Chapter Text
Five years ago, John met the most incredible, effervescent, brilliant man in the world.
John was staying at Oxford, where he was posted for some months to finish his surgical residency before being shipped out, when he met Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock was tall, and slim, and every single man and woman in the place turned to look at him when he walked by. He was beautiful, yes, face like cut crystal with plush lips and playful eyes, but he also held himself in such a way that each person who saw him wanted a taste. He gave off a glow, a light of health and composure.
Every man who saw him wanted to be him, and every woman wanted to love him. A few of the women wanted to be him, and more of the men wanted to love him, too.
John saw him, and fell in love.
The first words out of Sherlock’s mouth to John were, “You’re going to Afghanistan, I presume?”
And with that deduction, John knew he would dedicate his life to making this man happy, and keeping him within hearing distance. He never wanted another word from Sherlock’s mouth to be wasted on dumb ears. He wanted Sherlock to always be appreciated and loved, to be admired by all who crossed his path.
During those five months he was at Oxford, he followed Sherlock everywhere. They went for daily walks together. As Sherlock failed classes from boredom and lack of effort, John comforted him and railed against the professors for not seeing his genius. As John trained for basic, Sherlock lovingly wiped the sweat from his brow. They spent almost every waking moment together.
Sherlock was from one of the most prestigious families in England, not that John cared. When Sherlock asked, after a month and a half of him orbiting Sherlock like a planet to a star, what John’s last name was, he lied.
And that is when Jonathan Watts died, and John Watson was born.
***
Gregory Lestrade was looking forward to moving close to the city. He’d found a little apartment, a closet, really, in one of the most fashionable neighborhoods in London. The price was amazing, rent controlled, and the little old lady that’d lived there wanted to pass it on to Lestrade. He was rather excited, really.
He was on the second floor above a boutique cafe, crammed between two large flats. He was only a ten minute drive to Scotland Yard, and his new job as detective inspector. The building he lived in was sleek, glass and steel. It was modern, but built with obvious style and taste.
Across a wide roadway (or what constitutes a wide roadway in central London), was another block of flats. These flats were not modern; they were old, Victorian, even. They were fine marble and stucco, styled in grecian boughs and finely carved finials. Lestrade didn’t pay them much mind, until he saw the green dot.
It blinked on and off in the window of the highest flat across the street, on the third floor. He couldn’t see it except at night, but it was bright. If he had to guess, it was some sort of electronic. He didn’t know why, but the green light caught his attention, and left a sort of mystery in his stomach.
It was a few days after he’d moved in, and two after he’d noticed the light, that he noticed the stream of visitors to his neighbor’s flat. The door to the flat to Greg’s left, directly across from the green light flat, opened and closed frequently with all manner of guests. People came, rang the doorbell, entered for a few moments to an hour, and then left. Greg would guess that it was some sort of prostitution thing if he didn’t know how very, very wealthy the people in this area were. Also, there was no rhyme or reason to the visitors of 221; they were young, old, various races, men, women, teenagers, children. It seemed people from every walk of life came to test the wood of his neighbor’s door.
And every night, still, the green light in the upper window blinked.
***
Greg’s car was stolen. His new, police-issue sedan was stolen. It’d been taken from where it was parked, directly in front of the cafe. His flat didn’t have a door from the street like the other wealthy occupants; he had to go through Speedy’s to reach his entrance.
He came home on the bus, and stopped in the cafe to have a despondent slice of pie. “I just don’t understand how someone could steal a car around here. I mean, this has got to be one of the safest areas in London. Everyone’s so wealthy.”
The owner of Speedy’s, a balding, thin man, snorted. “I’d tell you to take it up with Watson.”
Lestrade looked at him. “Who?”
A woman on the next stool over looked over at Greg in shock. “Watson? You don’t know? And you live so close!”
The owner shook his head. “If you want a mystery solved, Watson is your man. All of London knows that.”
“I did tell the station, I mean, they have an APB out.”
“But Watson will find it sooner,” a middle aged man said from a booth behind him. “How do you live in jolly old London without hearing of Watson?”
Greg endeavored to go over and meet this Watson for himself, but before he could, he found a note slipped through the mail slot of his tiny flat.
It read simply; I heard of your unfortunate vehicular loss. Please apply 221 for more information.
If Lestrade was a smarter man, he may read it as a threat. But as it was, he wanted to know what’d happened to his car, and the rest of the force was doing very little to help him that way.
The next morning, he was standing in the foyer of the finest flat he’d ever seen in his life. Every curve was gilded in gleaming, flawless chrome. Every flat was the deepest, glossiest black. The furniture was architectural, and each piece of modern art probably cost more than Greg’s yearly wages.
“Ah, you must be detective inspector Lestrade,” a man said warmly, coming out from a doorway with his hands clasped in front of him. “John Watson, somewhat of a detective myself. Well come in, my dear man, have a seat in the kitchen.”
The man, a compact, well-dressed blond that was going grey, led him to a leather armchair in the flat’s dining area. He poured him out a cup of tea from the fine china that was appointed.
“Now, I understand you’ve lost your car, is that correct?”
Lestrade looked John Watson over as he answered. “Yes, taken right from under my nose, right out there on Baker Street.”
Watson furrowed his brows worriedly. “Yes, terrible, truly. I will find it for you right away, but in the meantime, I insist you use one of mine.”
Lestrade shook his head. “That’s very kind of you mister Watson--”
“John, please, you must call me John, dear man.”
“John. I can’t just use your car, that was an officially issued police vehicle.”
“As I said, I’ll send my staff out to find it. But truly, it is not bother to me at all to lend you mine,” John walked over to the wide window, gesturing for Greg to follow. “See, there it is now.”
Below in the street, a bright silver Audi pulled in and parked in front of the door. Lestrade had to admit that it was gorgeous, and he would rather enjoy driving such a luxurious car until the police sorted his out.
Lestrade reluctantly agreed, and enjoyed the use of John’s Audi for only a few days before his police vehicle was returned, unscathed, to the street in front of Speedy’s. He found the keys put through his mail slot. Lestrade did the same with the keys to the Audi, which disappeared back into what Lestrade presumed was storage the next day.
After a few weeks, Lestrade’s phone rings.
“Hello?” He asks the unknown number.
“Dearest Gregory,” a smooth voice replies. “You cannot imagine my shock that I am reclining by the window when I see my very own cousin walk into the cafe across the street.”
“Oh, Sherlock! You live on Baker Street?”
“Yes! Of course, you must come over, we must have dinner.”
Sherlock had a voice that compelled even the most stubborn of objections, and Lestrade wasn’t particularly opposed. He agreed.
“Wonderful. It’ll be you, and me, and James, and my good friend Molly Hooper. You know Molly, don’t you? The famous lady scientist?”
Lestrade stuttered out a response that he thought he’d seen her give a speech on television sometime.
“Well, you’re going to love her. I have a hunch that you two are going to get along quite well. Come across the street around eight tonight and the doorman will let you in.”
Lestrade hung up, and shuddered to think of the lifestyle that lent itself to a doorman in a London flat.
Later on, he crossed the street to the classically styled flats on the opposite side. He turned to look back at his side, and all the sleek glass. It looked new and expensive, but also cold.