John W.

I kept waking up to violin versions of The Cure songs. No need for an alarm when you’ve got Sherlock Holmes and his instruments, I supposed. It was about 7:15 in the morning when I woke up this time. He was plucking individual strings with no true melody. After living with Sherlock for a week, I knew this meant he was in a more… unstable (?) state of mind. I slipped out of bed and greeted him in our living room.

“Hey, mate. Everything alright?”

His eyes didn't meet mine and kept staring at a blank point in his vision. “No. Lestrade hasn't called me.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I was a bit confused because he always seemed irritated with the detective inspector. Well, he was now, so nothing out of character. 

He was yelling now, but not in a tone that seemed like he was angry with me. “Yes! Yes, it is, Watson! He has all the cases—all the puzzles to solve. Even if ninety percent are bloody boring, it's better than having nothing."

I crossed my arms. “I’m going out to get a coffee. Maybe coming along will distract you a bit? I’ll get you one too, of course.”

He finally caught my gaze. “Coffee tastes like shit.”

“Soy chocolate milk?”

“... Fine.”

A quick change of clothes later and we were out the door. Sherlock had a different band sweater on, and I wore my half-arsed patch jacket. I haven't had the time to find more patches to put on it, especially since I’ve left secondary school. I didn't recognize the band on him, so I asked.

“What's the band on your sweater?”

Sherlock looked back at me baffled as we walked down the street. “You don't know Destroy Boys?” I shook my head; he sighed. “They're a punk-rock band; I guess I shouldn't have assumed you knew them since they're not very popular. That's also why I made the sweater myself. I mostly like their album "Make Room.” Crybaby’s been a favorite song of mine from that album since I was twelve.”

“Then I’ll listen to them the moment we’re back in the flat,” I answered to his info dump while stopping in front of my favorite coffee shop. I opened the door for Sherlock and stepped in after him.

We took our seats in the corner as Sherlock naturally gravitated towards it, which I found a little funny.

I put my bag down on the chair. "Okay, so a soy chocolate milk for you?”

He nodded, “with ice as well.”

“Odd. I’ll be right back.”

We enjoyed our drinks and continued conversation about Destroy Boys. I can't remember everything he said about them (I wish I did), but I can definitely recommend you lot to listen to them!

When Sherlock reached the end of his iced chocolate milk (does that even taste good? Who the hell drinks cold chocolate milk? It’s called hot chocolate for a reason), and his phone began to ring. When he picked up, a smile spread across his face, and he ran out of the cafe. The owner looked at me confused; I apologized and went after him.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” Sherlock panted and stopped by the side of the street. 

“Sherlock!” I yelled after him, “What the hell are you doing?!”

He quickly tapped on his phone and looked up at me. “I—no—we have got our hands on a lovely murder case!” Sherlock was smiling ear to ear; I had to suppress my own smile in response to his because it felt inappropriate to seemingly be happy about someone's death. 

Suddenly, what I assumed to be an Uber pulled over, and Sherlock rushed me inside. 

“Didn't know you were an uber type of guy—"

“I’m not,” he cut me off. “I called the taxi driver my brother said was always ready for me.”

Can hitmen do that?

“Anyway, Watson. We need to get there as fast as possible. It's best when the body is fresh.”

I swallowed; I couldn't think of anything to reply with. Luckily, I didn't have to when the car abruptly stopped in front of a Starbucks. Sherlock practically jumped out; I followed.

“Starbucks? Really? That stuff isn't even remotely close to coffee. Not to mention the company’s a load of—"

“Detective Inspector!” Sherlock greeted him, cutting me off (again).

“Sherlock, nice seeing you again.” The man answered, extending his hand out for Sherlock to shake. “How's living in your new flat going?”

He ignored Lestrade’s hand and small talk. “How was dinner with my brother last night?”

Lestrade’s face flushed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Alright, alright. Go and take a look at the body.” Sherlock disappeared within seconds.

The D.I. turned to me. “And who might you be? Boyfriend?”

“Oh!” I had to collect my words before blurting out something stupid, I think. "No, it's err… It's not like that. He's been my flatmate since last week.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade, but please, call me Greg.”

I shook his hand. “I’m John Watson. I’ve seen you on the news, big fan of your work.”

Lestrade chuckled, “Then you have found yourself also being a fan of your very own roommate. Sherlock's behind a lot of it; you should see him.” 

Before I could reply, Sherlock shouted from the top floor of the Starbucks asking me to come over. Lestrade only gestured his hand towards the stairs as a way to silently tell me “You’ll see what I mean.”

I approached Sherlock, who was looming over the body.

“Sherlock, no touching the body without gloves! Are we clear?”

He stood up straight. “Crystal, Lestrade. Have you identified the body?”

“We're on it right now; we can't figure out how this guy died. There isn't even a scratch on him.” A voice from further away said. 

“Shut it, Anderson,” Sherlock replied. “Watson, can you tell how long ago this person died?”

How he knew I was able to do that before university started is beyond me. I started inspecting the body nonetheless.

“Hmm… okay. At most 2 hours old, I wouldn't be surprised if even less.”

“Spot on! Allow me to explain what has happened to them.” Sherlock crouched down to the body’s neck and picked two pieces of lint, both different colors from one another. “This is a man in his twenties. He's a student at King’s College London or is very close to a student from there. His cause of death is strangulation, though there are no hand marks on his neck.” 

Lestrade jumped in, “Now hold on—"

“After finding two oddly specific colors that just so happen to be the colors found in the scarf of King's College, red and dark blue, it is clear that he was strangled to death by one.”

“... That's brilliant. But a scarf?” I looked at him amazed. 

“It's possible. Especially if you've got good arms.” He turned to Lestrade. "Did you let all the customers leave the cafe again?”

“No,” he sighed. “We didn't because you complained we let everyone out last time.”

“Excellent. I will find our murderer in a few moments, then. The scarf should be in the bathroom to the left.” Anderson ran over to the bathroom with a plastic bag for evidence to retrieve the scarf. 

Sherlock grabbed me by the arm and dragged me downstairs; almost immediately, a woman in what I assumed to be her early twenties was in tears in front of us.

“Are you the police? Can you tell me what's happened to him?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sort of. What do you want? We don't give information such as this to strangers.” 

“He’s my boyfriend." She wiped her tears away with her thumb. “Is he okay?”

My heart sank. It’s as if reality sunk in and everything froze. Sherlock was also stuck in place; he opened his mouth to answer but seemingly couldn't find the words. I put my hand on the small of his back and answered for him. “He’s unresponsive. I’m sorry. We’ll have more information for you in a moment.”

She stopped wiping away at her face, and two twin streams fell down her cheeks. We couldn't help her much; it would have been wrong to lie. “We will find whoever did this, I promise you.” Sherlock nodded as his own way of adding to the conversation. She whispered a thank you and broke down on the floor; another customer came to comfort her, and Sherlock bolted to the cashier. There were two people behind the counter, a woman with split-dyed hair and a man with dark hair cut into a mullet. What their appearances had in common was that they were both in clear distress.

“Sorry, we're not serving any coffee right now—"

“We're not here for coffee.” Sherlock eyed the both of them, then stuck on the man with nice hair. He frowned a little. 

“You,” he came closer to the man and pointed his finger at him. “You go to King’s College, right?”

He looked confused. "Yeah?"

“Good. "You're under arrest." Sherlock held him in place. “Lestrade, get over here! I have your murderer!” 

The D.I. ran down the stairs after hearing his yell, “Can't arrest without evidence or confession, if you recall.”

“Okay, please find me another King's College student in this coffee shop you could attempt to press a confession out of.” Sherlock looked at me while he adjusted his position to be holding the alleged murderer from behind. “Other than Watson. Obviously couldn't have been him because we were having much better coffee a few blocks away.” A smile plastered on my face, he got me.

Lestrade looked around for anyone raising their hand, claiming to be a student of my future uni. Not a single hand up in sight.

“I would like to go back to get another iced chocolate milk, so before you ask further questions, The man killed one of his old mates because the girl he loved liked his friend and not him. Quite dramatic, but love does make people blind, doesn't it?” I nodded; he saw and smiled. “Not to mention his name probably being embroidered on the inside of his scarf: Dylan Jones, a pretty basic name, which I can confirm is his because I—" He pulled something out of Dylan’s back pocket. “Have his wallet, and in it his ID. Right there: Dylan Jones.” Sherlock held it up for everyone to see. Anderson had just come down the stairs and held up the scarf, which did indeed have his name embroidered.

“Dylan?” The woman from earlier said, face still wet from crying. “Have you lost your mind?” Tears threatened to fall again, and an older woman held her to show her support.

Lestrade called someone over to cuff the murderer up. “You know we could have been better.” And that was that. He was taken away to Scotland Yard to never be seen again.

On the way back to the flat (holding Sherlock’s second iced chocolate), he noticed I was a bit shaken from the case. “John, you don't have to come with me to all of these if you wish. I know it's a lot; I do not want to make you uncomfortable.”

I shook my head. “It was thrilling, Sherlock. I don't remember the last time I felt this much adrenaline. And seeing you put everything together is… amazing. I wouldn't miss it for the world. I’m just worried for the young lady, I think.”

“I see." He smiled as he turned the key to open up 221B. “Do you still want to listen to Destroy Boys?”

“Hell yeah.”

–

I’m coming to shore.

I want her.

We were hanging out in Sherlock’s room, listening to the album as promised. It’s a great album, I’d say. The song Vixen was playing now; the album had started from the top again about 2 songs ago.

Lull me to sleep, please.

Say anything to me.

I liked the lyrics a lot; I figured this was my favorite from the album, at least for now.

I looked around Sherlock’s room as the song continued; he had one of those special shelves made for storing CDs. You know, the one where there's a latch you can push down on and the CD pops out? Anyway, he’s a massive collector of them; the amount was endless. His shelves also had loads of books, and to my surprise, a few manga as well. Sherlock didn’t strike me as the type to read manga—let alone watch anime.

Paint your hands over my uniform.

I was sitting on the floor, my back against the end of his bed with my laptop propped up on my lap. I looked up at Sherlock, who was lying stomach down there facing me. He was reading a small book by Oscar Wilde; Only Dull People Are Brilliant At Breakfast. 

Lust and love can take the same form.

I realized I could see myself staying in 221B Baker Street forever.

Ello ello ello! (Please catch this reference, or I will look stupid)

Hope you enjoyed this entry;stupid.) sorry it took a bit to get out. I unfortunately own a Nintendo Switch and the new game Tomodachi Life LTD. I can not put it down. 

Thank you for your continued support; I promise to keep journaling online. :)

BONUS: SHERLOCK AND I FINDING YOUR GUYS’ FAN WORKS

SH: John. What the hell is #wokelockholmes??

JW: What are you on about? 

Sherlock turns his laptop to me, showing a Twitter search with the hashtag wokelockholmes.

JW: Looks like we have a fanbase… Is that all fanart of you?? 

SH: I don't know. One of them really looks like me. How'd they do that with only your description?

JW: No idea. Hey, they drew you WAY more than me!!!

SH: The readers don't even know you have a septum ring and dirty blond hair cut into a mullet. They’d have to guess.

JW: Whatever… Why is the hashtag wokelockholmes, though?? 

SH: Do I really look that… queer?

I chuckled.

JW: Have you looked in a mirror, mate?

SH: Well, you look as gay as I do then, you with your septum piercing.

JW: I’m bisexual; there is a difference.

Back at home I had the pleasant surprise of receiving an acceptance letter from King's College London. I was in such disbelief that I checked if they had sent it to the wrong email, but the name on it really was mine. My mum gave me a hug that drained the air out of my lungs, basically. She gets much more outwardly excited than I do.

She put her joy to use and started researching flats in London. King's College has accommodations for students, she discovered. We were never the wealthiest, so she showed me a list of shared flats for two. A particular apartment in Baker Street caught my attention. Two rooms and a spacious living room—emphasis on "spacious" here because all other flats my mother had previously shown me were tiny. And I take my freedom to move very seriously.

So there I was yesterday, a shoulder bag with dozens of pins on it slung on my shoulder and a huge luggage handle held tightly in my hand as I stood in front of 221B Baker Street's door. The door was black; "221B" hung onto it as golden metal letters attached by screws. A bit of an old-timey-looking door for 2026, I’d say. There was even a knocker on it! Anywho, I eventually worked up the courage to knock (yes, I used the old-timey knocker). 

I was greeted by a very friendly woman; she introduced herself to me as Mallory Hudson. She looked only a few years older than me.

“I’m here to help you guys settle in and make sure everything is in check during your stay. So you’ll be seeing a lot of me, got that?” Mrs. Hudson said, eyes beaming with pride. I nodded in response, "And where might my flatmate be?”

“He’s just down the hall in what he’s claimed as his room; you’re free to say hello, I think. He seems very in the zone, though. So be wary of that.”

I wasn't sure how to respond to her, so I made my way to his room; right across it was what I assumed was mine. I swung the door open to take a quick look inside. Uninterested, I took a few steps to the other room to greet my roommate. 

A tall, slender person stood there. Right in the middle with their hands put together, resting their chin on their thumbs. I’m not sure how to describe their hands other than a sort of ‘prayer’ position.

They turned to me after noticing my entrance, and their eyes scanned me. It was almost as if they were x-raying me for every detail about me. Their eyes stopped bolting about, and they held their gaze on my eyes.

“Anything but she/her.”

I tilted my head. "What?"

“You don’t know how to refer to me pronoun-wise. So I have given you an answer to a question you seem too scared to ask. He/they/it.”

“How the hell could he tell?” was the first sentence that my inner monologue had spoken out.

My eyes darted across him, similar to how he looked at me earlier. Oval glasses sat low on his nose, as well as a silver glasses chain attached to them. I can only describe his hair as having the shape of a jellyfish. Long ends from the back that swooped up and a shorter sort of wolf cut on the top. He was wearing a pair of grey baggy pants with a sweater. A sweater with The Cure printed on it. Which relieved me, since that meant we shared a common interest: music. Maybe we could get along. Or rather, I hope we can.

He cleared his throat. “I’m Sherlock Holmes, and you are?”

“John Watson, nice to meet you,” I replied as he awkwardly extended his arm out to shake my hand. I took his hand and gave him a warm smile.

I tried to make small talk with him. “So, erm… are your parents also covering the rent for the flat?” And it was embarrassing, to say the least.

“No, my brother is.”

“Aha, is he already working?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that just yet; perhaps I’ll tell you once you’ve decided whether you really want to stay here or not.”

I couldn’t think of a job you wouldn’t be allowed to 'disclose,' so I’ve begun to assume that his brother’s a hitman. 

“Let’s get to the point then, shall we? It only makes sense for flat mates to know the worst of each other's living habits, doesn’t it?”

It took me a moment to nod at him. Looking back on it, it was like his train of thought was going twice as fast as mine. I have no other way to describe it. But it was brilliant to witness in the moment, I can assure you.

“I’ll start,” he said. “I go silent for days. I play violin whenever I feel the need to help my thinking process. I fixate on a specific food every month or so and can only eat whatever it is. I often get called in by the police for aid with cases. All of these apply to any hour at any time.”

I raised my eyebrows. “I… I was going to say I stay up late, but that’s a rather small bad habit compared to your list.”

A smile plastered onto Sherlock’s face. I was glad to see he was amused by my answer. We held eye contact, his wide smile softened to a kind one, and there was silence. But not an awkward one like I thought it’d be. Sherlock's eyes were like a painting in a museum, except they were of such a dark shade of brown that I was digging into them searching for details. A painting that didn't want to give itself away. 

His phone started ringing, and I turned away (flushed red, if you really must know the details). He excused himself and chatted to the person on the phone.

Not that I was eavesdropping or anything… but a familiar name slipped from his mouth, and I couldn't help but ask.

“I’m sorry, did Detective Inspector Lestrade just phone you?” I said in complete utter shock.

“Yes?” He perked an eyebrow up at me. “Is that a big deal to you?”

“I dunno, mate. Maybe ‘cause he was literally on the news?” I nervously laughed.

“Oh,” he chuckled as if it were nothing, “I helped with that one as well.”

My jaw hung open, though I closed it as soon as I realized this was probably not a big deal. Except that my roommate might just be a spy… or a hitman like his brother? I couldn't figure it out for the life of me.

“It is imperative I go help the police and their close to useless team. I assume there is more we have to discuss. I can't imagine what a person from Hampshire would want to do with London. Farewell, Watson.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, and as quickly as he introduced himself, he grabbed his coat and ran out of the room.

In case you didn't catch that, I never told him I was from Hampshire. Nor did I tell him I had more to tell, which he just guessed, I suppose. But it was incredible. Whatever he had done—whatever he was doing—he had me enthralled. Sherlock Holmes. I muttered his name in the empty room, and it rolled off my tongue. Sherlock Holmes. A catchy name and blessed with tan skin that without a doubt survived the summer better than me. God damn it, why is he working with the police? What is his brother's profession? Which university was he attending? Most importantly, who is he?

Later that day I confirmed my stay in 221B till the end of my studies with Ms. Hudson.

“I take it you guys got along well." She smiled to herself while getting the last bits of paperwork done.

I rubbed the back of my neck. "Yeah, we did. We shook hands and all.”

She looked surprised. "Really? Huh, he refused to shake mine earlier. Anywho, you're all good to go.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudso—"

“Please, call me Mallory. As I told you earlier, you will be seeing me for the next ten years of your life here. Get used to it.”

“Thank you, Mallory,” I grinned back at her.

“It’s no problem at all. If you need me, I’m in the flat downstairs, 221A.”

I was (and still am as of publishing this) ready to commit to this. To commit to learning more about an absolute stranger who I’d now see every day of my life. From early morning to late night. From weekends to weekdays.

Yesterday when I was writing the first portion of this blog entry and setting up my Tumblr account, the day had long ended. It was past midnight. I was too lazy to unpack all of my things yet; the school year wasn't starting until the beginning of next month anyway. As I was typing my ass off in the living room (because it was the only room that was fully moved into thanks to Mallory), the front door swung open and Sherlock stepped in with a visible hit on the side of his head. A line of blood was going down along the side of his face and making a sharp dive into his jawline. I slammed my laptop closed and stood up. 

“What did the police do to you?!” I exclaimed.

“Not the police, the murderer. Lestrade may want to punch me sometimes, but my injuries always come from our suspects.” Sherlock swiped the stream of blood on his neck with his thumb and attempted to lick it. “No. I’m getting you cleaned up,” and I pulled his hand away from his mouth.

He rolled his eyes and withdrew his tongue. “I am capable of taking care of myself, Watson.”

“Too bad,” I said as I grabbed the first aid kit from the kitchen. 

Sherlock scoffed, wiped the blood on his pants, and sat down on the counter. I was laying out a large bandage and disinfectant next to his thighs. 

“I wasn't aware you skipped the 10 years of medical practice required for a GP and now have to take care of me,” he muttered. I held up the spray bottle of disinfectant approximately 5-10 centimeters away from his wound and pressed down. He hissed, presumably because it stung.

My eyes widened. “I, like many, have basic knowledge on wound care, Sherlock.” 

“As do I, but you are not allowing me to bandage it myself.” I sighed, and he blew his bangs out of his face.

“... You don't seem like the type that’d bother to even disinfect it.” I shrugged; he only smirked.

“These kinds of wounds never infect; why bother?”

“Point proven.” Sherlock stayed silent after that. Once I stuck the bandaid on the side of his wound, I couldn't help but question him a little. 

“How did you know I was studying medicine? Let alone know I wanted to be a GP specifically.” He hopped off the counter, and I turned to look at him properly, hands pressing down on the counter behind me for support.

Sherlock put his hands behind his back. “Mrs. Hudson works with Kings College. People go there for medicine. I am only living here as an exception.” 

“An exception made by your brother?”

“Correct, that is why I knew you were studying medicine.”

“But there are countless types of doctors; how could you ever know I was choosing to be a GP?”

“I dunno." He leaned onto the kitchen table right across from me and looked me dead in the eye. “It was a good guess.”

“Incredible,” I replied. “I haven't even known you for 24 hours, and it's as if you've read me like a book.”

“I wouldn't word it that way, but yes, I suppose so." He scratched the top of his head. “May I have a go?”

“Of course,” I eagerly answered him.

“Starting today you no longer live with your mom in Hampshire, which you do not mind at all because you crave independence. You’ve been living alone with her since your alcoholic brother Harry left the house, and your dad can't be with her to support her while you're away either since he died in a war. I’m unsure which one,” he took a deep breath in and continued. “According to the 37 pins on your bag, you are a bisexual man exclusively going by he/him. Your favorite band is Weezer, and you’ve been to a concert of theirs in 2024. Your favorite genre of music is rock, but you dabble in just about anything that uses guitar. Your second favorite genre might be goth or something tied to punk, which is my favorite, so that’d be favorable on my end. You pierced your own septum at 14 years old. Ah, and about your sexuality, I do believe you prefer men over women despite what you tell people.”

I chuckled this time, "Holy shit.”

“Did I get anything wrong?”

“Only two things.”

“Go on…”

“My sister Harry is an alcoholic, and I do prefer women.”

Sherlock laughed; he actually laughed. “I should have known about the first one. We can agree to disagree on the second one.”

I laughed with him. “Excuse me? How would you even—"

“Good night, Watson. Go to bed so you can unpack tomorrow.” 

Just like before, he left within seconds in silence.

Well, that concludes my first entry. The unpacking went well despite the lack of help from Sherlock. I have about a month with him without any school pressure. Would you guys be interested in entries during that time? 

Catch you lot later; hope you enjoyed it. :)

Bonus: Sherlock's reaction to my blog.

Sherlock yelled from my room: “You started a blog?” 

I yell back, "Erm, yeah? How’d you know?”

*I walk in to see him on my laptop going through this entry's Google Doc.*

“Sherlock! That's my laptop. Give it back—bloody hell, how’d you even guess my password???”

“You speak very… kindly of me here.”

“... Did you really read it all?”