Chapter Text
Looking for a flatmate at 29 is almost as bad as looking for a flatmate at 28. Which, in itself, was almost as bad as the flatmate search in the 27th year of Sherlock’s life.
People are just so fickle.
If it’s not the 20 half-drunk cups of tea only very occasionally misplaced around the house, it’s his violin, which he’s sure he only played once at 2am…and it definitely wasn’t for 3 hours straight. Probably. And if it’s not that, it’s Sherlock’s sparkling personality, apparently. Sajida, the only flatmate who had exited Sherlock’s company in a semi-polite manner, had at least laid out his apparent failings clearly. In writing. Rather than shouting them in his face.
Frankly, it’s all a bit inconsiderate. They could have told him earlier if something Sherlock was doing really bothered them. Honestly.
So, onto flatmate number 7…or was it 8? Some are so forgettable that Sherlock hasn’t bothered keeping track. There are other, much more important pieces of information to store away.
He flicks through the pictures of the flat again as he winds his way down Baker Street. It’s oddly cheap for a location so central, and seems in good enough nick that the landlady - a Mrs Martha Hudson - could ask for quite a bit more.
Currently tenanted by one person: a Dr John Watson. The man Sherlock is due to interview with…ah, 5 minutes ago.
Sherlock ups his pace to a brisker walk.
He wonders if the title is medical or academic. Not that this Watson character will keep up with him either way, but it would be helpful to have someone to clean Sherlock up after another night sneaking into places he doesn’t belong.
The last picture catches Sherlock’s eye. Hmm. This flat is actually very nice. He hadn’t really looked before he applied. Just saw the price, location and immediately clicked through.
Sherlock has learned that flatmate interviews are really a numbers game. The stumbling block usually his refusal to hide his personality. This is both through some sense of obligation - people should really know what their getting into - and the fact he’s not necessarily a good enough actor to hide the idiosyncrasies that have caused his former flatmates to flee from his presence on such a regular basis. Ergo, the greater the number of interviews, the greater the chance Sherlock might find someone willing to put up with him.
It’s a nice flat though. If Sherlock were inclined to cross his fingers, he would do so now.
He doesn’t, obviously.
Right, here we go. 221b Baker Street.
Sherlock presses the buzzer, and a garbled welcome comes through the intercom before the front door clicks open.
—-
John Watson is gawping at Sherlock.
Having reached the entrance to 221b, Sherlock had knocked in a manner he considered his most polite, and therefore least frequently used, greeting. After a beat, and the noise of someone clearly tripping over their own feet, the door had swung open, revealing a panting compact blonde man resting against the frame.
John Watson is pretty.
Sherlock has to shake the unwanted thought from his head. He does get these, sometimes. But a good case, or a stint on his violin, tends to brush the errant thoughts away. This one is a little…stickier. Its adhesive properties only grow as Sherlock takes in the plain admiration radiating out of John Watson’s face.
Without breaking the frankly intense eye contact, Sherlock quickly deduces that this man is in his early-to-mid 30s, he’s a medical doctor, though he appears to be able to work from home. And he’s possibly bisexual. Or pansexual. Some sort of multi-faceted sexuality that might include the ex-wife John is still clearly fond of, and most certainly includes men. Men like Sherlock.
“Um…” John coughs, his cheeks colouring as his eyes do a final sweep over Sherlock’s whole body. It leaves a tingly feeling in Sherlock’s toes.
“Sorry…um. Sherlock Holmes?”
“Dr Watson.” Sherlock retorts, still resolutely holding eye contact, though he fights an odd urge to avert his eyes downwards.
“John.” John blinks deliberately, scrunching his quite lovely eyes before they pierce right back at Sherlock. “You can call me John.”
John sticks out his hand, but just as Sherlock is reaching for it, a loud buzzing sounds from inside the flat. John’s hand is whipped away as he turns toward it, and he’s hurrying inside, beckoning Sherlock as he fumbles over his phone.
Sherlock slowly lowers his outstretched hand. He feels oddly cheated.
The flat is as nice as the pictures had presented it, though there are a couple more papers littered about in neat stacks. Nothing looks particularly lived in, and there are moving boxes stacked orderly in one corner. A couple are open, mid unpacking.
“…no, you did the right thing. She can’t- No, that’s not- I know divorce is hard, but a lawyer could probably handle-”
Hmm. John is someone that people call in a crisis. That’s interesting.
Sherlock wanders about the flat as John continues exasperatedly down his phone.
“Harry, you’re 31. It’s probably a bit premature to decide you’re going to be alone forever.”
Sherlock eyes a couple of framed pictures of John among other faces, before twiddling round to survey the barely-used furniture. He peers into a half-opened box.
Hmm.
John is muttering more quietly, glancing over at Sherlock worriedly every few seconds. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he hunches over.
“Harry, I’m really sorry, but I do have to go now. I’ll call you back later. No, I will, I promise….love you too.”
John Watson straightens up, visibly grimacing as he winds back round the furniture to Sherlock.
“How’s your sister?” Sherlock enquires. It’s the polite question, he guesses.
John opens and closes his mouth. He stares at his phone, before looking back to Sherlock again.
“How did you…?”
Sherlock would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this bit.
“Basic deduction.” He shrugs.
John looks baffled. He’s still glancing between his phone and Sherlock.
“How?”
“You really want to know?”
He’s learned it’s polite to check first, though.
John gestures at Sherlock to go on.
“Well, they called you in a crisis. So it was clearly a close friend or family member. You move around a lot, work too hard to make many friends, though that’s changed recently. So family is more likely.”
Sherlock takes a breath, grinning at the barely-concealed shock plastered across John’s face.
“Judging by these pictures…”
Sherlock gestures at a framed series of photo booth pictures. A younger John is wrapped around a woman in a wedding dress. They’re wearing bunny ears and large inflatable trombone, respectively. “…you’re close with your sister. That’s not your ex-wife, note the mismatched wedding bands. No, you were the best man at your sister’s wedding.”
John splutters, but gestures for Sherlock to continue.
“Clearly, you’re still close with your ex-wife, given the amount of furniture she’s picked out for you here. This is decidedly not to your taste.”
Sherlock leans on a sleek coffee table that is far too stylish for the adorably (what?) practical doctor currently gawping at him.
He doesn’t mention the ex-wife’s picture is still half-tucked into one of the boxes at the back of the room. Or her coat neatly folded to return at the front door. Those were hardly necessary for this deduction.
“And your sister - Harry - has written you a heartfelt birthday card, which was important enough to take out in your new flat, despite your birthday being, what, four months ago?”
John is still gaping as Sherlock barrels on.
“So you worry about her. You’re her support system, and you like having reminders that she loves you around. Even more so with her impeding divorce from…Clara.” Sherlock eyes a box separated from the rest. ‘Clara’ is printed in block capitals on the top. It’s taped closed in a manner far too haphazard for John himself to have closed it.
“Ergo, your sister.”
Sherlock quite likes how John continues to gape at him. He has very pretty lips, pink and parted in shock. And Sherlock really needs to get control of these unwanted thoughts.
“That was amazing.”
Sherlock barely conceals the grin spreading across his face.
“You think so?”
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.”
His grin is not even slightly concealed now. And John Watson’s cheeks are colouring further.
“That’s not usually what people say.”
“What do people usually say?”
“Piss off.”
And John Watson is laughing. He’s thrown his head back and Sherlock can see the crinkles at the sides of his eyes. The joy on his face as his head tilts back down to Sherlock, their eyes locking again.
“So…I take it I can stay?”
“Um.” Johns face pulls in confusion, like he’d forgotten what they were doing here. “Oh, right. You don’t want to look round any more?”
Sherlock glances around.
“It has a roof. You seem…perfectly adequate.”
“Mmm. That’s all I’ve been striving for my whole life.” John retorts.
“My room’s upstairs?” Sherlock continues.
As long as they’re not sharing a room…though his brain provides some quite imaginative solutions if there were only one bed. What is going on with his head today?
“Yup. Next to mine, shared bathroom down the hall.”
Not needed then. Shame.
“I play the violin.” Sherlock states.
“That’s…nice?”
“Sometimes into the night. I’m told.”
“Ok.” John seems entirely nonplussed. Sherlock can’t say he didn’t warn him now.
“When can I move in?”