This is the second Sherlock Holmes story I'm working on right now-the other one is based off the movie, this is, obviously, based off BBC's series. By the way, I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes, either version, except the idea for the stories. This chapter is, I think, a little bit shaky-I feel like I was trying to say too much and not using enough words lol. But, it's going to be very good, I think :) I'm trying to go by the episodes' timeline, but, when Jim comes into the picture, the pool scene is going to be pushed back, maybe indefinitely, as it wouldn't exactly fit in with the plot. But don't worry, there will be an equivalent-a much more slashy equivalent! Oh, and I'm an American, so if I use words/phrases/descriptions that aren't used in England, I'm sorry. I research the best I can, but it's hard to do a google search of "What do people in Britain call breakfast?", or what have you, and I've never been comfortable with the idea of a beta (no offense to any betas out there), so all the mistakes are mine and mine alone. But, hopefully there aren't too many :) Thanks for reading, and please review if you feel so inclined!
Sherlock Holmes knew from the moment he laid eyes on John Watson that they were going to be inseparable. For starters, John was a soldier, which meant he probably possessed a strong moral compass, a love for justice, and outstanding courage. The latter was confirmed, only marginally, in their first conversation. Whereas most people were put off by Sherlock's blunt observations and even more forthright assumptions, John had still managed to hold his ground against the man. "We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" he had asked, incredulously. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."
On his return to the mortuary, Sherlock hadn't been able to keep the corners of his mouth from rising up into a smirk. Finally, he'd found a suitable flat mate. He'd met with several other potentials before, but they had all been nightmarish. One girl had, twice in their five-minute meeting, checked to make sure that the volume on her phone had been turned to the highest volume and, even then, she had kept the phone out on the table next to her coffee cup. She had purchased her drink with a credit card, and Sherlock had seen that the pen she pulled out of her purse was from the Corbigoe Hotel, which he knew to be wallet-friendly lodgings, especially useful if she intended to be there somewhat long-term. The phone, plus the hotel pen-she had been kicked out of her lodgings, and was waiting anxiously for lover to call and invite her back in.
The second potential, a twenty-two year old university student, had been obnoxious. He walked into the café with his headphones still in his ears, and his heavy metal music could be heard ten feet away. When he sat down with Sherlock, he hadn't turned off the iPod, simply turned the volume down to a bearable level. He'd texted through their meeting, and hadn't even bothered to hide the two red bruises on his neck, each one a different size and shade. Sherlock could detect a pungent, rosy perfume emitting from him, and also two different colognes. The man had either slept with a man and then a woman the night before-perhaps in the reverse order, or he'd had a threesome.
Last but not least was the woman that Sherlock had dubbed Miss Insecurity. She was wearing high heeled shoes, but she walked slowly and glanced at the floor in front of her continuously. So, she wasn't used to wearing them, but she'd done so anyway to fit in with the fashion trends. She was talking rather loudly on her phone but Sherlock had noticed that, instead of a number appearing on her screen, it had been a picture of three cats. First problem, she was so insecure that she had to have pretend phone conversations and wear uncomfortable shoes, second problem, she didn't have any human friends to put as her phone background. No, and no.
John was different. He didn't block out the world with obnoxiously loud music. He didn't need someone to make him feel valued. He didn't feel pressured to wear the latest trends or buy the newest gadgets. He was confident, intelligent, unpretentious, average, boring-the perfect flat mate for the eccentricity that was Sherlock Holmes.
The second time they were together, this was only reinforced when Sherlock invited the doctor to a crime scene with him.
"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."
"Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"
"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"
"Of course. Yes. Enough. For a lifetime. Far too much."
"Wanna see some more?"
"Oh, God, yes."
As Sherlock remembered the conversation, he chuckled. Suitable, indeed. He couldn't ask for a more perfect roommate. John's love for excitement and danger rivaled his own, but he was also calm enough to provide a listening ear when Sherlock needed to rant or brainstorm.
"No offense to you, of course," Sherlock said aloud, glancing at his skull sitting on the coffee table. He dropped into his chair and picked it up, letting his fingers fondly roam over the smooth dome and the mandible. "You've gotten me through some rather difficult times in the past."
It was ten thirty, and John had already turned in for the night. Sherlock pulled his crisp white shirt over his head and then leaned back in his chair, enjoying the feeling of cool leather against his skin. He sighed and leaned his head back while reaching into his pocket and pulling out his unopened box of nicotine patches.
"Hello my friends," he mumbled as he slid his finger under the top cardboard slit and pulled it upwards. "I think two will be sufficient for now."
As he pulled out two of the paper-wrapped patches, his thoughts drifted, as usual, to his flat mate. "I'm smitten," he told his skull as he threw the paper wrappings on the floor. "For the first and only time in my life, I think I'm in love."
He didn't really think he was in love, Sherlock knew he was in love. In the short amount of time between their first and second meeting, Sherlock hadn't stopped thinking about him. Oh, he'd kept busy with more productive things, such his fencing lesson, learning a new composition on his violin, riding around London to see which streets were newly undergoing construction, yes, he'd been busy. But he still found himself thinking about Dr. John Watson. Is he always that easy to talk to, or was he just comfortable because Mike was there? Is he a good doctor? What's his bedside manner like? Militant and candid, or charming and compassionate, as doctors are portrayed?
"I don't even believe in love!" Sherlock snarled as he slapped the patches onto his arm. "Especially when it's towards someone you don't even know! Love at first sight, please!" He turned his head towards his skull and threw up his hands in an expression of exasperation. "And yet, it's happened. To me, of all people."
The sound of a door creaking open made him silent. He lifted his head and saw John peering out of his bedroom. He had wrapped his maroon robe tightly around his small body.
"Remember the first day we met, you told me that you sometimes went days without speaking?"
Sherlock nodded. "Of course."
John smiled, although Sherlock knew the smile wasn't meant to be genial. "Well, why not start now? It's almost eleven o'clock, and I'm tired." He squinted at Sherlock. "What in God's name are you doing?"
"Getting high," Sherlock said snidely. He lifted his left arm and motioned at the two nicotine patches. "I thought I deserved a reward, after such a pleasant solution to our case."
John raised his eyebrows. "Our case? That's funny, I think it was you that did most of the work."
Sherlock shook his head. "Not at all, John." He stood up and twisted to his left, then to his right, and shook his arms rapidly. "God, it's been a long day."
"Go to bed then. You've hardly slept at all these past few days, and you've eaten even less."
"I'm aware of that, thank you."
"Are you always like that?"
"While I'm working, yes." Sherlock locked his gray eyes against John's pale green ones. "While I'm working, there are more important things to do than sleep and eat." His mouth rose into a small, barely discernable smile. "Goodnight, John."
John nodded, mumbled 'goodnight' and turned around and retreated back into his room, closing the door tightly shut behind him.
Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs to his own bedroom. He had let John have the room on the lower floor, even though he'd known that the doctor's limp wasn't a real injury. It had seemed like the decent thing to do. Not that Sherlock cared about the decent thing to do-normally. But, when John was concerned, it seemed to be the deciding factor in all of his actions, and his reactions.
Even though they'd only known each other a few days, Sherlock had already once made a feeble attempt at gauging how John would react to his feelings towards him. Thankfully, John had been the one to create the opportunity.
"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"
"Girlfriend, no. Not really my area."
"Oh really? Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."
"I know it's fine," Sherlock had said, perhaps a little too eagerly.
"So you've got a boyfriend-"
"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Just like me. Fine. Good."
Here was his chance. Say something casual, Sherlock-don't let him know your legs are shaking, that your heart is racing, just act normal!
"John, um…I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and, while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for anything."
But then, John had gone on to dismiss the notion that he had been intending to apply anything other than a keen interest in his new friend's romantic preferences. Damn, Sherlock thought to himself as he sat on his bed. His sister is a lesbian or, at the least, bisexual, so he probably has no aversion to homosexual relationships. So, would he be adverse to pursuing one? Would he be adverse to pursuing one with me?
Sherlock closed his eyes, and as he drifted off to sleep, his last thoughts were, this is a mistake. If I keep letting this infatuation grow, it's going to get deeper and deeper, and where will I be then? The reason that I've become such a successful detective is because I don't let myself get personally involved, with anyone. I have no biases, no fears, no one to put before myself.
That is, I didn't. But now that I've met John Watson, things are going to change.