Chapter Text
It has been almost a year (11 months, 2 weeks and a day) since my last high, and nine of those months have been outside a rehabilitation facility. The stress and pressure at work today made me long for another hit, but someone alerted me to my previous addiction, reminding me why I quit in the first place. I met—
“So I heard you met Dr. Frankenstein.”
Sherlock looked up quickly, closing out the window to his personal blog. Just because he kept record of his journey after rehab didn’t mean he wanted anyone else to read it. But it was just Dimmock, Lestrade’s current partner, standing on the other side of his desk. To Sherlock’s embarrassment, he could never remember the DI’s first name, he just always called him “Dimmock,” hoping that his first name would be mentioned in a conversation at some point.
“I’m sorry?” Sherlock blinked, gathering his thoughts.
Dimmock shook his head, “Watson. I heard you and Lestrade paid him a visit for the serial suicide case.” He snorted, “He’s a piece of work, that one.”
Sherlock chuckled, “I’ve certainly never met anyone like him before.”
“Thank God for small blessing, yeah?” The other DI chuckled, hands in his pockets, “I keep telling Lestrade not to keep calling that guy, but I think Watson has some sort of blackmail on Lestrade.”
While it sounded like a feasible explanation as to why a civilian doctor would be allowed to consult on Lestrade’s cases, Sherlock knew it wasn’t true. Simply put, if Lestrade was being blackmailed by anyone, Mycroft would have put a stop to it. Mycroft was insanely possessive that way.
“Well I’m meeting with him tonight to discuss the case.” Sherlock nodded, “Hopefully a pair of fresh eyes will at least turn up some new ideas.”
Dimmock nodded, “Just be careful. There’s something not right with that one.”
Sherlock only nodded as Dimmock returned to his own desk to work. Making sure he wouldn’t get any more visitors, Sherlock reopened his blog
I met a doctor today. He—
Sherlock paused in his typing. What could he write about Doctor Watson, other than the fact he was either insane or a genius. Already, he was fighting the urge to rub his arm again.
Quickly, he opened a new tab on his browser, typing in the search bar: Doctor John H. Watson.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this…” Sherlock mumbled to himself, clutching the case file in his hand tightly as he looked up at the door in front of him.
The numbers on the door in front were unassuming “221B,” and the door itself was situated next to a small sandwich bar and café. It certainly didn’t look like the type of place a genius doctor would be living.
A genius doctor. Sherlock wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it himself. He was still trying to figure out just how Doc. Watson had known everything about him. Part of him still thought that perhaps Lestrade had tipped the doctor off about some aspects of his personal life (though, deep down, he knew Lestrade better than that).
Another part was desperately hoping that the doctorwas just as bright as he seemed, that he could help solve this mystery on Sherlock’s hands.
“Ah, there you are Mr. Holmes. Right on time, lovely.”
Sherlock blinked, turning from the door to see Dr. Watson walking towards him. “Good to see you again, Doctor Watson.”
“John, please.”
“Then call me Sherlock.”
The doctor smirked, “I intend to.” He chuckled, ringing the bell next to the door, “The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is giving us a great deal. I met her while I was on holiday in Florida and she owes me a favor after I helped with a case after her husband landed himself on Death Row.”
Sherlock blinked, “You actually helped her husband get off Death Row?”
John looked back at him, chuckling lightly, “Of course not. That was the point.”
Before Sherlock could reply, the door opened revealing a petite woman who appeared to be in her early 60’s.
“John!” She beamed, hugging the doctor tightly.
“Hello, Mrs. Hudson” John kissed her cheek lightly, “It has been too long, hasn’t it?”
“Too long indeed.” She smiled, “Oh and who is this?” She was looking at Sherlock now.
Before Sherlock could open his mouth to answer, John butted in, “This is Sherlock Holmes, the flatmate I told you about.”
“No, wait! I’m not here—”
“Oh wonderful!” Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands excitedly, “Come in, come in!”
For such a small women, Mrs. Hudson had a surprisingly strong grip as she grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and dragged him up the stairs, John following behind.
Despite his insistence that he was not there to become John’s flatmate, Sherlock had to admit the flat was a good deal. It was very neat and tidy, at least one half was. The other half was completely bare.
“I take it you moved in already?” Sherlock looked at John, fingers tapping a book on Anatomy that was laying on the coffee table.
John chuckled, “Yes, I didn’t see the point in wasting time. I left the other half open for you to move your things in.”
“There’s a second bedroom upstairs, love.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, smiling happily, “If you’ll be needing two.”
Sherlock blinked, “Why wouldn’t we need two bedrooms?”
Mrs. Hudson pat his arm gently, “Oh don’t you worry, dear, we get all sorts here. Mrs. Turner next door, she’s got married ones.” She was nodding conspiratorially.
That made Sherlock blush. “No! You’re mistaken, I’m not gay!”
John chuckled lightly, “He’ll take the second bedroom, Mrs. Hudson.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to argue that he was not there to flatshare as Mrs. Hudson made her way back to her own apartment, but stopped himself. “…There’s really no sense in arguing, is there?”
“Not really, no.” John was making himself comfortable in an armchair by the fireplace.
There was a moment Sherlock just watched the doctor make himself at home in the cozy little flat, “So that’s it then? We just met, and we’re going to share a flat? We hardly know each other.”
John rolled his eyes, “As I told you at the lab, I know just about everything about you, Sherlock.”
“Knowing that I used to do cocaine does not mean you know me!” Sherlock snapped, gripping his case file tightly, “Nor does it mean I’m a good flatmate.”
“I tend to exercise when I’m thinking, sometimes in the middle of the night. I can go days just talking to myself, and sometimes I bring my work home with me.”
That caused Sherlock to sputter, “What? Where the hell did that come from?”
“Flatmates should know the worst things about each other.” John steepled his fingers, watching Sherlock over top of them, “Since we were on the subject of flatmates. And since I know that you’re a recovering, and highly functioning, cocaine addict, I can predict what your worst traits.”
It took a lot of Sherlock’s control to keep from snapping again, “And what would that be, good doctor?”
“We’ll you’ve already shown moodiness and signs of agitation. Granted that is also in joint with the nature of your job in recent weeks.” The doctor nodded, “There is also the risk of relapse, but what better person to avoid that possible venture than a doctor?” He chuckled lightly, “That, and you would get the independence you want from your brother.”
Sherlock sighed, walking to the chair across from the doctor, sitting down, “Alright, I give up. How did you know everything? Lestrade swears he didn’t tell you about me—”
“He didn’t.”
“But you still knew that I was a Detective Inspector, and that I was staying on my brother’s couch.”
“I also know that you are not an “old friend” of Lestrade’s, but rather his brother in law.”
Sherlock groaned, “How…”
John chuckled softly, “Your reaction when I mentioned Lestrade’s love life, especially the more graphic nature of it. You seemed horrified, but you didn’t flinch away from Lestrade, so you were more disgusted at the image than Lestrade himself. So his partner is someone you know well, but don’t necessarily want to see in a sexual manner. So either father or brother. And while Lestrade has grey hair, he isn’t that old. So brother it is.”
Well that was true. He did not need the image of Mycroft…ick.
“Ok, I’m following you so far…” Sherlock nodded, “You got that from my reaction to Lestrade’s sex life?”
“That, and you both use the same laundry detergent.” John reached out a hand, taking hold of Sherlock’s sleeve, “I’ve always noticed that Lestrade’s clothes, while modest in quality, are always well laundered, mostly likely at a high end establishment or through a service.” He rubbed the sleeve between his thumb and forefinger, “And you have the same texture and scent on your clothes. So you live together, but since we have already established that you and Lestrade are not lovers, it can be deduced that you both live in the home of your brother, Lestrade’s lover, who is very well off. Wealthy and politically connected.”
“How do you know that Mycroft is politically connected?” Sherlock blinked, trying to keep up in his mind.
“You told me it had been nine months since you left rehab, and you’re already working high profile cases. Someone kept you from being fired, or perhaps kept your addiction a secret.” John nodded, letting go of Sherlock’s sleeve, “He’s also the one who gave you your phone.”
Before Sherlock could open his mouth to ask, John pressed a finger to his lips, “I’ll tell you how, just you wait.” With his free hand, John reached into Sherlock’s jacket pocket, withdrawing his phone, “This phone isn’t on the market yet. Very expensive, top of the line. Not the phone of a DI, and even if you had the money, you wouldn’t spend it on a phone, all you need in a phone is a good keyboard.” John flipped open the phone to reveal the worn keyboard, “A texter, like myself. Why talk when you can text?” He snapped the phone shut, placing it on the coffee table, “But like I said, if you had the money for a phone like this, you’d be putting it to your own flat.
“And now we get to the fact you’re sleeping on your brother’s couch. I could tell” He added, at Sherlock’s confused look, “by the stiffness through your right half of your body. Sleeping somewhere not designed for sleeping. And considering the fact your brother is well off enough to house both you and Lestrade, it would go without saying that he would have a guestroom, maybe even two, and yet you sleep on the couch.” John nodded slowly, “Now that tells me that, while your brother has been looking out for you, you resent that you needed looking after. You refused to move into a guest room because you refused to accept a more permanent setting under your brother’s wing. Thus, you desire independence, to prove that you do not need looking after. What better way than finding your own place and a flatmate?”
There was silence for a few moments as John and Sherlock just stared at each other, Sherlock’s mind was rapidly trying to catch up with what had just been spoken.
“You can ask questions now.”
Sherlock blinked, watching the doctor in front of him, “Fantastic…”
It took him half a moment to realize he had spoken against John’s finger, still pressed against his lips.
John, for his part, looked amused, “That’s not the typical response, but most definitely preferable to the usual.”
Sherlock smiled softly, “And what would that be?”
“They always assume I’m a shrink, or a profiler, as if there was no difference between one doctorate and another.” John sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Or they tell me to go to hell.”
That comment made Sherlock chuckled, relaxing a bit, “So…exercising when you think?”
John nodded, getting up from his chair, “Yes, the endorphins aid in my thinking process.” The doctor made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock could hear him opening cupboards and toying with the stove, but didn’t turn to look at him. “It’s a habit I picked up in the army.”
“A military doctor…” Sherlock chuckled.
“But you already knew that.”
Right, again. “I found your website, The Science of Deduction.”
“Of course you did.” Water was running now, John was filling a kettle now, “You’re a detective, Sherlock. You were not going to meet with someone about a case without making sure they were credible. And while you trust Lestrade’s judgment, you like seeing things for yourself. At least I would hope you did your research on me. I would hate to make the gross mistake of overestimating you.”
“You didn’t.” Sherlock shook his head, “Your website, it’s…brilliant, for want of a better word. I can see why Lestrade asks for your help from time to time.”
“Mhm…” The sound of a whistling kettle filled the air, followed by pouring. “Not scared off then?”
“I’ve dealt with worse.” Sherlock admitted, “Your…vivid experiments of the human body aren’t that bad.”
John chuckled, “We shall see about that, Sherlock.” A tea cup was placed under Sherlock’s nose as John leaned over him, “I take it you take your tea the same way you take your coffee: black, two sugars?”
Blinking, Sherlock grasped the cup carefully, “Thank you, John. You didn’t need to do that…”
“You needed the caffeine.” John replied simply, carrying his own cup of tea as he returned to his seat. He didn’t drink from his cup for a few moments, simply watching Sherlock drink in silence.
Feeling the doctor’s gaze, Sherlock cleared his throat, “So, the case…”
“Yes, that is why we’re here…for now, at least.” John chuckled, “You can let go of the case file, Sherlock, I promise not to bite.”
But before Sherlock could pass the case file to John, his phone began to ring. He had nearly forgotten it in the middle of John’s deductions, “I better get that…” he muttered, grabbing the phone from the table holding it to his ear, “Holmes.”
“Sir.”
It was Donovan. Sherlock sighed. Donovan never called unless it was work related. “Yeah?”
“There’s been another one.”
He could feel his stomach drop out to the floor, “Where?”
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens. And there’s a note this time.”
“I’m on my way.” Sherlock hung up, getting to his feet, “I’m sorry about this John, but I have to go.”
“Of course, there’s been another death Why else would you blanche like that?” John nodded, sipping his tea before setting it down, “…anything new?”
There was something in the doctor’s voice Sherlock hadn’t heard before. “A note…” Sherlock blinked. Curiosity, that’s what it was. And John’s hand, a doctor’s hand, was twitching slightly, “…you’re actually excited, aren’t you?”
“Serial suicides that can’t actually be suicides, and now a note?” John grinned, honest to god grinned, “What’s not to be excited for? Now tell me how you knew.”
Again, Sherlock stared at the doctor, unsure what he was hearing, “You were fidgeting. And your voice got higher, kind of...”
John stood slowly, “Good show, there’s hope for you yet, Detective Inspector.” He chuckled, “Next time, I won’t be so obvious.”
Before Sherlock could respond, John was already walking out down the stairs, “Come along, Sherlock. There’s a lovely crime scene waiting for us!”
There was a brief moment when Sherlock wondered when the hell he invited John to the crime scene. Then he realized, deep down, that he had invited John the moment he and Lestrade had walked into the lab.
“I’m coming John. We’ll take my car.” He called out, rushing to catch up with the doctor at the foot of the stairs.