Chapter Text
John Watson was on his way to his sister’s house where he had stayed for a month now already. Coming back from the war, he needed a stable place to stay and his sister kindly offered the couch to him which he in return kindly accepted. They hadn’t been on the best terms at the time, and even now, they were not. Watson knew that she was beginning to get sick of him again. He knew he had to leave soon.
Without warning, a man bumped into Watson, causing a string of curses to fall from his mouth as he attempted to balance on.
“Watch where the-!” John turned towards the man, leaning heavily now on his only support. He was about to swear at the man further when his eyes suddenly went wide.
“John?” the man stopped a hint of excitement laced in his words. “S’that you?”
Watson’s face turned to one of joyfulness when his brain recognized the man. He hadn’t seen the other in some years now. Stamford was looking bad for his years. His under eyes were dark and his mouth hung open as if he were in a permanent state of shock. Nonetheless, he looked like Stamford, just without the usual happiness that came with it.
“Stamford!” Watson exclaimed, giving him a side hug with his right arm. “It’s been a hot minute, hasn’t it been?”
Stamford smiled brightly. That was the man that he remembered. “I haven’t seen you since you got shipped off to war. You’ve got a cane now?”
“Well, expedited shipping at that, and the leg– this darn thing barely serves a use anymore.” John Watson laughed to himself, prompting a laugh out of the other man as well. “And yourself? You look a lot more tired than I remember you being.”
“Tired is a way to put it. I suppose that’s to be expected when it comes to being a lawyer.”
“Stamford…? A lawyer!” Watson kept walking alongside him as they traveled further down the street, seemingly lost in whatever conversation they were having. “Would have never expected that. You were the party type from what I remember.”
“A few parties never killed anyone once in a while.”
“You used to chug bottles of vodka in high school, Stamford.” Watson adjusted his cane and let out a soft laugh. “And now you’re a lawyer? Taking driver’s licenses from underage drinkers!”
“Well, it is against the law.”
“Stamford…? Talking about law now!” Watson couldn’t hold back a laugh. Stamford returned the laugh with the same energy. How he had missed this.
“And how’s your sister, Amber?” Stamford smiled reassuringly.
“I’m actually heading to hers right now.” The laugh suddenly died out. “I haven’t been able to get an affordable place after… well, y’know” He gestured to his leg.
“Ain’t that life.” Stamford continued on walking with John Watson following at a slower pace.
“Surely so.” He spoke with a sense of peace. He was afraid the man would judge who he was now, but it was nothing of the sort. They had both gone through new things, and this would not change anything. In fact, Stamford seemed to have a thought in his mind that Watson would most certainly have to hear later.
Inside a library’s rentable rooms, a strange man was testing how much the heart rate decreased on 15g of oleander. So far, he had a nice set of data that he would be using later in the case of Rachael Smith. He set down the poisonous roots of the flower, carelessly, as he handled them with absolutely no gloves nor protection. He wasn’t fond of the way gloves felt on his skin.
His hair was as messy as the rest of his attire seemed to be. It was almost as if he didn’t properly take care of himself. Underneath his eyes was dark, worse than Stamford’s, probably due to the fact that he also wasn’t fond of sleeping. The back of his hair was out of place like somebody drove their hand through it. He had possibly never seen a brush nor a day of a good night's sleep.
A knock came and as he looked out the window to see who it was, he knew what the issue was to be. Opening the door, he was greeted by his good acquaintance, Stamford, and a short man who had dirty blonde hair and brown eyes that he decided had seen awful events unfold.
“Sherlock!” Stamford smiled. “This is my old friend, John Watson. He was–”
“Looking for a flatmate I assume?” Sherlock went back to his work, measuring how much of the root he would have to extract for it to be 15g. “You, Watson, was it? Which war were you in?
As Watson turned, a cheeky smile showed on Stamford’s face as if he were not surprised at all.
“You’ve told him about me now, haven’t you?” Watson’s face was one of confusion and slight discomfort as he shifted his cane once again. “Text him, did you?”
“Ukraine…” Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he took the root of the oleander and put it into a container.
“Didn’t tell him anything at all, John.” Stamford still had that dumb smirk planted on his face as if he were something special. The man didn’t budge nor look impressed by what Stamford assumed to be a revelation. He simply looked at him with a face that said “What drug are you on cause I want some”.
“I’m looking for a flatmate, not some joke clearly put against me.” Watson scowled, leaning on the cabinet now.
“I’m still here.” Sherlock raised his hand before going back to his work. “Stamford didn’t do anything wrong. There’s no reason to use your trust issues against him now.”
“I am not rooming with this bugger, Stamford.” Watson looked at Sherlock dead in the eyes with some type of anger for the man, despite only just meeting him. It was a bad first impression yet Sherlock didn’t seem to care that the other man had a distaste for him. It wasn’t the first time, after all, that he had put somebody off. It happened more times than it didn’t.
“The way you’re holding yourself, your leg which is clearly a traumatic injury, your hair, everything about you, Watson, screams ‘I’ve just come back from war.’” Sherlock chimed in once again. “And Ukraine– well, I actually guessed on that part. I’m right though I suppose.”
His face suddenly changed to one of disbelief before turning into one of complete shame as he turned away. Of course, it had been that easy to see. All of a sudden, Watson felt dumb. Very dumb. Stamford whispered to John before exiting the room at once, a laugh leaving his mouth before he did so. “I’ve got an appointment I must attend to!” Stamford would exit the room without another word.
“Listen, I’m looking for a flatmate and-”
“I got that part. I have one available from Mrs. Hudson on Baker Street. It’s a couple of minutes from here.” Sherlock’s face was an unchanging one. He spoke almost like a robot. “Do you mind that I have guests over constantly? Or perhaps my violin.”
“How much noise?” Watson looked solemn as he spoke, crossing his arms in an attempt to look tough. He still leaned against the cabinet. His leg could’ve been the death of him.
“I play the violin in the middle of the night, Watson.”
“Of course, you do.” Watson sighed before extending his hand and spatting out his next words. “I’m John Watson. I’d say more about myself but you seem to already know all there is to know about me.”
“Sherlock Holmes.” He didn’t care to look at the man. “I’m not very keen on handshakes.”
“Whatever… can you at least take me there to see the place you’ve got?” He questioned, causing the man to jump out of his seat, some of the oleander falling to the floor. Sherlock brushed the particles off of his shirt.
“Right, of course.” Sherlock opened the door and led him out of the compact room. “Follow me then.”
Once he threw open the doors to the library, the fresh London breeze fell upon them. The fresh wind almost smelled like cigarettes, but it was certainly something nonetheless. Sherlock rushed them down the streets, almost knocking into people in the process. He seemed to be in a hurry, and John couldn’t help but remember hearing a noise play on his phone right before he departed. Somebody such as Sherlock was not the type to be excited to let a person such as Watson into their flat for a tour.
“Who rents out library rooms?!” Watson attempted to speak to Sherlock but was already judging him. “You could just read out where normal people do…!”
“I rent them out.” Sherlock pushed through another crowd of people. “Lestrade tells me that I can’t use the police’s lab anymore.”
“Wouldn’t let you use my lab either if I had one.”
Sherlock ignored his comment and continued, turning a corner. “She says that there were too many complaints about me.”
“Figures– how do they even let you test in there…?” Watson turns to him as they arrive towards a complex. A couple of stores were seated next to the buildings themselves, and it looked run down for the most part. But Watson couldn’t care less if they were a dumpster with raccoons eating out of it; he needed to be independent even if it meant dining with rats. But by now, he was over-exaggerating.
“They don’t know I test in the rooms, Watson.” Sherlock stumbled for the keys to his apartment to the door, dropping them once.
The flat itself wasn’t anything too marvelous. The room was trashed as if a wild animal had run through the place. On top of that, papers were scattered on the floor, and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in quite some time. Other than that, it was fine except the kitchen was even worse. It was so small only one person could manage to do anything at a time unless you wanted to be right up against them, and the fridge was filled with bodily fluids for what Sherlock said was an “experiment.”
“Sherlock, is that you?” A voice could be heard coming from one of the bedrooms. “I’ve fixed up the issue with the lights.”
“I’ve found a flatmate, Mrs. Hudson. ” Sherlock skimmed through one of the magazines on the floor before moving it over to a bigger pile of papers, perhaps thinking he was tidying up. He wasn’t.
A young woman stuck her head out of the bedroom. She looked almost bewildered as the man said that. Her hazel eyes studied Watson for a minute before she stepped fully out of the room. Her skin was dark without any imperfection, and her hair stood in two curly balls at each side of her head except for a couple of strands that framed her face. Pearly beads were braided into the strands, as her gold glasses brought attention back to her eyes that were filled with something peaceful that Watson couldn’t quite describe.
“Merla Hudson.” She took Watson’s hand and shook it with a smile plastered onto her face.
“John Watson.” He smiled back at her in return before retracting his hand and leaning on his cane once again. “and you’re his…?”
“Landlady. I’ve got a few other flats in this building but they’re for sale, not for rent.”
Sherlock sat on the floor with his legs crossed, invested in the newspaper he was reading. He wasn’t even paying attention to the whole conversation that was happening right next to him. As Merla and Watson went over the costs of the flat and when rent was due, Sherlock suddenly looked up from his paper. He placed it on the ground in his neatly organized mess of a pile and dusted off his coat.
“Lestrade will be here soon.” He announced promptly.
“And who is that…?”
“Scotland Yard detective.” Sherlock traveled to the kitchen and began making a cup of tea. “She comes to me whenever there’s a problem she can’t solve. I thought I already told you this, did I not, Watson?”
“You’ve told me that she kicked you out of her labs, not that she comes to you when she’s feeling down about a case.”
“Well, Watson, now you know.” Sherlock looked pushed away the blinds and peered out the window at once. Merla and John looked at each other for a split second, but she did not seem phased at all. It was almost as if this was a normal occasion.
“She’s arrived.”