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It was soothing in a way, although surely no one else would understand. Being a cabbie wasn't exactly on most people's lists of relaxing activities. Still, in the backseat of a cab, people would let their guard down, simply ignoring Sherlock in the front seat. Every once in a while one of them would try to strike up a conversation, but they would quickly lose interest.
For the most part, they'd just get lost in their thoughts, and Sherlock could tell every emotion that passed across their faces. Just busing people from place to place, there was so much to be seen, so many different kind of people to deduce and puzzle over. That's why Sherlock Holmes would occasionally borrow a cab and a license and pretend to be a cabbie, it was a good exercise for the mind and it was strangely peaceful. Simply deducing the passenger's motives and stories silently, and for the especially irritating ones, out loud, was much better than rotting away at his new flat.
Still, that night there had been nothing interesting, all of his passengers being frightfully dull. He spotted a rather short man holding a cane with his arm up and pulled smoothly to the curb, looking over his new passenger. He opened up the door and climbed in easily (limp: psychosomatic) with a weary sigh.
“Right,” the man (army doctor) said, “533 Sacker St.” (Temporary, looking for a new place.)
The man didn't say anything further, simply staring out the window and occasionally at the price sign (lips tightening: money is an issue). After a long stretch of silence, Sherlock decided to initiate a conversation. This man seemed more interesting than his other clients anyways.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Sorry?”
“Where did you serve, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know that?”
“The same way I know that you're running out of money and on the lookout for a new place, army pensions never seem to last, do they? At least they're still paying for your therapist, although you still don't believe her when she says your limp is psychosomatic. You really should, she's right.”
“Do I know you?”
“Of course you don't. Don't be obtuse, you obviously don't recognize me.”
“Well, you could always be a stalker or... something.”
This evoked a small chuckle from Sherlock, who was surprised to find that he wanted to keep on talking to this man.
“I suppose you could think that if you wanted, although it would be wrong and quite idiotic.”
“Alright, alright.” the man said with a not-quite-hidden smirk. “I don't think you're a stalker, but really, how did you know all of that?”
“It appears we've arrived. That'll be 12 pounds.” Sherlock said, watching the passenger as he glanced out of the window in surprise before his eyes returned to meet Sherlock's in the mirror.
“12? Are you sure?”
“Of course, you are strapped for cash after all.” Sherlock stated, watching as the man looked at Sherlock with wide, almost wary eyes before pulling out his wallet (name on ID: John Watson).
John Watson climbed out with noticeably less of a limp after handing Sherlock the money, but he quickly turned back and leaned down to peer at Sherlock through the open window.
“Really though, who are you?”
“I'm actually searching for a flat share myself, I've got my eye on a little place in central London. Come by tomorrow at noon to take a look at it.”
“That's it?”
“That's what?”
“We haven't even properly met, we don't know each other at all and you want to go look at a flat together. I don't even know your name.”
“I know enough about you, John Watson. The address is 221B Baker Street, be there!” Sherlock said, winking before he pulled away. Looking back in the rear view mirror at John Watson watching the car leave with complete confusion on his face, Sherlock knew that at noon, he'd be there. This John Watson seemed the type to enjoy mysteries, and if Sherlock Holmes was good at anything, it was mysteries.