Promises Series

Broken Promises - Chapter One

A/N: So, here begins the prequel to Promise of Home. It's called, obviously, Broken Promises.

Five Years, Three Months, and Two Days Before the Meeting of Sherlock and Julia Holmes

"Sherlock, how's the flat search going?"

The detective sighed and raised his eyes heavenward. Mike Stamford, an acquaintance of his, stood by his own microscope, peering into it carefully. The good-natured man jotted down a few words in a small notebook and glanced up at Sherlock.

"About as well as you'd expect it to go," Sherlock finally replied.

"Not well, then," laughed Mike.

"Not particularly."

"A flat in London costs quite a bit these days, no?"

"The only way I'd be able to afford it is with a flatshare," admitted Sherlock.

"Do you-"

"I find it hard to believe I could find another human being tolerable enough to live with them for any extended period of time."

"Well, you'd be surprised."

"Me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Surprised? Hah. Besides, who'd want me for a flatmate?"

"I'm sure someone will come around," Mike replied.

Sherlock hummed, hoping Mike would get the hint and stop talking. He was saved by Molly, who walked into the room with a clipboard in her hand.

"I'm all ready for you, Sherlock. Er, the body, that is. It's ready."

"Good. Mike, I'm afraid I have matters to attend to."

"I'll see you later."

Sherlock followed Molly out of the lab without another word. Once in the morgue, he unzipped the body bag, excitement running rampant through his head.

"Let's start with the riding crop."

He looked up, feeling irritated at the blush creeping up Molly's face. Really, the girl's insipid crush was starting to get on his nerves. It was child's play to manipulate her emotions to benefit himself. It had actually grown so boring and so tedious that he only did it when he absolutely had to do it. Molly was a sort of friend to Sherlock - as much of a friend as the self-proclaimed sociopath could have. He had been hoping for months now that her infatuation with him would ebb, but Sherlock had always had the worst of luck. Not that Sherlock believed in things as silly as luck.

The detective spent nearly twenty minutes going at the body with the riding crop, after which he made his way back to the lab. He was examining a chip of green paint found under the victim's fingernail when the doors opened. Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh before he realized that there were two people, not one.

"Mike," he said, looking up from his work, "can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text," Sherlock replied immediately. He couldn't help but glance at the man Stamford had brought to visit. Army doctor, invalided home, psychosomatic limp. Coming in right after Sherlock mentioned a flatshare? Obviously a potential candidate, Sherlock decided.

"Sorry. It's in my coat."

"Er, here," the man offered. "Use mine."

His voice was... strangely calming. Sherlock swallowed and stood. "Oh. Thank you."