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It was late August, and the campus was filling with chattering students. As much as he had enjoyed his holiday, John Watson was glad to be back in London and at Bart's. He had grown accustomed to the sounds of life in the capital and the independence he had gained there: his mother had been reluctant to let him move all the way to London, but after he had received his acceptance letter, there was nothing that could have stopped him from leaving.
John took a look at his second year's first timetable, neatly folded between his calender. It seemed like an interesting start: his first lecture was on contagious diseases, their causes, effects and prevention. He still had two years' worth of lectures to sit through before he could start his practical training. John didn't have anything against sitting on lectures or spending countless hours in the library cramming for exams per se; he knew all of it was important for his profession, but he was eager to get to the field, to actually do something to help people.
“John!” Mike Stamford's voice rang out in the hall, and soon the boy himself emerged through a passing crowd of students.
“Hey, Mike. How's it going?” John asked. He had befriended Mike the previous year when they both started at Bart's, and the two of them had become close friends. John wasn't much of a people person, but he genuinely liked Mike, mostly because he shared his interest in medicine and was an irreplaceable study partner.
“Good, just good. How was your summer? Still seeing that Linda you were talking about in the spring?” Mike asked with a wink and a nudge.
“No, we fell through soon after the holiday started. She wasn't really my type. But the summer was fine. Glad to be back, though,” John answered, smiling half-heartedly. Mike looked at him questioningly, but decided against himself and let the subject drop. There was really no hope in trying to keep track on who John was dating. “So, you still sharing a room with that arsonist?” John asked, attempting to avoid an awkward silence and succeeding. Mike started to vent about his room-mate who, surprisingly, was still allowed to continue his studies despite almost burning down one of the cafeterias, and John listened silently as they walked towards the auditorium.
“What about you?” Mike asked as they took their places near the front row, being the proper students they were. “You still get to enjoy your solitude?”
“Not for long, apparently. I got a letter from the administration a few weeks back. I'm going to share with a transfer student from Oxford. Haven't seen him yet so no, I don't know anything else about him as of yet,” John answered, raising his hands in defence as Mike was ready to bombard him with additional questions.
“I hope he's a proper prick,” Mike said instead, earning a chuckle and a punch on the arm.
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When John finally made it back to his dorm, he was greeted by a disaster in the kitchenette/dining room/living room: there was a microscope in the middle of the dining table, petri dishes cluttered around the sink, paper stacks on every possible surface and books on the floor. The culprit to the mess was standing in front of the stove, stirring something that neither looked nor smelled edible. John cleared his throat and the other boy turned around, giving him a small, polite smile as a form of greeting.
“Hello. Seems like you've already made yourself at home,” John said dryly. He had left a neatly organised dorm and returned in the middle of a battle zone: he clearly had some getting used to do. The other boy gave a minute shrug and returned to his cooking.
“I needed to conduct an experiment. Hopefully you don't intend to use this pot any more,” he said, pointing at whatever it was that was cooking in there. “I don't think the chemicals wash off.”
John could do nothing but stare. What on earth was he going on about? What experiment? And what chemicals?
“Could you pass me that bowl?” The other boy's voice drew John back to reality. He was pointing at the counter top behind him, literally three feet away. John stared at the back of his head disbelievingly.
“You do realise you can reach it yourself?” He received an exasperated sigh.
“Just hand it over, please?” John shook his head, mumbling unbelievable, took a few steps, grabbed the bowl and thrust it towards the other boy.
“You know, I don't think I caught your na-- is that a brain?” His room-mate had just fished an organ that reminded unmistakably the human brain out of the pot and lifted it into the bowl, still placed in John's extended hands.
“Sherlock Holmes. And yes, it is, indeed. Clearly your medical studies have paid off,” the boy, Sherlock, said, taking the bowl from John and taking it to his microscope.
“Is that a human brain?” was John's next question. What kind of a madman have I ended up with, John thought to himself. He received another sigh. Apparently one who sighs a lot.
“Of course it is. I need to see how this compound affects the grey matter, and using a pig brain would hardly give the same results. I have a few theories, of course, but I need to be certain,” Sherlock answered, poking the organ with a scalpel and a long syringe.
John was again at loss of words. How was one supposed to react to a person sitting in your dorm cooking and dissecting a human brain? Where had he gotten one, anyway? New questions appeared in John's mind before he could ask one.
“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock broke the silence, glancing at John.
“What?” John asked, perplexed. What has the violin got to do with anything? Sherlock looked at him like he was a five-year-old asking too many questions.
“The violin. I play it when I need to think. And sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you?”
“I... guess not. This mess, though,” John said, pointing at the chaos Sherlock had created. “I'd really prefer to go to the loo in the middle of the night and not trip over a pile of books.” Sherlock's lips curled into a smirk.
“What?” John asked again, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Sherlock stopped slicing the brain and turned around to face John. He studied John for a moment before asking:
“Does the mess bother you because it reminds you of your dysfunctional home?” John's face went visibly pale at this.
“H-how...?” Before John could finish his question, Sherlock opened his mouth and started speaking rapidly, without bothering to stop to take a breath:
“When I arrived here earlier, this place was cleaned almost spotless. There are only the bare necessities; you appreciate order and cleanliness to the point it's borderline obsessive-compulsive. It's most likely because your home is a mess, and any mess reminds you of home. You dislike being reminded of your home; you don't have any family memorabilia lying around the dorm, so you're not overly fond of your family, most likely because of alcoholic and abusive parents. You don't come across as a person to pick up a fight, considering you reacted quite mildly to me cluttering the flat; that means that the bruises on your wrists are not from a fist fight: they were caused by an abusive parent, probably your father, judging by the size and placements of the fingermarks. Domestic violence is often related to alcoholism, that is simply information based on statistics. You keep in touch with your brother out of sense of duty, judging by the post-it on your fridge door saying “Call Harry on the weekend”. So: not overly fond of your family. Did I get anything wrong?” he ended his rant, enunciating the last sentence.
John was rendered speechless. He had met Sherlock not fifteen minutes ago, and the boy had presented him with an almost perfect analysis of his family history. John felt annoyed beyond measure, but he could not help himself from also admiring his ability.
“Brilliant,” he breathed out. Sherlock looked surprised at his reaction.
“Really? You think? Aren't you angry?” Sherlock asked suspiciously.
“Well, yeah, I'm annoyed, sure, maybe a bit violated, but that was... amazing. Truly extraordinary.” Sherlock looked away, smiling shyly at the floor.
“That's not what people usually say when I deduce their life stories with a single glance.”
“Then what do they usually say?” John asked curiously.
“Piss off.” Sherlock raised his eyes to look at John, and they burst out into giggles simultaneously.
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“You know, you got almost everything right earlier,” John said later, when they were sat in the two armchairs drinking tea, “about my family. Just one little detail you got wrong.” Sherlock looked at him, narrowing his eyes.
“What is it? What did I miss?” John took a long sip of his tea before answering, taking great pride in saying:
“Harry's my sister.”
“Oh, a sister! There's always something!” Sherlock exclaimed, looking a little disappointed.
“How do you do it, anyway? Look at a person and their belongings and tell their life story?” John was honestly curious as to how something like that was possible.
“It's a simple matter of observing and deducing. I gather data by looking at the facts and draw conclusions; I measure probabilities; I never guess,” Sherlock answered. “I've spent almost my whole life mastering those skills. I like to consider myself a consultant of sorts to those who need help with mysteries and sorts, to those who are too ignorant to notice these kinds of things themselves,” he said with a hint of smugness in his voice.
“And who exactly consults you, a uni student?” John asked suspiciously, and continued: “How old are you, anyway?” Now that he looked at Sherlock more closely, he looked pretty young to John; younger than John, at least.
“Some private clients who contact me through my website; they're mostly cases of unfaithful spouses and missing property. Scotland Yard, sometimes; especially when there's been a particularly odd murder. There was this triple homicide in June that I solved for them. It wasn't really that difficult a case; you wouldn't believe some of the idiots they let join the forces,” he tutted quietly. “And I'm seventeen.”
“Sev-seventeen?” John repeated. “Consulting the Scotland Yard? How the hell did you manage to get into Oxford? And how come did you come here, of all the universities?” If Sherlock was annoyed by the seemingly endless stream of questions, he did not show it.
“I finished public school in three years; I started at Oxford last year. Biochemistry and a bit of Human Sciences and Philosophy. Bart's has got a postgraduate programme in Forensic Medical Sciences, which is the main reason for me being here,” Sherlock answered. John felt himself tiny, sitting opposite of a child prodigy. Because that was what Sherlock was: a child. Who studies human organs, solves mysteries and crimes, whom the Scotland bloody Yard consults.
“That is... quite the resume for a seventeen-year-old”, John chuckled quietly, having recovered from his initial shock. “Makes me feel like I've accomplished nothing.”
“Well, nearly everyone's an idiot, looking from where I'm standing.” John was not certain whether or not Sherlock's remark was intended as a reassurance, but he took it as one nevertheless.
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I didn't sign up for any of this , John thought to himself one night, laying awake at 3 in the morning. He had imagined he'd be getting a good night's sleep after an exhausting day of lectures and rugby practice, but his apparently nocturnal room-mate had other plans. Sherlock had gotten the first actually challenging case since moving to London, and was now examining the evidence from a homicide in the living room. Well, technically he was questioning a witness. A parrot.
It's like from a corny crime film , John thought as he got up, rubbing his face. He was clearly not going to get any sleep as long as the bird kept screeching; he might as well get himself a cup of tea.
“Any progress?” he asked as he entered the living room, heading straight for the kettle. The parrot was sitting in a cage on the dining table, and Sherlock was sat opposite it with his knees drawn up to his chin, looking at the bird with an expression of utter puzzlement.
“Hardly. The bird's not making any sense. When it does say something, it just keeps repeating the same phrases over and over, but they don't seem to connect How am I supposed to prove the murderer was there when the only witness is not giving me any coherent clues?” Sherlock was obviously getting frustrated, so John decided to pour him a cup as well. Drinking tea together had quickly become a pattern for them: whenever the kettle was boiling, they would always take out two cups. John put sugar in Sherlock's tea, added a splash of milk in his own and carried the cups over to the table.
“Getting outwitted by a bird, huh?” John stated with an amused smile. Sherlock shot him an ugly look but didn't say anything. The parrot ruffled its feathers as if taunting him.
“Shaken!” it suddenly screeched, startling John and making him spill his tea. He cussed aloud as the hot liquid scorched his fingers. He hurried to the sink to give himself some first aid, while Sherlock stared at the bird, unmoved.
“But what does it mean?” he murmured, barely loud enough for John to hear.
“Is that all it's said, besides screaming like it was about to get murdered?”, John asked while he dried his hands on a kitchen towel. Sherlock picked up a paper from the table and gave it to John.
“I've written down everything even remotely comprehensible it has said so far. Hardly useful, though.” John scanned through the list of words and sentences. He raised his eyebrows as he reached to bottom of the list.
“These all sound like they're from a Bond film, the one that was on the telly a couple of days back,” John said, looking at Sherlock.
“The what film?”
“James Bond? Don't tell you've never seen one,” John scoffed. “I told you when you showed the picture of the main suspect that he looked an awfully lot like the new Bond, don't you remember?”
“Must've deleted it,” Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders.
“Do you think that could somehow connect to this murder?” John asked tentatively. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow. Suddenly, he went completely still, his eyes lighting in realisation.
“Sherlock, what-?”
“John, I need you to go back to your room and not come out until I say so,” Sherlock said, jumping quickly off the table and going through his papers, looking for something particular amongst the piles of evidence reports.
“What do you mean?” John asked, puzzled. That was an odd think to ask, even for Sherlock.
“I need to test a theory. Just go, please, I'll call you when you can come.” John decided it was best not to start questioning or arguing and went quietly back to his bedroom. “Close the door!” John did, with a deep sigh. Would he ever grow accustomed to the eccentricities of his flatmate?
It only took a couple of minutes before John heard Sherlock calling for him. He re-entered the living room to come face to face with the parrot, now situated on the kitchen counter. As soon as it saw John, it screeched:
“The job's done and the bitch is dead!” John looked like the embodiment of confusion, with eyebrows knitted together and mouth open in yet another question, although no sound came from him. Sherlock, however, was looking at John triumphantly.
“Was that from the film?” he asked John. He received a nod in confirmation.
“I think it was, yeah,” John answered, hesitantly.
“That's it, then!” he exclaimed. “The murderer has been confirmed!”
“How, exactly? How could you possibly deduce that?” John finally found his voice.
“Well, I realised that the parrot only ever spoke when you were around. You're sort of acting as a trigger; or rather, your looks are. You vaguely resemble our main suspect, so the parrot connects you to him. I did a quick search on the Internet and the new Bond actor bears similarities with both of you; so, there's a connection right there. But why does the bird only repeat quotes from the film? The parrot's cage was placed in the living room of the victim's house so that it could see the TV. My assumption is that the victim was watching the film you were talking about, and that the parrot saw it as well. Now, when the murderer broke into the house and killed the victim in front of the bird, it recognised the resemblance between the murderer and the actor in the film it had just seen. Parrots can also be traumatised, so this might be a stress reaction.”
“That's a... brilliant deduction. A bit far-fetched, granted, but brilliant,” John finally said. “But do you think it will be enough of an evidence for the Yard?”
“Hopefully,” Sherlock answered, smiling with content and satisfaction.
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When Sherlock came back from the Yard the following day (without the parrot), John was already at their flat, making tea for them.
“How did it go? Did thee murderer confess?” John asked as soon as Sherlock stepped in through the door.
“He did, surprisingly easily I must say,” Sherlock answered. “What are these?” he asked, having noticed a couple of DVDs lying on the kitchen counter.
“Tonight you're going to get a lesson on a national treasure,” John answered. “I can't believe you're not familiar with James Bond! How's that even possible?” Sherlock just shrugged nonchalantly.
“If I had heard of him, it was obviously nothing important.” John shot him a pointed look.
“It did help you solve this case,” he reminded Sherlock.
“Well, to be fair, it was you who helped, not mister Bond,” Sherlock answered with a smile. John blushed slightly at the praise which was quite unusual, at least coming from Sherlock.
“Well, you're welcome, but I well can't always be your consultant in popular culture, now can I? You're getting educated, and you better appreciate it,” John said. The kettle whistled, and he poured the water into their mugs. He added two sugars for Sherlock, milk for himself, and pointed at their armchairs.
“Now go sit down and enjoy yourself.”