That Ship Has Sailed

John & Sherlock II

The door opens and Sherlock barely pays attention to the people who walk in. Many come and go while he's experimenting. The only reason he looked up was because he was expecting his coffee from Molly, the kind, chatty girl who worked in the morgue.

The men chat idly as Sherlock works and he doesn't look up until he sees the door open again, this time, it being Molly with his coffee. He walks past the men to retrieve his coffee and takes a gulp.

"You doing well, Sherlock?" one man asks.

"Fine."

"Good. Found yourself a flat yet? Heard you were looking for one."

"No. I've found one. Baker Street. Apparently I helped a woman last year and she wants to repay me with renting me a flat."

"Great news, how's the rent?"

"Fine."

Sherlock stared into his microscope for a moment, then hears the other man clear his throat. He looks up, clearly distracted, "Can I help you?" he asks.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson. He's looking for a flatmate. Thought since you just got back in town, you might be looking as well."

Sherlock gave the man a once-over, deducing all he could about him with the glance, then returned his gaze back to his microscope. A pause followed, then Sherlock asked, "Do you mine violin music?"

"Pardon?"

"I play violin a lot when I'm thinking. I also go for days without talking. Potential flat mates should know the worse about each other. You, I assume are interested, otherwise you wouldn't have so rudely interrupted me by clearing your throat. Am I wrong?"

The man pursed his lips and leaned further on his cane, "No," he said, looking back up at Sherlock, "You're right. I'm interested. I don't mind the violin if it's played well, either. You should know that I don't smoke, but I enjoy the occasional drink."

"Pity. I do smoke. Does that turn you off the flat?"

"Not at all. What's the address?"

Sherlock eyed the man, then looked back at the microscope, falling silent for several, long seconds. He then stood up and hit the table, hard, spilling his coffee. John stared as Sherlock turned around, his hands pressing against his lips as Molly scurried to clean the coffee spill. Sherlock then turned and walked toward the door.

"Hold on, you haven't told me the address--or your name."

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."

"Great. I'll meet you tomorrow?"

"I'm going tonight. Do what you wish, I'm not picky."

With that, Sherlock closed the door behind him and pulled his collar up, walking quickly toward the door. A strange noise made him slow and as it continued, he turned, looking back. He hadn't heard a sound like it before, but when he looked back, seeing the man with the cane walking toward him, he waited.

*clunk - step*

*clunk - step*

"Does it always make that noise?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Does what always make that noise?"

"The cane, which you clearly do not need. It impairs your walking and your limp is psychosomatic. You don't need to walk that way."

"Tell that to my bullet wound," John said sarcastically, walking past Sherlock toward the door. Sherlock stared a moment, "Coming?" John asked, holding the door open for him.

Sherlock walked forward and out the door, adjusting his scarf around his neck as he exited. Together, the two walked down the street and Sherlock listened to the clunking of the wooden cane against the pavement, quieter once in the streets, but still audible. He wanted to ask about he bullet wound, but kept his mouth shut, knowing that if he scared away this willing participant, he might not find another willing flatmate for a while, if ever, so he didn't want to put him off.

They walked down a few streets until they found an empty cabbie, then, entering it, they rode in silence to the address Mycroft had given Sherlock before. When he saw the woman come out of the building, he recognized her at once, greeting her with a half-hug and a kiss to the cheek.

"Oh, Sherlock, you're back. I'm so glad to see you. Who's this?"

"Potential flat mate," Sherlock replied, "Which way to the flat?"

"Just up those stairs. I'm Mrs. Hudson," the woman introduced herself to John.

John held out his hand to shake hers, "John Watson. Not a potential flatmate, I'm staying."

Sherlock walked up the stairs, pausing at the top and peering into the room. He only had to see the chairs in the corner to know he wanted to stay there. He turned around and looked down the stairs toward Mrs. Hudson, "We'll take it," he said.

"Wonderful!" the old woman smiled, "I'll just go make some tea to celebrate. How do you take it?"

John looked at Sherlock, then down at Mrs. Hudson, "Black, two sugars."

Sherlock glanced at John before entering the flat, looking around more. John entered and walked over to the arm chair, hitting it with his cane. Dust came pouring out of it and he coughed, "Bit dusty, but it'll do."

"Only one bedroom. That a problem?"

"Not at all. Is it a problem for you?"

"Not at all."

John and Sherlock stared for a moment, then they broke eye contact and Sherlock entered the kitchen while John sat in the red chair, rubbing his leg and wincing slightly. Sherlock stared from the kitchen, but didn't pry, instead, he opened and closed the cupboards for no reason at all other than to fill the silence that began ringing in his ears.