Chapter Text
“Yes. Please, do come in. Mr?….”
“Doctor. Watson. John Watson.”
Sherlock moved aside politely to allow Watson to move past him and into his - their? - flat. As soon as he had brushed past him, Sherlock drew his eyes away from him to peer into the corridor, checking for any other unexpected visitors. Seeing nothing else out of the ordinary, he shut the door firmly. He turned back around to face his new acquaintance.
“Please, do take a seat, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” He took a seat gingerly. Sherlock could already tell he was trying to be polite, yet not too uptight. He seemed rather uneasy, torn between the two extremes. Sherlock takes a seat opposite him and adds:
“I apologise about the slight disorganisation of the flat; it’s not always this bad. But the last case has proved to be…one of a kind.” He pauses and looks back at him.
The man he had known for just over a minute was…hard not to stare at. Not in a bad way, of course. In fact, Sherlock considered it a good thing. He had certainly not seen him around London before. He had kind, dark eyes which beamed at him, thick eyebrows and an equally thick beard and moustache which was well kept and neatly trimmed. The skin around his eyes crinkled up every time he smiled. He was dressed smartly and smelled of costly cologne. A very nice cologne, actually. And very distinct. Splendid, he’d be easy to recognise in some sort of emergency where it was dark, at night perhaps, if that was where their next case would happen….his next case. He was getting ahead of himself here. He didn’t even know if the guy was going to stay. He might have a sudden change of heart at any moment. Perhaps it would be the mess of his flat - maybe it would be Sherlock’s arrogance or his lack of developed social skills. And now he simply just sounded insecure.
Sherlock comes plummeting back down to Earth, realising he had been gazing intensely at the doctor for a bit too long. That would certainly drive him away.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” He asked with a shake of his head, his curls swaying along with him.
”Oh, um, I said I don’t mind at all.” He adjusts his collar, seemingly out of habit, then looks back up and smiles again, his eyes radiating warmth again. This may sound odd, but Sherlock somewhat feels hypnotised by him. Hell, he even involuntarily smiled back a little.
“So, Im assuming a certain young lady informed you that this was an appointment?”
”Yes, yes she did,” the man frowned, then stated:
“You didn’t make the appointment, did you?”
“No I did not-“ he admitted, before leaning forward in his chair and quickly adding: “But I was looking for a flatmate and it would be an honour to have you. All that is needed is a few questions answered.”
John nodded, that charming smile creeping back onto his face, “I’m ready whenever you are, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock finds himself grinning just a little again.
“Just Holmes is fine. And just out of curiosity, where did you meet this young lady?”
John scoffs. “It’s a bit of a wild story. I was wandering through London. Unsuccessful day of looking for a flatmate. The reason I am getting one is because it’s tough to live off a pension and afford a place to stay. Anyway, I had planned on stopping by some restaurant for lunch, when a window cleaner boy bumps into me. They appeared to be on the run - from what seemed like their dad at first. But that thought was quickly proven to be incorrect since there was another man. Maybe stupidly, I decided to help them. Once the man had left, the boy removed their hat and revealed that they were a she.
“Typical Enola,” Sherlock sighed, a tired grin finding its way onto his face.
“We had a chat. She told me she was a detective on a case. I told her a bit about myself, just because it was nice to talk to a friendly face for once. Eventually we needed to part ways - I mentioned that I was in need of new housing residence, and she told me about you. Told me a few things, actually. I think she over-exaggerated slightly,”
He grins, then continues, “She finished our conversation by saying that I had an optional appointment already waiting for me on Thursday, exactly at 4. She was very precise about the location.” He finished recalling.
Sherlock sighed again, once again grinning. “That was my ward, and my sister, Enola. It’s nice to know you’ve already met.”
Watson raised his eyebrows, his mouth hanging open for a second, before playfully adding:
“Oh, god! I can see it now!”
Sherlock nods, suddenly taking of a serious tone.
“Another question. Afghanistan or Iraq?”
Watson frowns, caught off guard. “What?”
“Which one did you fight in? Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Where did you get the idea that I had fought in a war?”
Holmes got up from his chair, beginning to pace.
“Well, you still have a military style haircut in place for starters. The way you stand, up straight and also holding your arm also suggests you were in the army. You also have an injury to the shoulder, presumably a bullet wound, because you seldom move it and keep it well away from getting bashed into. I also noticed that the hand on the same arm as your injured shoulder is not used, you hold it stiffly and in a slightly unnatural manner. I can tell you are left handed because you wear a watch on your left wrist and seem to occasionally forget about your injury and move your arm out of habit, only to regret it. Therefore, injury is likely. You also mentioned you have a pension to live off on - and with army pensions, one cannot afford their own flat.”
To say Watson was shocked would be an understatement. He fumbled about and eventually managed to sputter:
“What else do you know?” Sherlock took this as an invitation to continue explaining his deductions.
“Your father owned that watch on your wrist. I can see the initials H.W carved into it. But you are not an only child and it was passed down to someone before you. Someone who either was very reckless or an alcoholic. He has left multiple dents all over the watch and was not taking as good care of it as you have. Something must of happened to your older sibling, presumably death from perhaps alcohol, and the watch was passed down to you. I can tell you take better care of it because it is well polished - you are certainly not a careless man.” He finishes.
Watson is silent for a minute, gaping before closing his mouth, processing the information that had poured out of the detectives mouth, before exclaiming, “That was brilliant.”
“It was?” Sherlock questioned immediately, out of disbelief.
“Yes! That was amazing!”
Holmes blushed. That was new. No, not just the blushing. But somebody not taking his deductions the wrong way. People taking them as an insult was the reason he stopped doing them out loud, unless to prove a point of course.
“I - well, thank you. That’s not usually what they say.” He stammered, sitting back down opposite his companion.
John frowned, gazing at him, half out of awe still, half out of curiosity. “And what do they usually say?”
Sherlock paused again before he recited the usual responses he would receive when he was younger:
“Piss off.”
Watson suddenly started chuckling. Sherlock found himself giggling too.
“And to answer your question, It was Afghanistan. I was an army surgeon.” His smile fades. Clearly this was a deep subject, which would probably not be enjoyable to discuss.
Sherlock nods, interjecting, “That’s very impressive doctor. Now, about those questions I must ask!” Watson, clearly grateful to abandon the subject of war, grins again, patiently waiting for Sherlock to initiate the interview.