Chapter Text
“To let: one bedroom measuring exactly 89.79 square feet on second floor of Georgian townhouse in Marylebone. Room comprises of: one double bed; one wooden wardrobe with minimal fire damage; small and out-of-service coal fireplace (not the source of the wardrobe damage). Common spaces are: sitting room with working fireplace; kitchen (not currently for use as a kitchen); one toilet ‒ all on first floor. Photos included at insistence of my landlady.”
John thumbed through the photos and his brow furrowed at the general state of unkemptness. But beneath the heavy layer of paper and books and scientific instruments, he noticed wooden floors that looked original, built-in bookcases, and a not-altogether-unpleasant combination of modern and Victorian furniture. And a large bison skull. Interesting.
A small smile pulled at his cheek for the first time since he’d started toward London twenty hours ago. The journey from base was long and arduous, the flight had been turbulent, and Harry had already called him three times and left one slurred voicemail. All for three days of leave he did not necessarily want to take.
The best course of action was take an AirBNB rental, pretend he had something important and militaristic to attend to, avoid taking a meal with Harry, and get back on a plane to Kandahar. And something about this listing had stood out to him. Alright ‒ the price had stood out to him. It was absolutely unbeatable for that part of the city. So what if the bloke letting it out was a bit of an eccentric? John had dealt with worse in his time.
“Oh ‒ the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.”
——
“Yoo-hoo! Sherlock, dear?” Mrs. Hudson’s soft voice rang out through the flat. “Are you decent?”
“Depends on your definition.” Sherlock pushed his safety goggles up his forehead to rest in his wild curls. Leaning dangerously on his stool, he saw her come into the sitting room from around the kitchen corner. “What do you want?” His voice held no trace of vitriol.
“This lovely young man is here to let out the room upstairs,” she continued. “He said he found it on his mobile — I don’t know the first thing about those contraptions,” she said to an unseen third party. “Sherlock put the listing up for me.”
The “lovely young man” who came into the room behind Mrs. Hudson actually caused Sherlock to double-take. He was a little short, but had an air about him which instantly commanded respect. Straight shoulders, short-cropped blond hair, square jaw, and soft, dark blue eyes ‒ Sherlock took these in with rapidly-growing eagerness. When he caught sight of Sherlock, the man’s handsome face broke into an easy smile that showed perfect teeth and brought charming crinkles to the corners of his eyes.
“Hello,” he said simply and Sherlock swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“Afternoon,” he finally managed. The man reached out his hand and Sherlock took it, relieved that his own grip was steady, before spitting out, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“Hmm?” The man’s eyebrows lowered for a fraction of a second before his expression brightened. “Oh,” he said, gesturing to his Army jacket with his free hand. “Afghanistan. Got a few days’ leave before heading back home to Kandahar.” His next smile was a little tighter than before, and Sherlock tilted his head curiously. Then he realised that their hands were still gripped together in a stagnated shake and he immediately let go. “So you’re… Sherlock Holmes, then?”
It was only then that Sherlock realised that he had not asked for the man’s name. That was probably rude. “Oh, erm, yes. Sherlock Holmes. And you are…?”
“John Watson.”
“Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Sherlock pointed at the insignia on John Watson’s jacket sleeve and he nodded in reply.
“The very same.” His gaze swept around the room before landing on the kitchen table. Moving forward with curiosity, he said casually, “But you can call me ‘John.’ ‘Captain’ might be a little formal for the sitting room, don’t you think?” A faint shiver ran down Sherlock spine at the word ‘captain,’ but he ignored it.
“Well, I’ll leave you two boys to it, then,” Mrs. Hudson chirped and Sherlock nearly jumped ‒ he had completely forgotten she was even there. “John, dear, let me know if you need anything. I’m just downstairs. Ta!” With a little wave over her shoulder, Mrs. Hudson started down the stairs, the uneven cadence of her gait slowly receding.
Sherlock turned back to the kitchen to see that John had circled around the detritus on the table and was carefully lifting a petri dish full of fingernails to examine it more closely. A sudden cold terror gripped Sherlock by the spine ‒ what must this man think? Test tubes and beakers and all manner of materials both biological and chemical were piled over every available kitchen surface. He’s going to run , Sherlock thought, panicked. Who wouldn’t? I must look a complete lunatic ‒
“I suppose this is what you meant by ‘kitchen not currently for use as a kitchen,’” John said with a little chuckle.
“This space is the most conducive for my experiments,” Sherlock offered, rather lamely. But John did not reply. He calmly replaced the dish full of fingernails and continued exploring the room, bending every so often to take a closer look at some aspect or other of Sherlock’s experiments. He stood upright again and shifted his hips, moving in that way that any man would recognise as “adjusting”, and Sherlock swallowed. Good God, can he really be that big‒
“So what’s with the fingernails?” John’s open, innocent expression caused Sherlock to instantly flush as he reeled in his traitorous thoughts. He cleared his throat and schooled his expression into calm aloofness.
“I’m testing the corrosive effects of different household cleansers on the human body. The fingernails were the most pertinent factor in the case at hand.”
John snorted a little laugh, but Sherlock missed his own pun. “What case?”
“I’m a detective.”
“A policeman?” It was Sherlock’s turn to scoff.
“Hardly. A consulting detective. The only one in the world ‒ I invented the job,” Sherlock said. John nodded and gave a little hmm , but it held none of the condescension people usually reserved for Sherlock’s “self-important ideas.” Curious . John hardly seemed phased by the presence of dismembered body parts in the kitchen. “You aren’t… bothered by my experiment?”
“I’ve seen worse,” John said, his tone somehow both flippant and grave. “Hell, I’ve seen worse within the week.” He turned slightly and touched a finger to the RAMC patch on his shoulder. Sherlock nodded solemnly, unsure of what else to say. Thankfully, John spared him any awkwardness. He clapped his hands together, dismissing any discomfort in the room, and said jovially, “Well, I’ll just go and put my things upstairs, shall I?” With that, he marched toward the front door and heaved his large rucksack over his shoulder with impressive ease.
“I’ll just, erm… be here, then,” Sherlock murmured, watching as John’s lower half disappeared up the stairs.