Chapter Text
John Watson had never seen a man so ethereal in his life. The way that Mike's friend- if he could be called that, anyway, since Mike didn't seem very close to him- looked was simply disconcerting. John tried not to stare, tried not to frown, since it simply wasn't polite, but... Where did someone get legs that long? Or skin that pale? It was practically translucent. And his EYES... Christ. Shouldn't the man be off in a magazine add somewhere, or on the telly in some bad daytime soap? In John's experience, this was not the way that real people were. His presence here, in a lab, doing god knew what, was simply ridiculous. Still, he seemed to be rather sanitary, which was a big plus as far as future flatmate went, and John knew the importance of being kind to anyone who was willing to make it possible for him to live with a roof over his head. He cleared his throat, fingers clenching nervously around the handle of his cane. He let Mike introduce him as a friend from St. Barts. “His name's John Watson.”
Sherlock glanced up from where he had been staring in to a microscope, attention fully focused on what he was examining, even though he had heard Mike and someone else from the moment they had entered the hall. He briefly glanced over Mike, taking in any changes from the last time they had met, before turning his attention to the extra – John Watson, was it? The name sounded familiar, but then again, names were all reused eventually. Perhaps he’d met an ancestor of this man’s once? It seemed likely. There was something about the man, not in the face but in the way he held himself and the look in his eyes…Sherlock felt, oddly, as if he had met him already. He was not unattractive, and Sherlock found his eyes lingering slightly. “Ah, Mike, I see you’ve brought me a potential flatmate.” Obvious. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked John. Also obvious.
John frowned, startled, and looked over at Mike. “Did you tell him about me?” He asked, but was quickly cut off. “Didn’t say a word.” Mike answered, a bit of a smug smile on his face. John turned back to the other man. “Afghanistan. How did you guess?” A brief bout of paranoia made him wonder if he was being set up here for something, but he shoved it aside and waiting for this crazy, gorgeous man to explain himself.
Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a half smile. He loved this part, the shock on their faces, the inevitable process in to embarrassment or anger. No one ever said he was a good man, or even a decent one. “I didn’t guess, I saw.” In rapid time he listed all of the things he could very easily see from this man – the wound, the time in the army, the psychosomatic limp and the therapist, even his brothers drinking habit. That last had been obvious from the instant John had pulled out his phone to check the time. Sherlock could very easily see the scratches near the charge port, what with his enhanced vision.
John’s eyes were wide as he listened to Sherlock deduce incredibly private things about himself, all in a quick, impersonal voice, as if it were no big deal. Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself in to? But there was no denying that it was amazing, that he could somehow know all of this just from looking at John. It was remarkable, simply remarkable. “That’s brilliant,” He said honestly, eyes still wide in what was probably awe. He felt the need to inform Sherlock of how amazing it was, even if he already knew that. And judging by that smug little tilt to the other man’s lips, he probably did. “How do you do it?”
Sherlock resisted the urge to blink in surprise. That was odd. No anger, only a hint of embarrassment, no cries of an invasion of privacy. Even Mike seemed startled. But the mask was still in place, nothing of his emotions had crossed his face, and so he simply inclined his head and responded. “Simple observation. Anyone could do it if they weren’t so dull.” He began to recite everything he saw, tying them together to get the whole picture that was John Watson. Well, the outer John Watson. There was clearly another layer to this man. It was odd- he had always gotten excitement from throwing information in everyone’s faces, showing them how stupid they were, but this time it was more like he was giving the information away simply to see John’s eyes light up, as if he had a right to make the man smile. It, just like John’s features, was oddly familiar. Which made the whole thing not the least bit disturbing.
Unlike Sherlock’s, John’s face was completely open now, and easy to read, not because he was piss poor at hiding how he was feeling, but because he had no reason to hide it. There was no reason to keep it from Sherlock, that he was amazing, even if the man probably already knew. John looked at Sherlock in wonder as he explained, and John slowly came to understand that Sherlock wasn’t playing any tricks. Everything he said was true. He really WAS that clever. “Extraordinary.” John commented, eyes lighting up exactly the way Sherlock had hoped they would, grin not abating a bit. He ignored the subtle insult that Sherlock had flung at him, as well as the tiny, inconsequential feeling that Sherlock was somehow invading his privacy. That was usually the feeling that people latched onto first. “Do you do that all the time?” He asked, genuinely interested in Sherlock and his gift.
This time Sherlock could not resist the urge to blink in shock. This was simply astounding. It was not often Sherlock Holmes came by something that shocked him, but this little man was beyond surprising. Sherlock had had centuries to watch humanity and to experiment with it. The logical progression would have been for John to either lapse in to awkward silence or to rage at him for bandying about personal things aloud - and in the presence of someone else, even! Instead, John calls him extraordinary and inquires as to how he does what he does. Sherlock clears his throat before he answers. "Yes. All the time.” The surprise has momentarily made him forget the smell of John's blood, which is in itself a surprise.
John took a subconscious, interested step towards Sherlock. "That's probably a bang-up party trick." He said, more animated than he had been when he'd hobbled in after Mike. "No, no, what am I saying, it's probably dead useful. Well, what do you then? And who ARE you?" John's life had been endlessly dull, ever since he'd been shipped back to England. His leg and shoulder had bothered him mercilessly, usually more an annoyance than anything, and his nightmares made it difficult to sleep. He often got stress headaches even though he spent the majority of his day on the sofa watching telly. And this- He, Mike's friend, the model, the bloody genius- might have just been the first interesting thing to happen to him since then. John wasn't going to let it be wasted. He wanted to know. And he knew, now, that he wanted this man to be his flatmate.
Sherlock took an instinctive step back as John stepped forward and for a moment his ego twinged at John calling his deductions a party trick, but he let it slide as John backtracked. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective - the world's only." He couldn't keep the note of pride out of his voice. Pah, the idea of sin is useless. Pride is a useful thing. And he has never believed in the idea of life after death. His race is proof against that.
Something in John recognized Sherlock's almost defensive stance, and he didn't move any closer. "And what is it exactly that a consulting detective does?" he asked, still very interested and very open. Sherlock Holmes. Now that wasn't a name you heard every day. It wasn't outrageous but it was...Strange. Special, said the completely inexplicable shudder he felt when he heard it. It wasn't quite like deja vu, the name was completely unfamiliar, but it was almost the feeling of returning to one's home after a long vacation. Like returning to London, only far, far more pleasant. He shook it off. Perhaps something in the lab smelled like his mum's cooking, or something.
Sherlock honestly could not understand John's fascination, but he could not deny there was a small part that he had thought he'd long since squashed out that was flattered by it. "I solve crimes. When the police are lost - which is always - they consult me. In fact, that's why I am here...Ah, damn, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He half turned towards the door, years of condescension kicking in before he remembers that John may be his new flatmate and he should at least attempt to treat him marginally better.
John wasn't so far gone that he considered "riding crop in the mortuary" to be normal, and it did stop him for a minute. Well that was... odd. To say the least. For a moment, John wondered if he was getting in too deep. Maybe the man was a psychopath. Well... At least that would be interesting, wouldn't it? John couldn't just let him walk out though, without knowing how to get into contact with him. "Sherlock!" He called after him, following just a bit. "What's the address?"
Sherlock whirled around, the coat flapping dramatically - he knew it did, that was half the reason he bought it. Vanity was another sin he saw no problem with. "221B Baker Street!" And with that he whirled back around and continued on his way, moving with the usual grace of one of his kind. It had ended up a good day after all, even if the case he was working on ended up being dreadfully easy.
John Watson was left staring at him as he left, because really, how could he not? No real person moved like that, was that dramatic, that... stunning. Literally. John found it difficult to move from that spot or stop staring after him, until finally he turned around and said to Mike, "He's... something, isn't he?"