The Wolf, the Bat and the puppy.

221B bakerstreet

~Johns pov~

Memories of the war still flash before my eyes as I sleep. Every morning, I wake up alone in my bed, drenched in sweat from the reccuring battle that continues endlessly every night. My therapist tells me writing a blog will help me adjust to civilain life but I'm not all that sure I want to. War changes men into monsters but, since I was already percived as one before the war, it seems to call me towards it. Most people presume that everyone who dream about their experiences are traumatised by them. I'm fairly certain that I am not. I've been exposed to trauma before and my feelings towards my childhood donr mirror those towards the war at all. I can't wrap my head around myself and until I do I can't find a way to pay rent. After all, the fact you have an unknown traumatic link to the medical profession and could potentially have a breakdownat any moment if you come overwelmed isnt exactly the best thing to put on a CV.

That and the fact my dreams keep making me unwillingly change form in the night.

Just before lunch I decide to take a walk to break in my leg a little. Just a short stroll in Regents park then walk back to my dingy flat and wallow in sadness yet again. About a quarter way through the park, I bump into Mike Stamford. He tells me about a friend of his who is looking for a flat share and we both begin to stroll to barts instead.

Things have definately changed from my last time here.

~sherlock's pov~

I place a slide under my microscope and examine it thoroughly. The blood cells are dried but I can still feel myself starting to get hungry. The door to the laboratory swings open and a voice chuckles.

"Bit different from in my day."
I note that, through Mike has also entered the room, the voice is not my acquaintance but somebody who he knew from training. I shut out the thought and ask Mike for his phone.

"Theres a landline downstairs." He grumbles.
"I prefer to text."

"Here take mine." The voice chimes. I look up to see a handsome men stand before me. He limps towards me with his crutch and hands me his phone, which is covered an scratches and scars. As I text lestrade my brain runs at 50 miles an hour. My mouth opens and before I could retract my words I blurt "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

He looks at me in amazement and I get lost in his beautiful ocean eyes. I can feel my eyes flicker in colour so I turn away to see molly with my coffee. I hope he didnt catch on.

~Johns pov~

I stare in utter bewilderment as the beautiful man infront of my eyes turn and places his coffee cup to his lips.

How the hell did he know that?! Did Mike tell him about me? He must have done, how else would he know?

He returns his head to the eyepeice of the microscope and I catch my eyes lingering on him a fair amount. His skin is pale as snow and his georgious black hair hangs in ringlets atop of his head creating a beautiful contrast. His lips are a beautiful shade of ruby. I lick my own as I wonder weather or not he wears lipstick. Suddely I become aware that he is speaking and snap my head up embarrassingly.

"Potential flat mates should know the worst about eachother."

What?! Where did he pull that idea from?! Mike has definately told him about me. I turn to my friend for reassurance but he gives me the wrong sort.
"Not a word." He smirks.
How the hell does he know this then?!

"I have my eye on a little flat in central london, together we should afford it." The georgious figure says as he scoops up his things. "Sorry must dash I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Holy shit he's hot. Play it cool John, don't let him see.

"So thats it then?" I seem to apear more angry to cover up my amazement."we just met now where looking at a flat together?"

"Problem?"
"Yes. We dont know a thing about eachother. I dont know where were meeting. I dont even know your name."

He glides towards me and I can feel my pulse rise. I swear if I wasnt at risk of being caught by hunters, my tail would be wagging like crazy. I catch a glimpse of his eyes and they seem to swirl with colur and move like liquid. Theyre beautiful.

"I know your an army doctor who's just come home from survace in Afghanistan. I know you have a brother but you wont go to him for help. Maybe you don't like his drnking - more likely you don't aprove that he walked out on his wife and I know your therapist thinks you have a psychosomatic limp, quite rightly I'm afraid. That should be enough to go on don't you think."

This man leaves me starstruck and saunters out the room. My heartbeat racesand my eyes linger of the spot where he just stood. Then suddenly, he pops his head back around the corner and I look astonishingly into his face.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B baker street."
He winks and leaves the room without a trace.

Without a doubt, I love that man.