Sherlock needs an assistant. John would make a very good assistant. Sherlock goes buck up to the flat pretending he forgot his gloves. He finds John sitting in the chair looking at his case in the newspaper.
Sherlock smiles slightly while putting on his gloves. “You’re a doctor.” John startles and looks up at Sherlock. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”
John looks down, grabs his cane, and stands up. “Yes.”
Sherlock asks, “Any good?” He looks at John with piercing grey blue eyes.
John responds with pride. “Very good.”
“Seen a lot of injuries then?” Their eyes meet. Sherlock begins to stalk over to John; his voice holds an almost seductive tenor. “Violent deaths?” Sherlock’s voice gets both softer and deeper as he continues talking. He’s stalking closer to John.
“Yes” John is the perfect picture calm except for the faint blush that has reappeared in his face.
“Bit of trouble, too, I bet?” Sherlock’s practically looming over John now, looking at him with a very intense gaze. The closer Sherlock gets the redder John’s face becomes, although he never lets his composure break.
“Of course, yes. Enough for more than a lifetime. Far too much.” They don’t break eye contact through the whole exchange. There is a tension there and Sherlock feel excitement and anticipation in his chest. He can already tell what John’s answer will be.
“Want to see some more?”
“Oh God, yes.” Sherlock turns and smiles wide, John falling naturally into step behind him. They head down the stairs, moving in tandem.
John says, “Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. Off out.”
Mrs Hudson asks, “Both of you?” Sherlock turns around to see her standing near John.
Sherlock starts sauntering up to them. “Impossible suicides, four of them. There’s no point sitting at home when…” He trots over and grabs Mrs Hudson by the shoulders. “…there’s finally something fun going on!” He kisses her on the cheeks.
Mrs Hudson says, “Look at you, all happy, it’s not decent.” She slaps him lightly on the arm in admonishment.
Sherlock turns around quite dramatically and starts strutting towards the door. “Who cares about decent?” John starts to follow him. “The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!” Sherlock is once again smiling like a madman out of Bedlam. He exits the building and calls for a cab. One stops almost immediately. Sherlock and John enter the cab.
John looks out the window of the cab as Sherlock checks information with his mobile. John’s eyes repeatedly flick over to look at Sherlock in a not-so-inconspicuous manner. Sherlock looks up from his mobile to look at John.
Sherlock says, “Okay, you’ve got questions?”
John immediately responds as he looks towards Sherlock. “Yeah, where are we going?”
“Crime scene. Next?”
John looks down then back at Sherlock. “Who are you? What do you do?”
“What do you think?”
John looks. “I’d say private detective...”
“But?”
John looks at Sherlock again. “But the police don’t go to private detectives.”
Sherlock smiles. “I’m a consulting detective, only one in the world. I invented the job.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means when the police are out of there depth, which is always, they consult me.” Sherlock looks out the window.
John says, “The police don’t consult amateurs.” The words feel like blow to his pride. Sherlock begins to feel the familiar need to prove himself despite the fact that it has never gained him friends in the past. The innocent smile on John’s face only increases the urge. Against his better judgement, Sherlock begins to show off.
“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq, you looked surprised.”
“Yes, how did you know”
“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. And your conversation as you entered the room...” Bit different from my day. “...said trained at Barts, so army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limps really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic, wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq.” Sherlock ends giving the Q in Iraq a particular emphasis. John still looks slightly confused.
John says, “You said I had a therapist.”
“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you’ve got a therapist.” John smiles as Sherlock speaks.
Sherlock continues, “Then there’s your brother.”
“Hmm?” John raises an eyebrow.
Sherlock flips the phone continuously, showing all to places that he draws facts from to deduce. “Your phone, It’s expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. And you’re looking for a flatshare. You wouldn’t waste money on this; it’s a gift, then. Scratches—not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner. Next bit’s easy. You know it already.” Sherlock turns the phone so that the engraving—To Harry Love Clara XXXX —is visible to John.”
John furrows his eyebrows. “The engraving?”
Sherlock nods and enters into a long deduction with accompanying gestures of the head and hands, and facial expressions. “Harry Watson—clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father. This is a young man’s gadget. Could be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who’s Clara? Four kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently. This model’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then. Six months on and he’s just giving it away. If she’d left him he would have kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted to get rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help. That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his drinking.”
“How can you possibly know about the drinking?”
Sherlock smiles. “Shot in the dark. Good one though. Power connection...” Sherlock flips the phone to show the port the power cord plugs into; it has a multitude of tiny scratches. “...tiny little scuffmarks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone never see a drunk’s without them. There you go, you see, you were right.” Sherlock is starting to feel mildly sullen now that the urge to prove himself is gone. People always ask for him to prove he’s clever but they never appreciate the result. It’s disheartening. He needs an audience, all geniuses do, but it seems like he can’t have an appreciative one.
John asks, “I was right? Right about what?”
“The police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock suspects that any second he’ll be told off, again, and this burgeoning friendship will be in tatters. John should like his deductions, in theory, but then most people should like his deductions in theory. It’s when he brings up the dirty little secrets, like a drunk brother, that it all starts to fall apart.
“That, was amazing.” What?
Sherlock looks at John in slight befuddlement. “Do you think so?” John is very polite. It could just be politeness.
John nods. “Yes, of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite, extraordinary.” John actually appreciates it. Sherlock feels a pleasant warm feeling settle in his chest.
Sherlock says, “That’s not what people normally say.”
“What do people normally say?”
“Piss off.” Sherlock looks at John and briefly smiles. John looks away while trying, and failing, to stifle giggles. Sherlock feels the smile appear on his face as he stifles his own faint urge to giggle. It feels nice. The rest of the ride continues in this silent camaraderie the two have managed to create, the brilliant madman and the good incredible person who appreciates the madman’s brilliance. Something slots into place that Sherlock never realised he was even missing. He’s looking forward to the result.