Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 1. I really appreciate the reviews; they give me a better idea of how well my characterisations are and what people enjoy reading. Please do review!

'You're not part of forensics,' Sherlock observes.

He has a very posh public school accent, and John thinks about the limp more carefully now. The suit is tailored to his body, but his hair is cut short in a desultory fashion. Contradictions.

'No,' John says agreeably. 'I consult with the London Met.'

'I didn't know the police allowed civilian consultants.'

'I'm one of the first. Trial basis, you could say.'

'Did your subject in Chemistry, I see. Interesting that you'd choose such a menial position that barely pays your rent.'

'Well, I like the excitement,' John starts to say, but stops. 'How'd you—'

'You hold the pipet in an upright position, instead of tilting it sideways.'

'Well, yeah. If you tilt it sideways, you get all the shit in the pipet bulb.'

'That's part of the elementary skill set for a chemist. Forensics doesn't generally teach proper form.' Sherlock tilts his head. 'You're not curious about my leg?'

John ejects the pipet tip into a beaker and lays the pipet down on the counter. Clearly he's not going to be able to concentrate. 'I don't like to pry.'

'My convoy was attacked by insurgents in Afghanistan. An IED exploded.'

John nods. 'You were an army doctor, then.'

"Indeed. I should inform you that I frequently have insomnia and play the violin when I cannot sleep.'

'Oh.' John clears his throat. 'I see.'

'Those are things a potential flatmate should know, don't you think?' Sherlock gives a flat, reptilian smile.

'Flatmate?' John says weakly. He's not sure what to make of this strange man, and the confusion must show on his face because Mike Stamford steps forward in a conciliatory fashion.

'I remember what you said, John, about getting a new flat and needing a new flatmate and I thought…'

'Convenient,' Sherlock says. His mobile buzzes and an extreme look of annoyance passes on his face. 'I must go. Ring me when you've got the flat's address.'

'I don't have your number.'

Sherlock holds out his hands in an imperious fashion, and John after a moment's consideration, passes over his mobile. Sherlock turns it over in his hands, reading miles into the scuffmarks on Harry's gift.

'Consulting business doesn't pay much,' Sherlock observes, thumbs moving over the keyboard.

'Clients pay a nominal fee,' John says defensively.

'And you're not in it for the money anyway, so what does it matter to you if you take your older brother's hand me downs.'

John let out a little laugh. 'How do you know all of this?'

'I pay attention.' He hands back John's mobile. 'There's some business I must attend to.'

He exits the room, leaving John with a look of profound confusion and Mike smiles sympathetically.

'You should see him diagnose patients.'

Address is 221A. John Watson.

221B. SH

John looks at the response and sighs a little. He's barely known the man a day and already he can tell co-habitation will be difficult. God, the stubbornness…and the arrogance…

And yet.

His remarks had been fascinating, with the kind of thinking John had to work to cultivate. Useful to have in his line of work. Maybe he could use Sherlock's ability to—

Ridiculous. The man was a doctor, for God's sake, not the trained scientist John was. And how could Sherlock be expected to cope with the physical demands of pursuing suspects on an injured leg? Lestrade had already bent rules to allow John into crime scenes. Two civilians—albeit one ex-Army—was a little too much liability.

221B has stairs, John texts back.

Fine. SH.

Then, Do NOT need coddling. SH.

John sighs out loud Maybe he would no longer need to be thoughtful with Sherlock around

We'll meet at 11:00 tomorrow. SH.

John tries to think about his plans for tomorrow. The serial suicides were receiving quite a bit of press attention and he knew Lestrade would want all hands on deck—consultants included. A press conference had been scheduled for 1 PM, and if he met with Sherlock at 11, there would probably be enough time to show some solidarity…

Was not asking. SH.

Well. That was that.

John rubs at his eyes and looks around his tiny flat. Hopefully. 221B would be bigger.

Sherlock's stepping out of a limo when John arrives the next morning. He shuts the door quickly, but not before John catches a glimpse of the woman inside. The car drives away, and John must once again revise his impression of Sherlock Holmes.

'Have your own chauffeur, do you?' John says, a half-hearted joke. He can't fathom why the man would need a to share a flat—let alone one in a rather dodgy part of London for someone with a clearly privileged background.

'Not mine,' Sherlock says, words precise and controlled.

He makes it clear that the subject is not to be brought up again.

John shrugs. Sherlock's entitled to his own secrets.

'Shall we?' Sherlock motions to the door, and John takes his meaning, rapping his knuckles loudly on the black painted wood.

'You must be my new lodgers!' says the woman who opens the door, a smile on her wrinkled face.

'I'm John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes.'

'Doctor Sherlock Holmes,' Sherlock corrects, and John has to fight hard to repress a sigh. He should've known the man was the type to insist upon titles.

'Well, I'm Mrs. Hudson. Come in, come in.'

They step inside, and John looks over the faded wallpaper, noting a curious brown stain in the carpet.

'Goodness, will you be able to climb the stairs all right?' Mrs. Hudson says to Sherlock.

John makes a noise under his breath, which can either be interpreted as a cough or I-told-you-so. The way Sherlock glares at him means his point was clearly taken.

Sherlock allows John to go first because he doesn't want John to see the effort it takes for something so simple. No matter how often he tells himself that it's just in his head, the very real pain reminds him that it's still there. And yet there is no medically valid reason for his limp—no damage to the muscle tissue nor permanent nerve damage. It's galling, and Mycroft's insistent way of interfering in his affairs only makes the injury worse.

He has no susceptibility to trauma; the war had always kept him busy. There was no emotional wrenching to see one of his unit-mates get blown up because Sherlock was always able to detach himself to look at the wound with an eye for fixing it. There was no connecting with a patient on an emotional level—only making bodies whole again.

Physician heal thyself.

Some aphorisms are laughably untrue.