A study in friendship-Johnlock

An unexpected flatmate

John awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright. He stared around the room, taking in the drab grey walls, the simple, wooden desk and hard, straight backed chair, his few items of personal furniture, and the closed door, on which his regulation dressing gown hung. He continued to stare for a few moments, then settled back down on his bed. Another dull, boring day. He glanced up at the wall calendar he had been sent by some old friend he didn't even know the name of, but apparently knew his family well. January, 28th. Monday. 11 am- therapist visit. He sighed, and rolled over, checking his watch. 8:38. He sat up again, swung his legs out of bed, and walked slowly and unsteadily across the thin carpet to his chest of drawers. He leant down, agonisingly slowly, and picked up his pair of red tartan slippers, one of the few luxuries he could afford. He limped over to the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down. After pulling the slippers onto his feet, he opened a drawer in his desk, and pulled out a laptop. It was simple, nothing fancy, a make from about 3 years ago, but it worked. He opened it up, entered the password, and opened up his mailbox. Empty. Again. He closed the tab, and opened another. 'Personal blog of John H Watson' read the title. He signed in, entered the date and time, and paused to think. After deliberating for a full minute, he signed off, closed the tab, and logged out.
After checking the time again, he stood up slowly, took a crutch from where it was propped against the desk, and hobbled over to the chest of drawers. He found a checked shirt, woolen jumper, and jeans, which he put on slowly, and then pulled on a pair of knitted grey socks. He despised the colour grey. All the army apartments were grey. Grey walls, grey furniture, grey clothes- it was as if they tried to depress them. He sighed again, then limped out of his room, and down the corridor to breakfast. Not wanting to have to face sitting with the other invalids, (oh, how he hated that word,) he grabbed an apple and a cup of tea, and went back to his room. He sat on the bed, with his back to the wall, and shut his eyes. If he concentrated really, really hard, he could imagine he was sitting in his army barracks with his comrades in arms, laughing and talking about nothing in particular, and he could hear the sound of... No. Bethan had told him not to do that. Not to try remember. She should know best, right? A trained therapist, experienced with dealing with all sorts of things. Depression, trauma, PTSD... The lot. He opened his eyes, and took a swig of the tea. He pulled a face, and set the cup down on the bedside cabinet. He shuffled off the bed, picked up his stick, and left the room.
****
'John! John Watson!'
He turned in surprise. A middle aged man was jogging towards him, across the busy road. He smiled in confusion.
'I'm sorry, who-'
'Mike. Mike Stamford. Yeah. I know, I got fat.'
'Oh! Yes, hello, hello, good to see you.' He replied, not sure what to say.
'I heard you were in Afghanistan getting shot at! What happened?'
He grimaced. 'I got shot.'
Mike looked alarmed.
'No, no, nothing seriously wrong with me. Just invalided home. Not allowed back. Honourable discharge.'
A look of relief crossed Mike's face. 'Oh thank God, you had me scared there! Coffee?'
They walked down the street together, sipping coffee, with Mike reminiscing about their past, when they were students together at St Bartholomew's Hospital.
'I teach there now, I'm a professor. Bright, young things like we used to be- God, I hate them.'
John chuckled a little. This was more like the Mike he knew.
'So, where are you now?'
'Well, I can't afford London on an army pension-'
'But you couldn't stand to be anywhere else.'
'Well, yes.'
'Why not try get a flat share, or something?'
John actually snorted. Him, with a flat mate? Absurd idea. No-one would want to share with him!
'Oh come on. Who'd want to share a flat with me?'
Mike smiled broadly.
'What?' John felt like he was missing something here.
'Well, it just so happens you're not the first person to say that to me today.'
'Who was the first?'
Mike paused, thinking.
'Easier for me to introduce you, I think.' He stood up.
'Woah woah woah. I have an... Appointment. I can't just go off and meet some random guy now! How about... Two o'clock?' John got to his feet reluctantly.
'Sure. Two o'clock. Outside Bart's?'
****
All through John's therapy session, his mind kept wandering. He tried to imagine Mike's other friend-what would he be like? He assumed they were male-Mike hadn't said anything about a gender though. He couldn't imagine Mike with many female friends though-no, that was harsh. He was married, wasn't he? He wasn't sure. He knew so little about his friends now, it was sad.
'How's your blog going?'
John looked up from his thoughts, startled.
'Hm? Oh. Fine. Fine, yeah. Good, in fact. Very good.'
'You haven't written a single word, have you?' The therapist looked more amused, than anything else.
'No.' He saw her scribble a sentence.
'Hey! You just wrote "still has trust issues." I do NOT have trust issues.'
'And yet you read my writing upside down. See what I mean?'
He sighed, and went back to thinking about his potential flatmate.
****
When two o'clock came, John was already standing outside Bart's, trying his best to look casual. He'd changed his shirt, and even combed his hair-a little, anyway. When Mike pulled up in a taxi, John greeted him and they went into the building. As they continued deeper into the familiar maze of corridors, butterflies built up in John's stomach. What would he be like? Would he want him? Who were they?
'Hey! Claire! Seen Holmes around?'
A middle aged woman looked up from a stack of paperwork. 'Lab 16, I think. Corridor... Three?'
Mike nodded his thanks, and headed towards a staircase.
'You need the lift?'
John was jerked out of his reverie yet again. 'Oh.' He looked embarrassed. 'Um... Yeah. If you don't mind.' He said, silently cursing his leg yet again.
They stepped into the lift, and Mike stabbed the 3rd button. 'Going up' said the tinny voice.
When they stepped out, John felt sick. He was nervous, and the sharp smell of disinfectant wasn't helping. He took a deep, calming breath, as they stepped through the door of lab 16.
'Bit different from my day' he muttered, as they entered his old lab, the lab he studied in for 5 years as a medical student. However when he saw the other occupant of the room he fell silent. A young man of mid twenties, with dark, curly hair, a purple shirt, and a long, dark coat was sitting at a microscope, examining something closely. He looked up, and John looked back. The man seemed fairly friendly, at a glance, albeit with unusual dress sense, and he had a well defined face, with piercing, blue-green eyes.
'Mike, can I borrow your phone?'
His voice was deeper than John expected. He stood up, and was a lot taller than he looked sitting down.
'No, sorry-other coat.' Mike looked apologetic. 'Ever heard of the landline?'
'I prefer to text.'
Josh finally managed to get out some words around the tight knot if shyness in his chest: people thought he was brace and courageous- which he was- but he still got nervous around new people. Well, some new people. This man had a vaguely threatening air to him when standing, which wasn't obvious when sitting down.
'Here, use mine.' He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and handed it to the man.
'Oh, thank you.' The man looked surprised, but took the phone and started to compose a message.
'This is an old friend of mine- John Watson.' Mike said.
'Afghanistan or Iraq?' He said, without looking up.
'I'm sorry, what?' John was confused.
'I said, Afghanistan, or Iraq?'
'Um, Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you-'
'How do you feel about the violin?'
'I'm sorry?' John was really confused now.
'I said, how do you feel about the violin?' The stranger seemed a little irritated. 'Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other. I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes don't talk for days on end... Would that bother you?' He snapped the phone shut and handed it back.
'Sorry, who said anything about flatmates? You told him about me?' He turned to Mike.
'Not a word.'
'So how did you-'
'I told Mike here this morning that I must be a difficult persona to find a flatmate for. Suddenly he turns up with an old friend, clearly with medical training and just back from army service. It's not much of a deduction to put two and two together. I've got my eye on a nice little place down in Central London-together we should be able to afford it. Sorry, must dash- I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.'
'So that's it, is it?' Asked John, a little annoyed. 'We've just met, and we're going to look at a flat?'
'Problem?'
'Well, I know nothing about you. Nothing. I don't know the address, I don't even know your name!'
'I know that you're an army doctor, just back from service in Afghanistan, and you've been wounded. You've got a limp, which your therapist thinks I psychosomatic-quite rightly I'm afraid. I know you've got a brother, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him-possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he just walked out on his wife. I think that's enough to be going on with, don't you think?' He tied his scarf around his neck. 'Oh and by the way-the name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B, Baker Street.'
He winked, and left the room.
****
Heya guys! Yeah, sorry that most of that chapter was just me writing out the script (which, by the way, I didn't have to look up once. Are you proud of me ? Me neither.) I promise next time I'll be a bit more original! Also, I would be really grateful for any comments, votes and follows- I had an account here before where I posted some Divergent stuff (I'm not into it anymore btw) but I made a new one for Sherlock stuff and I can't remember the old password. Oops. Well done Bekah.

Thanks for reading! I'll write another chapter tomorrow. With platonic fluff. You're welcome.