[A/N] Okay idk why I'm starting this. I'm not sure if I'll ever finish the whole thing. The beginning is rather boring, I'm afraid. It's almost identical to the actual show and I plan on changing things up later as I go along. Just stick with me!

Chapter 1

Ms. Sherlock Holmes

"John. You're a soldier. And it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life. And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"Nothing happens to me."

-oOo-

"John! John Watson! Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

The war veteran turned to the other man. "Yes, hello. Hi."

"I heard you were off somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

John Watson looked down briefly. "I got shot."

-oOo-

"I dunno. You could get a flatshare or something.."

"Come on. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike said nothing, just laughed softly.

"What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

"Her name's Sherlock. Nice girl. She's a bit odd, but you'll like her."

"Hold on. You want me to share a flat… with a girl."

Mike shrugged. "It's not as weird as it sounds. She probably won't even notice you're there."

John grabbed his cane and stood up. "Well, let's go see just how weird this Sherlock is. Where is she?"

"St. Bart's, probably."

-oOo-

The hospital hadn't changed a bit on the outside, but when they walked in the laboratory, John was surprised. "Bit different from my day." More technological advances had been made, and everything looked more sterile and clinical. A black-haired woman was sitting at a microscope. She was wearing a cleanly pressed blouse with a skirt, the top two buttons casually undone. She obviously cared little about her hair, as it was merely brushed, her curly locks tumbling down her back. Her lips were a soft pink, and she wore no makeup. Without looking up, she said, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

John rolled his eyes. If Sherlock was always this pretentious, there was no way John would have anything to do with her.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Here, use mine."

Sherlock looked up for the first time and John was taken aback. Her eyes were a startling pale blue. He felt like every part of him was exposed somehow, like she was reading everything he was off of a book. "Oh. Thank you." She stood up and began walking towards him.

Mike cleared his throat. "He's an old friend of mine, John Watson."

Taking the phone from my hand, Sherlock asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" so quietly John could barely hear her.

"Sorry?" Had he said anything about the war? John glanced over at Mike, but he just smiled knowingly.

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked, loudly enough for John to hear every word of Sherlock's rich voice.

"Uh… Afghanistan. I'm sorry How did you – " John cut off as a brunette woman walked in with a cup of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Exchanging the phone for the coffee, Sherlock walked back to his laptop. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John looked back at Molly, but it was clear she wasn't talking to her. "Sorry what?"

"Do you have hearing problems? I play the violin when I'm thinking. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." She snapped her head in John's direction and shot him a smile that was obviously insincere.

John's eyes darted back and forth between the strange woman and Mike. "You told him about me?"

Mike shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then… who said anything about flatmates?"

Sherlock heaved a sigh and shook her head. People were terribly dull sometimes. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

John blinked a couple of times before responding. "And, uh, how exactly did you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock continued to ignore his question and checked her phone. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock." She fixed her scarf and straightened her coat. "Sorry – I've gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

'Riding crop? Mortuary?' "Is that it?"

She faced back toward John again and stood in front of him, with hands in her coat pockets. "Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" Sherlock looked like she genuine didn't see any issues with the proposition.

John smiled disbelievingly and looked at Mike. "We don't know anything about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your full name."

Sherlock paused and stared at him hard with those piercing blue eyes. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you 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 recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks you limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."

John said nothing but shifted his weight between his feet.

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" She pivoted to her right and walked out of the door. A mere second before the door closed, she poked her head back. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." With a wink, she disappeared.

John swallowed nervously and looked at Mike again in panic. He just grinned and said, "Yeah. She's always like that."

-oOo-

221B Baker Street. John stopped and pounded the knocker three times. Behind him, Sherlock got out of a cab. "Ms. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." She reached out a hand and John shook it.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it," Sherlock said, with another odd smile.

John couldn't say anything, however, as the door was opened by an elderly lady who reached for a hug from Sherlock. She gladly obliged. "Mrs, Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Oh, hello."

John smiled and nodded. Mrs. Hudson seemed normal enough compared to his potential new flatmate.

Sherlock bounded up the steps two at a time in an unladylike fashion as John struggled to fit both his legs and the cane through the narrow staircase. She waited in front of a door for him to reach the top.

The living room was small and cozy, yet cluttered with various boxes and lab equipment. Files and folders were strewn about and while there were several chairs and a couch, a grey armchair was the only one clear of junk. A violin perched haphazardly on the arm of the sofa but the bow was nowhere to be seen. Books were crammed into the two bookshelves and any other possible surface, and the kitchen was littered with dirty dishes and suspicious Petri dishes. "Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

Sherlock nodded with approval. "Yes, my thoughts precisely." She appraised the room in a single sweep and seemed pleased by what she saw.

John shrugged and said, "Soon as we get all of this rubbish cleaned out," simultaneously as Sherlock said, "So I went ahead and moved in." The two trailed off in John cleared his throat. "Yes, ahem. So this is all…"

"Well obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit…" Sherlock began to move around and began halfheartedly organizing empty envelopes and folders.

John frowned and pointed at a skull on the mantelpiece. "That's a skull. A human skull. What's it doing on the mantelpiece?"

Sherlock whirled around, glad for a distraction from her horrible attempt at cleaning. "Ah, yes. Friend of mine… Well, I say 'friend'…" She took off her coat and scarf and laid them down on a chair, only making the room seem more disorganized.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room and she too started picking up dirty cups and saucers. "What do you think, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John frowned. "Of course we'll be needing two."

"Well, I suppose it was a small hope that Sherlock had finally found someone." Mrs. Hudson chuckled. John's mouth opened and shut a few times but Sherlock was absorbed in whatever was written in a file, oblivious to the insignificant chattering of him and Mrs. Hudson. "Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you've made."

John cleared away the books that were on the second armchair and plopped himself down. "So, the Science of Deduction?"

Sherlock didn't glance up from her laptop. "I take it you've been doing some research? Good. You're not totally hopeless then. What did you think?"

He rolled his eyes. "You can seriously do all of that? Just look at a person and know every detail about him?"

Sherlock threw him a look that just screamed of arrogance. "Just like how I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your cellphone."

"How?"

She smirked and went back to her laptop.

Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen scanning a newspaper article. "Sherlock, have you seen the news? Three suicides, all exactly the same. I thought it would be right up your street."

Sherlock said nothing, as was her habit, and looked out the window. "Four, Mrs. Hudson. But it's different this time."

Mrs. Hudson looked up from the paper in surprise. "Four?"

John frowned for what felt like the thousandth time that day. "Different? How do you know?"

But Sherlock was already moving. Picking up her coat and scarf in one fluid movement she turned expectantly towards the open door. A middle aged man in a suit burst through the door, breathing hard. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

The man paused for a second to catch his breath. "This one left a note. Can you help?"

"I don't know. Can I?"

"This is no time for games, Sherlock."

"Fine. Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"That idiot. He won't do."

"Well, it's not like he's going to be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

"Just… will you please come?"

Sherlock sighed. "Not in a police car. I'm not a criminal. I'll catch a cab."

"Thank you." And the man was gone.

John's head was buzzing. The short exchange had left more questions than answers. As soon as the man, obviously a police officer left, Sherlock bounced up and down in an uncharacteristic display of happiness. "Brilliant! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear."

"Oh, something cold will do. John, make yourself at home, and DON'T touch anything." She picked up a purse from the messy kitchen table and vanished.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Will you look at her? Always dashing about. My husband used to say I was the same."

John internally grimaced at the insinuation that he and Sherlock were a couple. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn't even know what a couple was.

"I'll make you that cuppa. You sit down and make yourself at home."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"But just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, dear."

"I wouldn't mind some biscuits, either."

"Landlady!"

John read the article about the third suicide. A smaller picture of the man who had come earlier showed the caption "DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation".

"You're a doctor. An army doctor."

Sherlock had returned and was leaning against the doorway. "Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"So you've seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths, blood and gore."

"Enough for a lifetime."

"A bit of trouble too, I suppose."

"Too much."

"Wanna see some more?"

John smirked. "Oh God, yes."

Sherlock spun around in her abrupt way and started down the stairs. Before John followed, he told Mrs. Hudson, "Sorry, I'll have to take a rain check on the tea. I'm off."

"You're leaving too?"

Sherlock grinned. "Four suicides, all with the same exact conditions and one note? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" She kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Look at you, all so happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on! Come on, John!"

-oOo-

"You have some questions?"

"Um, yes. Where exactly are we going?"

"A crime scene. I thought it'd be fairly obvious by now."

"Okay then what do you do? Why did DI Lestrade come to you?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd have to say private detective, but police don't go to private detectives for help, do they?"

"No, I'm a consulting detective. Don't bother looking it up. I'm the only one, seeing as I invented the job."

"And what is a consulting detective?"

"I'm the person the police come to when they can't solve crimes themselves, which happens an embarrassingly large amount of times."

"But you're an amateur."

"Really?" She smirked knowingly. "Yesterday, I asked you 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' You looked surprised."

"Yes, how did you know? Did Mike really not tell you?"

"All I do, John, is some fancy guess work. Your haircut, your posture, it all screams military. But when you entered the lab, you said 'Bit different from my day.' Why would you say that if you hadn't been in here frequently a long time ago? If you had trained at Bart's, you would have to be an Army doctor – that one was quite easy. Your tan lines indicate that you've been abroad in a sunny place, but not intentionally sunbathing. When walking, your limp's really bad but you never ask for a chair, as if you've forgotten about it. So if it's psychosomatic, then that means you were probably wounded in action. If you add the tan to the injury, it's obvious you were at war – Afghanistan or Iraq."

"But how did you know – sorry, guess – about the therapist?"

"Don't be stupid, you've got a psychosomatic limp. Even Scotland Yard could have guessed that. But moving on to your brother. Your phone is expensive, but you're looking for a flatshare – obviously trying to save money. Then why would you pay for this phone? That means that this was a gift, but a hand-me-down. You don't seem like the type of person to be careless about such an expensive phone so this belonged to someone before you. And now, the engraving.

Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx

Harry Watson. Clearly a family member. If you include all of the facts, it most likely belonged to your brother. Too technological for an elderly father and as you're unable to find a home you don't have any close extended relatives. Who's Clara? Three x's, so someone of a romantic attachment to Harry. The expense says wife, not girlfriend. This model is rather new, so it's only been given to him recently. But if he's given it away after only six months, that must mean the marriage has gone through some turbulence. Since he wanted to get rid of it, that must mean he was the one who broke off the relationship, and he gave it to you so you could stay in touch. However, because you're not looking to live with him, that must mean you've got some family issues. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"And how could you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock smirked. She was obviously loving every bit of the attention she was getting. "The charging port has little scuffs and scratches around it. He can't plug it in correctly because, in his inebriated state, his hands are shaking."

John stared awestruck at Sherlock. "That was… amazing."

She frowned and looked puzzled. "You really think so?"

"It was brilliant. Quite extraordinary."

"You know, that's not what people normally say."

"Then what do they say?"

"Piss off!"

The war veteran snorted and the consulting detective hid her grin behind the stern façade she always wore.

"Did I miss anything?"

"Well, Harry and I haven't ever gotten along. Harry and Clara are getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker."

"But…"

"Harry's short for Harriet."

"Harry's your sister. God damn it." Sherlock's whispered mutterings of "Sister!" and various curses continued all the way to the crime scene.

[A/N] Thanks for reading! Leave a review or something! :D