Work Text:
Koi No Yokan (Japanese): sense upon first meeting a person that you are going to fall in love
***
Sherlock Holmes woke up on that day like he did on any other — when he did sleep, of course. He ate a piece of toast because he hadn’t eaten in two days, and drank two sips of a mugful of tea. He looked around his dodgy flat at Montague Street — not that he didn’t like the flat, it was actually quite advantageous to live across the street from the British Museum — and sighed deeply. He really wanted to move into Mrs Hudson’s flat, but it was more expensive than he could afford on his Mycroft-budget. Fucking Mycroft.
He put on his suit, threw his coat on and looked at his watch. Almost eleven, he had to hurry or he’d be late for his morgue appointment with Molly. Having picked up the riding crop from the kitchen table, he made his way out, hailing a cab efficiently.
On his way to the morgue, Sherlock ran into that fat man with the tiny eyes — he’d deleted the man’s name a long time ago.
‘Hello, Holmes, what brings you here?’
‘Morgue,’ Sherlock replied as he tried to walk away before being engaged in futile conversation with this horrid little man.
‘Oh, yeah, Molly mentioned you’d be popping around today. She mentioned you were moving to Baker Street as well?’
‘I don’t know, did she?’ Sherlock asked with an eyeroll. Mike Stamford! That was his name. Incredibly dull, just like himself, of course. With these people, one could not just walk away, they were persistent. Sherlock would have to engage. ‘I would, but I can’t afford it without a flatmate.’
Mike chuckled, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes inwardly. ‘Well, get one, then.’
At that, Sherlock had to grin. Of course, how simple. Why didn’t he just get a flatmate? Just like the others! The others that ran away and tried to make him stop with his experiments and offered him drugs. Yes, all he needed was a flatmate. Besides,
‘Who’d want me for a flatmate?’ he asked, but it was more a question to himself than to Mike. ‘Anyway, I must dash. Appointment at the morgue.’
Sherlock walked away before Mike could utter a word. It had already been an incredibly tedious morning — between eating breakfast and intruding Lestrade’s press conference via mobile phone and internet — and now this was setting up to be another entirely tedious day. Lovely.
Molly said something about the corpse when Sherlock asked how fresh it was, but he didn’t pay any mind to it. He took out his riding crop and began his experiment. Not only that, but that also worked as a stress reliever, Sherlock noticed.
*
Sherlock knew Molly was flirting with him. How could he not? It was obvious. He didn’t care for it, though. Not just for her — really, Molly could be rather annoying, and Sherlock didn’t have much patience it — but for the whole “relationship” thing. It seemed pointless and bothersome. Besides, she wasn’t his type anyway. Well, he hadn’t done much to actually have a type, but he was sure it didn’t involve breasts.
After his experiment was done — and he managed to get a coffee out of Molly’s flirting — Sherlock went to the lab to study some cultures. He could have used his own microscope, but the one at St Bart’s was much more accurate, and he could also use the other equipment they had available. Provided that they did not find out, of course.
An hour or so later, Sherlock was experimenting on some paint residue, when the door of the lab opened, and he distinctly heard Mike Stamford walking in, being followed by another man.
‘Bit different from my day,’ the man said, his voice was neither deep nor high-pitched. The way he held himself said military, and his limp was psychosomatic. So far, so obvious. And now Mike wanted him to be Sherlock’s flatmate. Of course he did, that was painfully obvious, like everything else.
He needed more information on this man, though, so Sherlock asked for Mike’s phone, knowing that he wouldn’t have it. The man would be forced by his sense of politeness — there was something quite proper about him — to give his mobile to Sherlock, and that would give him the answers necessary. All that, and he would be able to send his text.
John Watson, was his name. John Watson. Ordinary. And yet… There was… something. There’s always something!
So he asked, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’
Watson looked at him strangely. ’Sorry?’
‘Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?’
A beat, then Watson answered. ‘Afghanistan, how did you…?’ But Molly walked in with coffee before he could finish the question. It was the question, of course. The question that appeared before Sherlock laid out the facts, before he presented his evidence, and before people sneered, called him a freak, and left. It was only a matter for time before the same happened to Watson.
After Molly left, Sherlock decided to be bold and go for it. ‘How do you feel about the violin?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ He apologised a lot, that could be rather irritating.
‘I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,’ Sherlock said, offering one of those polite smiles that most people did. Watson went with the obvious and asked Mike if he had told Sherlock about him. So that meant that Mike hadn’t told Watson about Sherlock’s own abilities. Which meant… what? That he wanted a laugh? Of course not, he had clearly not seen the man in years, and respected him, he would never object him to Sherlock’s scrutiny for giggles. Then what?
‘Who said anything about flatmates?’ Watson asked.
‘I did,’ Sherlock replied, his back turned to the room, still trying to figure out this man. ‘I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for, and here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan…’ Of course! How could he have been so stupid! Mike thought that due to his military training, Watson would be able to deal with Sherlock better than most. And perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad after all. If the man had the proper nerves, he would be able to live with Sherlock, so then Sherlock could just call Mrs Hudson to arrange the flat.
They continued their exchange, but Sherlock went for the dramatic exit. He made a point of putting his coat on with flare, as well as his scarf. And mentioning the riding crop at the morgue.
And to Sherlock’s surprise, Watson’s questions were about his name and the address of their meeting, which was quite fair, given that he hadn’t been provided with either. Of course, he also said that they didn’t know a thing about each other, which was untrue, since Sherlock knew all about this John Watson. And he said it.
Well, hopefully that wouldn’t fuck things up. He looked annoyed, though, not angry. That was new.
‘The name is Sherlock Holmes. The address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon,’ then Sherlock left. If this man was at least a little bit interesting, he would show up. So Sherlock took a cab to Baker Street instead of his own flat to talk to Mrs Hudson.
*
As it turned out, John Watson was anything but ordinary. He shot a man for Sherlock, and didn’t even flinch. He ran and giggled at a crime scene. He didn’t care that being happy about the murder was indecent, because the game was fun. And he joined in on the fun, even after being left behind by Sherlock and kidnapped by Mycroft. How extraordinary.
The days that had everything to be endlessly dull turned out to be quite brilliant. He caught a serial killer and had his life saved by his new flatmate.
As they ate Chinese — because John was more than a little concerned that Sherlock hadn’t eaten properly in a few days — with gusto, the post-case adrenaline slowly settling, Sherlock wondered if John would be willing to come along in other cases. Having a partner would be fun, much for fun than just sharing a flat. Sherlock also wondered if this was what was like having a friend. Probably not, he didn’t have friends. And someone like John would never want to be his friend.
He asked John if he’d like to join him. John smiled brilliant.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said with a playful wink as he put a dumpling in his mouth.
And then Sherlock wondered if he’d perhaps be interested in being more than friends.