Chapter Text
“So that’s Site 37 for you. Or at least, all the areas you’re allowed to access.” Mike said, finishing his tour at the hallway to the staff dormitories. “Did you get a roommate?”
“Yeah,” John answered, remembering the packet of papers he’d carried around all afternoon. “Holmes, I think the name was.”
Mike’s eyes widened. “Sherlock Holmes?”
“That sounds about right. Do you know him?” John asked warily.
“Only in passing. Apparently he’s a bloody genius. But...” Mike seemed to have trouble deciding how to say his next bit. “Nobody’s been able to stand him as a roommate for longer than three months, and he goes through lab assistants even faster than that. But that might just be rumors,” the other man added hastily, then shrugged. “There’s a spot open in my room, just in case.”
“Thanks for the warning.” John headed down the hallway, looking for number 221.
It didn’t take John long to find the room. As he rounded the corner, John heard the sound of a violin drifting lazily through the halls, making the place feel more hospitable than it should have. It seemed loudest in front of his door. John wondered if maybe rooming with Sherlock wouldn’t be as bad as it had initially sounded. He did like the violin, after all.
John slid his ID card into the chip scanner and placed his thumb on the reader by the door. A moment later, he heard the lock disengage. The violin playing abruptly stopped.
John retrieved his card from the reader and stepped into the cookie-cutter dorm. Two identical halves greeted him, each with their own bed, closet, chest of drawers, desk, miniature fridge and microwave.
In the center stood a tall, thin man with black curly hair facing a wire music stand. He wore slacks and a dress shirt. He turned to face John, and John could almost feel the man’s gaze taking in every part of him.
“You must be Dr. Watson,” Holmes said.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes,” John answered.
“Sherlock,” the other man corrected. “Do you like the violin?”
“Yeah, it’s great. And just call me John.” John sat down on the empty bed with the standard-issue bedding. At the Foundation, no one had many personal belongings.
“Which task force?” Sherlock asked, sitting on his own bed.
“Excuse me?”
“You were in a task force before being moved into a medical position. They don’t normally pull people from field duty into research. I suspect that you were injured, but that’s probably on a need-to-know basis.”
“Alpha-1. That’s all I can tell you,” John said quietly. He had to be careful talking about his classified operations. Very few had the clearances to hear about his work with Red Right Hand. “What do you do around here?”
“Research on chemical anomalies, mostly.” Sherlock loosened his bow and stowed the instrument back in its case. “From time to time, I get other tasks.”
They lapsed into uncomfortable silence for a few minutes as John searched his area for his few belongings. His personal items had been shipped from Site 19 ahead of his arrival, but John couldn’t help feeling relieved once they were all accounted for.
Later that afternoon, they headed to the cafeteria for a mediocre dinner. Food at the Foundation sites was decent, but something about it just couldn’t compare to the food outside. John had been lucky as a task force member. He’d gotten to go offsite often and see the world. Most people had to go through rigorous processing to obtain the same privileges.
John went through the line and got a plate of chicken pot pie, a salad, corn on the cob, a slice of cake, and a bottle of water. Sherlock just claimed a table.
John looked around, but didn’t see anyone he’d gotten to talk to yet besides Sherlock. If he had to live with someone so supposedly insufferable, he might as well get to know them first. Although if his first impression was anything to go by, Sherlock would be a piece of cake compared to sharing quarters with an entire task force.
“Aren’t you eating anything?” he asked.
“I don’t eat in the middle of my projects,” Sherlock responded, staring straightforward.
“That’s not very healthy,” John pointed out. “Shouldn’t you always be working on something?”
“Not my research, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Side projects.”
John waited for him to elaborate, but Sherlock apparently wasn’t sharing. “Okay, then.”
John began to eat as more people gradually trickled into the cafeteria. Nobody else joined their table until a silver-haired man in a suit brought his tray over and sat down.
John could tell he was high ranking and carrying at least three weapons. Not the kind of person he thought the lanky, quirky Sherlock would associate with regularly, but John was quickly learning that his first impressions about Sherlock were often wrong.
“I told you,” Sherlock said. “Where’s this one?”
The man glanced at John. “Who’s this?”
“He can stay,” Sherlock answered. “Where is it?”
“Memetics deep storage,” the man allowed, lowering his voice.
“What’s going on?” John asked quietly. Clearly, this conversation had begun in another time and place.
“Three identical suicides,” Sherlock answered. “Same chemicals, same dose each time. Lestrade thinks it’s coincidence. Although not anymore, from the looks of things.”
Why Sherlock was involved with this, John didn’t know. Although suicide wasn’t uncommon among burnt-out, traumatized Foundation employees, he had to agree that three exactly identical deaths within a short interval was a cause for concern.
“So what happened this time?” Sherlock asked, redirecting the conversation back to its original path. “You wouldn’t have asked for my help if something hadn’t changed.”
“You know how they don’t leave notes?”
“Yeah?”
“This one did.”
“I want to see the evidence.”
Lestrade nodded. “I’ll meet you in the morgue after I finish eating. Wait about half an hour, and then come down.”
Sherlock huffed and stood up. “I might be in late tonight. You don’t need to wait up.”
After he finished eating, John went back to his room. When he got there, he found Sherlock sitting at his desk with his own computer. “Did Lestrade finish eating yet?”
“I think he’s almost done,” John answered. “So is this your project?”
“Got it in one.” Sherlock didn’t even look up from his computer. “You provided medical assistance for a mobile task force.”
“Yes.” John didn’t know where this was going.
“Seen a lot of injuries and gruesome deaths, then.”
“Yep.”
“Probably also a bit of trouble.”
“That, too. Enough for a lifetime.”
Sherlock looked up and spun the swivel chair so he faced John. “Want to see some more?”
John couldn’t help himself. “Oh, God yes.”