"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock smirked and held out his hand. He knew who the man was and knew exactly why he was here. "And you're my new flatmate." They shook hands.

"I-" the man began speaking, but, seeing that he was a bit flustered with his words, Mike Stamford piped up for him.

"He's John Watson," he said. Sherlock nodded, putting his dropper down on the table and leaving it there, coming forward to inspect this new person, and he was able to read him like an open book. Wondering whether or not he should tell him what he had found, Sherlock calculated John a bit more, making a decision before much time had passed at all.

"You're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. If I'm correct, 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 your limp's psychosomatic - quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock liked showing off. Usually, it made people mad or scared them off, but he knew that this one, this man in front of him, was different. He was something new, not just the everyday, generic brick in the wall. This one was an interesting case. And Sherlock loved interesting cases.

And this man was different in a way that Sherlock wasn't quite familiar with. The way he held himself, the way his eyes looked, as if he had been hurt one too many times, was something Sherlock felt he could deeply identify with. But that wasn't all, either, because it wasn't just feeling like he could empathise with him that made Sherlock interested. There was something else about him, something raw and real, that made Sherlock feel like he was resting his feet on foreign grounds. Whatever it was that he was feeling, he definitely hadn't felt it before.

"How," the man paused, seeming neutral but coming across as suspicious and possibly scared. "How did you know that? Did Mike tell you?"

Sherlock smirked, grabbing his coat from by the wall and slipping it over his arms. He didn't provide an answer, so John looked to Mike, who shook his head and replied simply with, "He's like that."

"Look," John said, stopping Sherlock, who was already in the doorway and waiting to leave. "I don't know anything about you. I don't even know your name, and now you're asking me to consider a flat share?"

Sherlock looked him up and down, scanning him. He was a logical one, stoic and introspective. He had a brain, and he used it. This was convenient. Perhaps he could help him with a case.

Ignoring the rhetorical question from John, Sherlock stopped in the doorway, leaning in and staring the new acquaintance dead in the eye. "The name's Sherlock Holmes," he said, "And the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." He winked then, closing the door behind him and walking down the long corridor of Bart's.

♡

And what an exciting case partner John Watson turned out to be.

"Dinner?" Sherlock had earlier asked, smirking a bit as John smiled back up at him. Even though he did more healing than he had fighting, John had exceptional aim, and a powerful gun, and overall was a very exceptional partner. So Sherlock, in the same manner that he'd accept a case for a favour of varying sizes, decided to keep him.

"Starving," John replied, wearing an almost stupid smile as he had replied.

Now, they were back in their flat, Sherlock scrolling through the recent news reports on his phone and John starting up the kettle.

"John," Sherlock called out from the living room. "I have a new case."

"Already?" John replied, watching the steam escape from the kettle into the atmosphere.

"Well, it's more of an experiment. It's from the New York Times." Sherlock continued scrolling through his phone. "Perhaps we could be the subjects; it seems interesting enough."

"The bloody New York Times asked you to do an experiment for them?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not, John; they're American. Would you expect them to know who I am?"

John shrugged. "Seems a lot of people know who you are."

"Oh, come on. The only people in this country that Americans stay up-to-date on are the royal family. Do use your head," Sherlock remarked, scrolling through the article on his screen. "I'm choosing it because it popped up as spam in my email, it's utter nonsense and I'd love to prove an enormous news source to be incorrect. Obviously."

John walked over to their coffee table and set down two cups of steaming hot tea. Grabbing a newspaper and crossing the room, he decided to inquire more about it. "So... what is the experiment, Sherlock?"

"Hmm... trivial, really, but fascinating nonetheless...." Sherlock mumbled to himself as he scrolled further down the screen. "Hm."

"Sherlock?" John sat down in his seat and picked up his cup of chamomile, taking a sip of it. "What's the study called?"

"Brilliant," Sherlock mumbled, ignoring John and scrolling rapidly. "Stupid, but... brilliant."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, what is it?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone to John's irritated face, watching him crumple his eyebrows and then observing as they unfurled.

"Thirty-six questions to fall in love," Sherlock quoted nonchalantly. John immediately spat his tea everywhere, spilling some on his lap.

"Oh... Christ, what a mess." John got up to grab a rag. "What was the study?"

Sherlock smiled a little behind his phone and watched John vigorously wipe down his seat. "They claim that if two people ask these thirty-six questions to each other while sustaining eye contact, their attraction for one another will be significantly accelerated."

John itched the back of his neck. "And you want us to be the subjects?" John chuckled. "You want us to-"

"You don't really believe it, John? Do you?" Sherlock challenged. "It's complete nonsense, but I don't have a case and it could be interesting."

John relaxed his shoulders and smiled. "Right. Of course." John sat back down on his damp chair and sunk down into it. "Alright, then, what's the first question?

"There are three sets, each one more personal than the last," Sherlock informed him. And John could have sworn he saw a grin flash across Sherlock's face. "Alright, we'll begin with set one: Given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as a dinner guest?"

"And I have to... stare at you while I tell you this?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock validated. "Sustained eye contact is one of the variables in the study. For the most accurate results, we will have to maintain flawless eye contact for every question."

"Well then, I don't... I don't really have anyone," John uttered. "I suppose someone who is famous, like perhaps the Queen."

Sherlock nodded. "And I would choose..." He paused, furrowing his brow as he stared, unblinking, into John's eyes for a long time until he said, "Wait, why would we have the Queen over for dinner? We can't even cook-"

"Just answer the question."

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, sod it. I don't know."

John sort of scoffed. "Really? You don't know anyone you'd want to have as a dinner guest?" As Sherlock shrugged and shook his head, John rolled his eyes. "I told you mine," he said. "You can't just say you don't know. Think of someone. Anyone."

Sherlock wove his fingers together in thought. "Well, process of elimination. My entire family is out of the question, so that leaves roughly seven billion more people to decide on-"

"Sherlock."

"Alright, fine," Sherlock said. "I think I'd have Madonna over."

John chuckled. "Madonna? Why?"

Sherlock looked blank, pursing his lips and trying to come up with an answer. John blinked slowly at him in waiting, but, after a few more moments of silence, replied, "You don't know who she is, do you?"

"I got her name from the papers," Sherlock admitted. John let out a breath of exasperation, and Sherlock was quick to change his answer. "Actually," he said, "You'd be a good dinner guest."

"Oh, really?" John asked. "I'd be a good dinner guest?"

Sherlock nodded.

"And why is that?"

"Well..." Truth be told, John was the only person he had spoken to in the last decade - other than Mrs. Hudson and his parents, of course - that was nice to him. And that was a pleasant feeling. He felt like he was finally making a friend. He wasn't sure he'd ever had one of those before.

But he couldn't say that. Too emotional. He needed to say something that made sense.

"Convenience," he decided on. "You wouldn't take long to get here, since you're already here in the first place. And you don't care about the head in the fridge."

"Well, actually, about that-"

"Nest question," Sherlock interjected quickly. "Would you like to be famous? In what way?"

John, slightly irritated but still rolling with it, answered quickly. "I wouldn't mind it. I suppose my best shot would be my blog, but I'm not going to try to make people discover me."

"Fame is stupid. I don't need validation from idiots," Sherlock responded, moving on to the next question. "Before making a telephone call, do you ever rehearse what you're going to say?"

"Yes," John answered, finding it difficult to sustain eye contact for so long. "I thought everyone did."

"I don't," Sherlock blurted out, feeling as if he and John were having a staring contest and then immediately clearing the childish thought from his mind.

"Do you ever really phone anyone though?" John asks.

"More often than you might think."

"So, what, more than once a year?"

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. "Shut up."

"Well, anyway," John said, "How do you know what you're going to say?"

"I just say whatever I phoned them for. Obviously."

They were silent then, Sherlock raising his eyebrows as if he were waiting for John to acknowledge that he was right, John looking at him with an annoyed air about him and releasing a sarcastic laugh that was more of a loud exhale than it was a chuckle.

"Well, don't expect anything different," John replied after a while. "I'm not as clever as you are."

"And how would you know?" Sherlock asked, and John shrugged, unsure of what to say.