This has been in my head for a while, and my coming OC is kind of based on me as a character. I hope you all enjoy this eventual Johnlock story, and tell me what you think about the case I made up.

Staring at myself in the mirror had become a kind of new horror to me. The flat was empty but for a bed, a dresser, and the mirror. I almost laughed at myself standing there. This was my life now. It struck me as very pathetic.

The man in the mirror had a limp, and a Sig Sauer in the desk drawer, and an alcoholic sister, and was alone, so completely alone, that I would have pitied him had I seen him walking down the street. Former army doctor John Watson. Now reduced to a face in the crowd, a body with no purpose. Day after day, the therapist, the unwritten blog, the flat, all that was left to me.

John Watson. How I wished I was someone else.

"This bloke I know, I have a feeling you'll get along well." I smiled at Mike, but it was a fake smile, not like the ones I used to give out like favors at a party.

"I can set up a meeting if you like," he continued. "He does need a flatmate, you might be the perfect candidate. You might be able to understand him better than the others can."

I was going to ask what he meant, but I knew anything was better than the doldrums I'd been living in lately. "That sounds lovely. I would like to meet him."

Mike smiled genuinely. "You know, most people would think you're crazy, but I know you're not, and that you and him would work well together."

I sighed. "Alright. Text me the time and place." Maybe this would turn things around. Or the guy was a psychopath. There was always that possibility.

The first thing that hit me about the man was his eyes. They were pale blue and unbreakable, or maybe as fragile, as glass. The orbs were framed by dark lashes, something that caught me as odd, considering most men's weren't that distinguishable. As my gaze went up and down, more things popped out at me. His cheekbones were sharp like knives, and his hair curled about his face in almost black tendrils. He concentrated on a slide with utmost attention, as if it contained the key to a puzzle. The man barely glanced at me, but I knew somehow that he could see me perfectly well.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked, eyes not moving from the slide under the microscope.

"I'm sorry?" We had just met, he couldn't possibly know about that, unless Mike had told him something.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He cocked his head at me quizzically, like he was just waiting for my answer, not thinking about whether what he had just repeated made any sense at all.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?" My tone told him I wouldn't take no for an answer.

Then the man, whose name I didn't even know, proceeded to tell me about my life. My limp was psychosomatic, I was an army doctor, my injury was traumatizing, my phone had been given to me by Harry, who had received it from Clara. Harry was an alcoholic, and had left Clara. He hadn't known me for three minutes, and yet, here I was listening to him write my biography. He just stared at me and knew.

"That was amazing." The man looked at me with surprise.

"Really?"

I laughed a little. How was he so blind? "Yes, of course. It was extraordinary."

He huffed to himself. "Well, that's not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off." He adjusted his jacket, putting on gloves and walking to the door. "If you're interested, which undoubtedly you are, the name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." The newly named Sherlock shut the door behind him, but not before winking. He was right, of course. I was interested, more so than I'd been since I had come back to London.

"Damn." I grabbed my cane and followed him.

"The serial suicides, you know those, Sherlock? You could give the Yard a hand, couldn't you?" Mrs. Hudson said, bustling around the flat to get me a cuppa.

"No, the case doesn't interest me enough." He didn't even look away from the window as he spoke.

"Well, I'm happy he's found a flatmate." The kind older lady turned to me. "It takes a lot to make him accept people as quick as he did you. Anyway, about the case, Sherlock."

He smiled out the window. "There aren't just three, there's been a fourth. And this one's different." His face was lit up, and I had a feeling that he attracted others, if he didn't insult them or poke around in bad places first, which eliminated most. "Four serial suicides with a smart killer behind them. I do love serial killers, they're so intelligent until they make a mistake." He took his coat from the landlady and turned up the collar. "Oh, it's finally Christmas!"

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs when he looked back and said, "You could come with me, John. You'll be seeing more bodies, and I know that might make you uncomfortable. But, I could use a doctor's help. Will you?"

I hadn't thought about my answer one bit. "Oh God yes."

"Bright colored clothes indicate perhaps a job in entertainment. Had multiple lovers, and an unhappy marriage as well. Her ring is clean on the inside, but dirty on the inside, so the only time she cleaned it was when she worked it off her finger for her lovers. Message on the floor is not Rache, but Rachel. But who is Rachel? It has to have some significance." Sherlock spoke in a low, fast tone, almost mumbling.

"Rache is German for revenge," a man I heard called Anderson piped up. To say he despised the genius would be a complete understatement.

"Oh my God, Anderson, can you get any denser? The woman scratched this into the floor with her manicured nails; it would have hurt, and people don't do that for a meaningless German word, so it must be Rachel. Who is Rachel?" I noticed the habit he had of not tolerating idiots. I also noticed my rising heartbeat. I hadn't done this in so long. These bodies had stories, and I wanted to tell them.

"You are brilliant," I remarked as we headed out the door.

His face had an almost smirk-like smile on it. "Glad someone thinks so."

"You know, you can ring people on their mobiles, rather than kidnapping them in a fancy car." The man standing before me didn't reply, like he thought it was beneath him. I hated people like him, people that couldn't be bothered to get their hands dirty for anything.

"You should fire your therapist." His tone was disinterested at best.

"Why, may I ask?"

"Hold out your hand." I glared at him, but did as he requested. "She thinks your shaking hands stem from the trauma of the war, but that is obviously not the case."

I looked at my hand. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with it. "You are currently in a dangerous situation, and your pulse is elevated significantly. Yet your hand is perfectly still." He paused. "You aren't haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it."

He flicked his cane out as he began to walk away. "I will be keeping an eye on you, doctor. Your interactions with Sherlock are worth watching."

"How do you know him?"

"Let's just say he considers me to be an enemy, his nemesis, if you will. Anthea will get you back to Baker Street, don't worry." Over his shoulder, he called, "Fire your therapist!"

I angrily stared at the seat in front of me on the way back. He threatened Sherlock in not so many words, and I didn't want that to happen. I didn't understand why, but the idea of someone hurting the genius was unnerving.

My finger left the trigger in what felt like slow motion. I hadn't known Sherlock for more than a few hours, and I was willing to kill for him. Strange, I thought to myself. I wasn't normally loyal so fast. However, once I was loyal, I stayed until the end.

And this could have been the end.

As the cabbie's body slumped to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Sherlock. He'd spotted a face, but I hid so he couldn't see me. He didn't have to know I saved his life, he could have done that himself. I just wanted him to be alive, and that was it. Sherlock Holmes deserved to be alive, in my inferior mind.

The Yard had put caution tape everywhere, but it was easy enough for me to get through. "To make the shot from that distance, it's easy to assume they're trained in combat, as well as they've been battle-hardened, because of the clean shot in a perilous situation. We're possibly looking for an army veteran, or..." Sherlock broke off when he saw me.

"Hello. How are you feeling?" I asked politely.

"Continue, Sherlock," the Detective Inspector prodded.

"Never mind. Don't listen to me. Look, I have a shock blanket. I'm in shock, I'm not thinking clearly."

The DI didn't look convinced, but left us alone. As soon as he was gone, Sherlock complained, "They keep putting this ghastly orange blanket on me. Obviously the color won't help me 'calm down'." He waited until some nurses were out of range before saying, "Nice shot."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I replied smoothly. Sherlock's face had a childish grin on it, and because no one was close enough to be offended, we began to laugh. There should have been nothing funny about the situation. It was a crime scene, I'd just killed a man, Sherlock had nearly died, but none of that mattered. We'd lived. We'd solved a crime. Sherlock had protected me. And so, we laughed.

We got ready to leave not long after that, and after Mycroft let us alone, finally, we could go. Sherlock turned up his coat collar, and I grabbed my cane. His eyes flashed in the darkness. "Why did you protect me?" I wondered aloud.

He smiled. "I have no idea, but you can be certain there was a reason. You are not like other people, John. Perhaps I wanted to preserve my difference."

"And perhaps I wanted to preserve mine." Sherlock's smile widened. "Now, I really would like to get home."

Months passed, and still I remember that day. I fall asleep to violin every night because of that day, and I find experiments in the fridge for that reason as well. Sherlock was different to me, and I was different to him. No matter how angry he made me, no matter how many people he'd insulted one particular day, there were always the moments when he and I understood each other, and I wasn't about to let go of that.

"Sherlock, dear? Oh good, John, you're here as well. There's been a recent string of murders. All the victims are around seventeen or eighteen, and the police can't identify what they were killed with. Lestrade thought you should know." Mrs. Hudson still insisted she was not our housekeeper.

"Is there anything else?" he asked impatiently, his hands pressed together under his chin.

"All of them revolve around one girl, she found all the bodies. The poor thing has no one left now."

"Does anyone have any idea what they were killed with?" I asked.

"None, and each has been killed exactly the same amount of time after the other."

Sherlock sat up. "John, I'm bored. Let's just go for a little while." Before he could get to the door, I was already there, blocking it.

"Before we go, what is Lestrade's first name?" I asked chidingly. He'd been making a habit of forgetting lately.

"Gavin." I frowned at him. "Grey." I shook my head. "My God, John, do you want to do this case or not?"

I didn't move away from the door. Sherlock huffed, annoyed, and put his hands on my shoulders to shift me aside. The instant he touched me, I felt something run through my veins like gasoline, just waiting to be set on fire. I didn't move for fear I would go up in flames. Sherlock noticed, as he did with everything, and gave me a funny look before parading down the stairs.

"Are you coming, doctor?"

I sighed, trying to ignore whatever had just happened. "You know I am."

First chapter, yay! The dialogue wasn't taken from the show, that was basically my best guess. I'm thinking of publishing two chapters each week, because one of my distractions has disappeared. But on the weekends. Maybe. I might.